Identical (33 page)

To be asleep last night when Mom blew

in through the door, an unsubtle wind.

I wanted to run to her, throw my arms

around her, snow kisses all over her face.

But something told me to crack open

my door, sit beside it in the dark, silent.

To listen, no more than a hint of the child

she loved once upon a time, so long ago.

Then, she would never leave me or Raeanne.

My sister and I would sit in the dark, like

this, only together. We’d sit very close,

listening in to our parents’ discussions.

Then, Daddy would often ask to go away

with Mom, who refused to leave us

with an au pair. Then, the only person who

ever watched us was…was…a face

surfaces in memory. She looked like Daddy,

and her breath always smelled like Dewar’s.

I sat there last night, shaking, no Raeanne

to make the jolt of remembrance better.

And it was about to get worse.

Mom greeted Daddy about as expected,

with a clipped
Good to see you
. Next came

several minutes of usual campaign banter.

Daddy went on to talk about plans

for Tuesday, skipping the Hannah

part. I just about fell asleep.

Around the time I decided to go

ahead to bed, Mom began,

Oh, I spoke with your father….

My father?
Daddy’s voice

was startled.
Why in bloody

hell would you do that?

Mom’s turn for surprise:

You don’t know?

Daddy:
I couldn’t hazard a guess.

So you haven’t heard from

your mother? No demands?

Her words sank in slowly.

I could imagine the expression

on his face.
What in the fuck

are you talking about, Kay?

She spoke slowly, as if to a dull-

witted child. Y
our father called

to let you know you might expect

to hear from your mother. His take

was she wanted money to keep quiet.

Quiet about what, Raymond?

I have no idea
, answered Daddy,

a little too quickly.
Frankly, I’d be

shocked to hear from her….

So long, with no word. What, exactly,

happened between them? Surely

something more than just the scene

after the funeral. I shifted my weight

and the floorboards groaned.

Conversation skidded to an abrupt halt.

Finally, Mom said,
We’ll finish this

later. I’m exhausted anyway. We’ll

both be clearer tomorrow.
Finis.

Most of the night, pondering

mysteries. Where did my father

come from? Who made him,

and who made him the way he is?

Who is my grandmother? Where

has she been all these years, and what

does she know that Daddy wouldn’t

want us to know? What happened

between her and Grandpa Gardella?

What happened between Daddy

and him? Does Mom know

the answers to these questions?

If she does, why hasn’t she ever

talked about them? If she doesn’t,

why doesn’t she? Why don’t I?

Why are there so many mysteries

shrouding our lives? Will I ever

know the answers? If so, when?

If not, why?

For those questions. Of course,

I doubt there will ever be a good

time for those questions.

Our family puts the “dys”

in dysfunctional. And every time

I start to think I’m the sanest

in the bunch, I turn around

and do something completely

insane, like letting myself

fall hard for Ian. He called

yesterday, caught me on my

cell.
Hey, you. What’s up?

Just hearing his voice warmed

me, from the inside out. “Same

ol’. What’s up with you?”

Not much. In fact, I’m bored

as hell, so I thought I’d call and

tell you how much I miss you.

I’ll be home Sunday morning.

Think you could steal a few

minutes with me?

“Maybe after work. We can

always try, although my mom

is supposed to be home.”

Oh, that’s right. The election

is Tuesday, huh? How’s it

looking for your mom?

“Okay, I guess. Barring some

major revelation, she’s got

a pretty good shot.”

Major revelation, huh?

He laughed.
And what

are the odds of that?

At the time, I thought

they were pretty long.

But now I have to wonder.

About Mom and Daddy and Raeanne

and Grandma Gardella, whose face keeps

trying to materialize behind my eyes, and whose

motives for appearing now can’t be guessed.

But I don’t dare talk to him about any

of that, because then he’ll realize how truly

screwed up my family is, and that includes

me, and if he knows all that, he’ll dump me.

I want to talk to Mom about Daddy and his

parents and most of all about Ian, who I

think I might really be in love with. I want

to talk to her about love and what that means.

But I’m not sure she knows what it means

or that she cares in the least that I might

have found it. I’m not sure she cares about

me at all, and that’s what I’m really afraid of.

Afraid, afraid, afraid. I’m always afraid

and I’m sick of it and I don’t know any

other way of dealing with it than to go

find food and stuff myself with it. So I do.

So I bundle up against the drear

November fog and pedal off to

work. I pass a church, starting

to fill with early risers, almost

think about going inside.

Like what for, Kaeleigh?

Forgiveness?

You’ll burn.

Belonging?

No one wants you.

Enlightenment?

Huh? What?

Confession?

Oh yeah, break down.

Daddy would kill me.

If Mom didn’t kill you first.

And if I don’t stop talking

to myself, I’ll only prove

that I really am crazy.

Schizophrenic, maybe.

Yeah, Kaeleigh, shut the hell up.

Can barely pay attention

to what I’m doing at work,

with all the conversation

going back and forth in my

head. Mental tug-of-war.

Finally I get the breakfast

table set. The residents start

to trickle in, many dressed

up for their own worship

to come. Among those women

in cheerful flowered dresses

is Greta, no gentleman beside

her. She sits and I go over.

“No Lars today? And you

look so pretty, too!”

Greta sighs.
Lars will not

come to church with me.

He says there is no God.

He used to think differently,

once long ago. The war…

She’s known him
that
long?

“I didn’t realize you’ve known

each other since before the war.

Is that how you lost each other?”

What wedged them apart?

Comes from a place deep,

deep inside. It takes a few

minutes to surface.

Finally it shudders free.

Lars and I met as small children.

We played together in the streets,

and by the time the war started,

we were in love. Really, we