Nothing could bring Madrigal back home.
But surely, surely, there would be enough love left to bring Mary Lee back home!
Chapter 4
FROM THE DORM WINDOW, she watched the orange taxi pull up in front of the administration building. Her mother and father got out. The Dean of Students walked swiftly down his wide stone steps, hand extended to shake theirs, as if congratulating them on the death of a twin. Everybody nodded heads up and down and then shook heads back and forth: a strange head-dance upon the mysteries of death.
Her parents were frail black outlines against the harsh glitter of snowbanks. Clinging to each other, they followed the Dean into his office. From the Dean, they would learn the details of the accident, be told exactly how their daughter died, exactly what arrangements had been made.
“Now, Madrigal,” said Bianca, “be brave for your parents. They’re going to need you.”
“At least they have you,” said Mindy. “It’s a terrible thing to lose a daughter, but then again, Mary Lee must have been the daughter they didn’t much — ”
“Mindy!” said Bianca. “Ssssshhh.”
“I just meant that when you send one twin to boarding school and keep the other one at home with you, it could mean that — ”
“Mindy!” said Bianca. “Shut up.”
But it’s true, thought Mary Lee. It was Mary Lee they disposed of. Now they just have to dispose of her again.
She began shivering, waves of cold passing through her and over her, as if she were sea water, going through a tide. Bianca yanked a blanket off her bed and wrapped her in it. “Poor Maddy,” whispered Bianca. “Be brave.”
I could have been friends with this nice girl, thought Mary Lee, and I didn’t try. I wanted to be an Event without trying.
MreeLee, you be Madrigal.
What did that mean?
She knew, because her sister had been sane, that Madrigal had not meant to die; had not meant that her twin should actually step into her life. But the opportunity was here. Perhaps the need was here. What if her parents really did need Madrigal … and did not need, and did not want, Mary Lee?
For one terrible sick moment, Mary Lee actually considered going on with the pretense that she was Madrigal.
For one terrible sick moment, Mary Lee saw herself in Madrigal’s life: at home, popular, dating Jon Pear, the only daughter, the light of her parents’ world.
How much better that life would be than the one she had now! How much more fun and exciting! How much more —
Mary Lee buried her face in the blanket. She had learned a great deal during this hard year. She knew more about who she was, and who she wanted to be. Throw that away? Be somebody else?
But of course, it was only halfway somebody else. Mary Lee was, even with death between them, an overlapping fraction with her identical twin.
She dropped the blanket and looked into the large three-way mirror that stood on top of Mindy’s desk. Mindy never studied at her desk. She studied lying on her bed. The desk was for makeup.
The girl who looked back at Mary Lee, eyes swollen from weeping, looked — of course — exactly like Madrigal. Nobody would ever know if …
Nonsense. Mother gave birth to me. She will know! I’m her baby, her daughter, her firstborn, in fact, because I came twenty-four minutes before Madrigal.
Across the campus, the door to the administration building opened, and Mother, Father, and the Dean emerged. Slowly, tiredly, whipped by grief and shock, her parents made their way after the Dean toward the dormitory and their remaining daughter.
But what do I do, if she doesn’t know? What if my own mother comes to hug me and cannot tell which twin I am? What if I have to introduce myself? Hi, Mother, I’m Mary Lee.
MreeLee, you be Madrigal.
She tried to think of the essential morality of it. Was it amoral to shift into another person’s life and clothes, name and world? Was it what Madrigal would have wanted? Was it what Mother and Father would want?
She tried to imagine taking on Madrigal’s life.
Another loophole came to mind. The boyfriend!
Of course, Jon Pear would know. Whereas she wouldn’t even recognize Jon Pear! In a heartbeat, he’d be able to tell that she had no memories of their dates; that those lips might look the same as the ones he had kissed, but these lips had never kissed a boy ever, let alone him.
She tried to visualize Jon Pear, but could think only of Scarlett’s brother, Van. Immediately, she missed Van. He was the boy next door; he was the birthday cake and the soft icing; he was the summer wind and the new leaf.
