by Sarah Porter
No one will ever believe that, though. Not unless I can prove it.
“I’m worried—that maybe you feel irrationally guilty about what happened to him? Because people do have emotions that aren’t connected to reality sometimes. So you’re psyching yourself into these fantasies where it’s absolutely one hundred percent that it’s not your fault. To make yourself feel better.” The pizza is sitting on a cutting board now but Everett is still staring at it.
“Fantasies,” I say. “Is that what you think they are?”
“Like that somebody else murdered him.” Everett gets out a knife, never looking at me, and starts dragging it through the cheese. I can see his knuckles going white as he squeezes the handle. “Or maybe that he’s actually still alive somehow.”
I don’t know why that hurts so much. “Everett, I know Dashiell is dead. If I was possibly at all confused about that at first, then seeing him in his coffin really cleared things up for me.”
“You kept talking about him needing us today. About fighting for him. One thing I know for a fact is that people have to be alive to need anything.”
Why is it so sharp in my heart, the conviction that Everett is wrong about that? All the desperate, swirling feelings and thoughts that took over today have quieted down now, but one idea is still just as overwhelming as ever: that dead or not, Dashiell needs us to be there for him. There’s something we have to do. Is it finding his killer?
That’s what I thought before—that’s even what I thought half a minute ago—but now it’s like the truth keeps pulling away from me, leading me deeper in.
It’s a bit more complex than that, Ruby-Ru, Dash’s voice whispers in my mind. Unfortunately even the dead can be murdered, again and again.
But Everett will definitely think I need medication, at the very least, if I breathe a word of this.
“You’d just stopped me from walking into the East River,” I say. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I probably said all kinds of crazy things that I don’t even remember now!”
Everett finally turns to me with a slab of pizza draping over his hand; he takes a bite and chews for a while, thinking.
“You really don’t remember.” That should be a question, but it’s not. “But I do, Ruby. That’s kind of the problem.”
And something flares up in my mind like a dream with the wind behind it, making it billow and spread: a memory from today of talking with Everett in the park, and then all at once there was a dark hole where I was supposed to be. A moment later I was lying on the grass with Everett’s palm hovering over me like he was about to slap me, and I had no idea why he was so angry.
But my cheek was stinging. He’d smacked me already, more than once.
My twin had hit me in the face and I’d had no awareness of it.
That happened, and then he was yelling about what I’d done, and the argument picked me up and carried me away from a moment that had no explanation, that seemed like it couldn’t truly have occurred at all.
“What did I do today, Everett?”
“Let’s go watch Cosmos. I’ll get the pizza if you bring our drinks.”
“Right before you hit me. What did I do to make you suddenly flip out like that?”
Everett flashes me a wild look and his mouth goes round. Then I watch him close his lips. I watch his face settle into the lie. “I think a suicide attempt is more than enough to justify me kicking your ass all the way to Coney Island. I’m prepared to defend any actions I took to smack some sense into you.”
We stare into each other’s eyes, and we both know we’ve been lying to each other. It’s not normal for Everett and me, doing that; we might deceive other people but honesty has always been a deep part of our twin-ness, something that formed when we were gurgling together in the same amniotic soup.
But I can read his expression, at least enough to know that he’s lying because the truth scares him. Whatever I did in those obliterated moments, it was frightening enough that Everett can’t bring himself to name it out loud.
And that scares me enough that I stop bugging him about it. I go sit with him in the living room, and eat my pizza, and sail away through an inconceivable luxuriance of space and stars. Even if it’s only on TV.
EVERETT
Ruby launches into flawless calm-and-together mode for the rest of the afternoon, chatting and smiling and texting with her friend Liv—neither of us are exactly popularity central, but to be honest Ruby does better than I do, at least with other teacher’s-pet types—and then in the evening she decides to bake cookies. I know it’s an act but I start to fall for it anyway, because falling for it is the easy and obvious thing to do. It’s not as if I want to tell our dad, and start a catastrophic fight, and then deal with the fallout for weeks to come. I don’t want to get Ruby locked up in a psych ward, not unless I’m completely morally obliged to and there’s no other choice. And if she’s okay enough to fake being okay this persuasively, then maybe that’s okay enough for me to play along, if that makes sense.
All this sounds pretty all right to me