Scarlett and Van were not twins, and yet both were seniors. Van had been kept back in first grade because he was hyperactive and the second-grade teachers didn’t want him yet. Nobody would know it now. He had become the preppy type, with friends named Geordie and Kip. He played water polo and wore blue blazers with khaki pants, and his thin blond hair was smooth silk across his high forehead.
How can I be daydreaming about Van, she thought, when my sister is dead?
She wondered if Jon Pear knew. If the news had broken publicly. Was he even now screaming in the agony of loss, asking himself, “Why couldn’t it have been the other one — that twin — that sister we never bothered to talk about?”
But, of course, Jon Pear thought it was the sister. Everybody thought it was the sister.
Her parents had reached the dorm, and the Dean had gotten to the door first and was holding it for them.
Mary Lee faced the door like a captured prisoner facing the judge. She would leave it to fate. To chance. To Mother and Father.
If they opened the door and knew — knew that she was Mary Lee — knew who had lived and who had died — well, then, she would be Mary Lee.
But if they did not …
If Mary Lee was so inconsequential to them that they did not feel, did not see, did not instantly know …
MreeLee, you be Madrigal.
… then she would be Madrigal.
Bianca rushed out to meet them. Perhaps she thought a good roomie had a duty to introduce herself to the bereaved parents. “Maddy is so upset,” cried Bianca. “Thank goodness you’re here. She needs you so.”
Who could this person be, that Bianca called Maddy? Mother and Father wouldn’t even know the nickname!
Madrigal, don’t be mad at me! Whatever happens now, please forgive me. Forgive me for being the one who gets life.
The door opened.
Mother came in first. There was a strange light in her eyes. With a desperate sort of hope, she faced her living child. What do you hope for, Mother? thought Mary Lee. I want to give you what you want! I love you so. You choose here. I will be the daughter you want to have alive.
But Mother did not speak. She held out her arms, instead; her wonderful arms, the arms of comfort and love and assurance. Mary Lee rushed forward, sinking into her mother’s embrace. Inside those arms, the world was safe and good; nobody died, and nobody got hurt. “Oh, Mother,” she whispered. “Oh, Mother.”
Father put his ten fingers into her hair, as he always had, gripping her fiercely like a caveman parent.
“You saw it happen, sweetie?” he said. “Was it terrible? Was it quick? Did she cry out?”
She could not speak. Her throat filled with the horror and she could only weep. Who am I? she thought. Tell me who I am.
Locked between her parents, she waited to hear a name. It was like waiting to be christened; waiting to be graduated.
“We’ve been staying with Madrigal,” said Mindy.
“We didn’t want Madrigal to be alone,” added Bianca.
“We’d be glad to pack up her belongings for you to take back,” said Mindy. “I’m a very good packer. It comes from living abroad so much. And Madrigal shouldn’t have to do it.”
“Or if there’s too much pain involved,” said Bianca, “we could arrange to take them to the Salvation Army.”
Mother said, “We’re thankful for all you did
for both our girls. If you’d pack Mary Lee’s things, that would help. Just ship everything home.”
Mary Lee stepped away from Mother and Father. They were in agreement with Mindy and Bianca. It was Mary Lee who had died, and whose things must be packed, must be shipped as easily as once they had shipped the girl herself.
Her mother gave a funny little sigh and her father a strange little shiver. They did not hug her again. When she was able to see past the blur of fear, her parents were looking into the open closet of the daughter they thought dead: the clothes of Mary Lee. The stacked books, the open assignments, the tumbled sweaters, the precious jewelry.
The Dean said, “Madrigal?”
She felt herself within her skin, behind her eyes, under her hair. She felt her soul and her past. Shall I be Mary Lee? she asked herself in the silence of her fright.
The Dean repeated, “Madrigal?”
With eyes so afraid they went blind, she faced a future and a past. I am dead, thought Mary Lee. Madrigal lives. She said to the walls and the witnesses, “Yes.”
Chapter 5
ON THE LONG AND largely silent flight home, she stayed inside her mind and thought of Madrigal. There would be a funeral … but Madrigal’s name would not be mentioned. Were you well and truly on your way to the next world if they buried you under another name? Would Madrigal forgive Mary Lee for this? Would Madrigal want this strange immortality; this life of hers that went on without her?
The steward gave her a tiny, white foam pillow, about the right size for a newborn baby, and into this pillow Mary Lee spilled her tears and behind this pillow Mary Lee hid her eyes.
Madrigal, how can I go on without you?
Is this how?
By becoming you?
She could not seem to talk to her parents. She recognized them; they were indeed Mother and Father. And yet strangers. How could parents not know their child?
She wanted fiercely to hear her mother call her Mary Lee … but what if her mother didn’t mind that Mary Lee was gone.… What if Mother could not bear it that she had lost Madrigal?
Over and over, terrible conflicting thoughts tumbled through her mind, and over and over were swept away by torrents of tears for the twin she no longer had.
When the long day was over, and they had reached home, she remembered to enter not her own half-empty room, but Madrigal’s full and busy one. She brushed her hair not with her own brush, but with the one lying carelessly on Madrigal’s chest of drawers.
“Good night, Madrigal,” said her father.
“Good night, Father.”
“Will you be all right, Madrigal?” asked her mother.
“Yes, Mother. Will you be all right?”
They stared at each other, the remaining pieces of their family of four, the way you would stare at a person who had lost a limb. Where is his arm? you would think, wrenching your eyes away. Where is his leg?
Where is my twin? thought Mary Lee.
The sharing of mind and skin continued to the final instant of her sister’s physical existence on earth. Her parents chose cremation. “I don’t want you to do that!” Mary Lee had cried hysterically.
“Some things,” said Father, “must be …” He paused, and his pause was heavy, and in the thick creamy silence she knew as if Father had been her twin what word he meant to use — destroyed — but he substituted; he said “… finished.”
Cremation.
One-and-a-half hours of burning in a furnace. The waves of heat and terror were unspeakable.
She felt them both.
Mother and Father said it was not possible, but they knew nothing; they never had; they were ordinary people; they were not us.
I am not dead, Mary Lee thought, and yet she felt dead; she felt burned and ashy and scattered in the wind.
The names Madrigal and Mary Lee collided with each other, and hurt, like cutting knives. She did not know what to call herself in her heart.
Her heart hurt, her wrists and ankles and knees hurt, her head hurt, her throat hurt.
She was so very alone.
If she had thought herself separated from Madrigal by one thousand nine hundred and twelve miles, it was nothing compared to the separation of death.
She could not cry enough to rid herself of all the tears, and still the aching came on, traveling from one joint to another.
The memorial service was packed. So many students were there. She was a teenager herself, and knew teenagers. Many had come because it was a school day, and they wanted to get out of class. Many had come because death fascinated them. They wanted to see how it was done. Many had come because identical twins fascinated them, and they wanted to see what was left. Many had come because they wanted to see Madrigal in her new life, and wanted to console her. And perhaps a few … but what few? For her only friend had been her twin … had come to say good-bye to Mary Lee.
She sobbed for the girl who was not having a funeral … for no one knew she was dead. Could Madrigal rest? No words had been said over Madrigal; they were expended on Mary Lee, who lived.
She sat listening to her heart beat, wearing Madrigal’s pretty black swirly skirt and Madrigal’s gauzy white blouse and Madrigal’s shining black heels. At the last moment she had added Madrigal’s sunglasses, pretending she had to hide her red-rimmed weeping eyes. She was hiding Mary Lee’s red-rimmed weeping eyes.
From behind the dark glasses, when they stood in the receiving line, she stared at every person her age. But the teenagers did not go through the line. Perhaps they lacked experience at funerals, or had bad manners, or were afraid to talk of death. For not one fellow student came up to shake hands, to hug, or to speak.
If she had not had the glasses to hide behind, she would have sobbed all over again. Mary Lee is dead! she thought. Can’t you tell me you’re sorry? You think it’s me! Don’t I matter even one sentence worth? Can’t you put yourself out long enough to say you’re sorry about Mary Lee?
But people hardly mentioned Mary Lee. Even dead, she was the other twin. The sent-away twin. Her parents’ friends and the parents of the kids her age patted her shoulder. “Poor Madrigal,” they said, “you must be brave.” And then they said to Mother and Father, “This is so awful. We’re so sorry. What can we do to help?”
But nobody could think of anything anybody could do to help. Death has that quality of being beyond help. And so her mother just smiled sweetly and her father wrinkled his forehead tightly to keep his eyes from filling up, and the line of mourners — or at least, attenders — moved on.
No one introduced himself as Jon Pear. It was frightening, because surely he would come! His girlfriend’s identical twin’s funeral? Surely he would come! But perhaps he knew her secret, perhaps he alone could see behind the shaded lenses, and knew she was masquerading. Perhaps he had actually gone through the line already and she had missed it, felt nothing, known nothing.
She saw Scarlett and Van among the mourners, and her heart leaped, wanting to be friends with them, wanting the ordinary delight of their company … but they did not come to speak to her. They filed out of the building and back onto the bus without a syllable of condolence.
Is this what memorial services are like? she thought. It can’t be! This is so unloving. They seem to be at a spectator sport, not a funeral.
A terrible benediction seemed to lie over the fate of Mary Lee.
Rest in peace. Nobody will miss you.
Is it a crime, she thought, to use some one else’s funeral as your own? A crime to take over another’s room and closet and life and cassettes and telephone number?
There she was at night, in Madrigal’s bed, between Madrigal’s sheets, and by day, wearing Madrigal’s clothing and using Madrigal’s lipstick. She chose from Madrigal’s earrings, and stared across the bedroom at Madrigal’s choice of posters, and sat on Madrigal’s side of the dinner table, and answered questions Mother and Father put to Madrigal.
It was the ultimate trespass, and yet, at the same time, the ultimat
e identical twin-ness.
She hoped for a message, that a twin could talk from beyond death.
But if it was true for any twin, it was not true for them.
The days passed.
The nights ended.
The days returned.
Mother and Father hardly mentioned the dead twin. Mary Lee might never have existed. All sorrow was given to the living, breathing Madrigal. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Are you feeling more like yourself, dear?”
“Shall we go shopping tomorrow, dear, and find some new clothes?”
“Do you feel up to returning to school, dear?”
So she made up the message that her twin would send if she could send, and the message she decided on was this: MreeLee, you be Madrigal. You be the popular one, who lives at home, and have Mother and Father … and Jon Pear.
To have it all.
Everybody said they wanted it all.
But Mary Lee had it all now, and she did not want it. She wanted to share it with Madrigal, halve it, give it back.
Am I some sort of mental murderer, pushing my sister out of the ski lift with the hands of my hopes? Do I have it all because I asked Madrigal to give me her life?
“We think you need to go back to school in the morning, Madrigal,” said her mother.
School. Madrigal’s school. Madrigal’s boyfriend, of whom she had never even seen a photograph. Yet if Mother and Father had not known, how could Jon Pear?
I can do it, thought Mary Lee. I can have it all. “Yes, all right,” she said calmly. “I’ll go to school tomorrow.”
Chapter 6
THE DRIVE TO THE high school was not easy. She was not sure who held the wheel, who shifted the gears, whose eyes checked the rearview mirror and whose foot pressed the accelerator.
I am not dead, Mary Lee reminded herself. Even though I went to my funeral service, and even though the house is a forest of sad little cards about my loss, I am not dead.
She checked to be sure. She had chosen a white shirt, whose lacy front rose and fell as she breathed, and a nearly ankle-length black skirt. Romantic mourning. But over the shirt, a hot pink jacket, because she had gotten a great surprise going through Madrigal’s closet. Madrigal twinless — Madrigal on her own — was brilliant and loud. Madrigal had replaced her entire wardrobe. She had discarded the colors and styles of their togetherness.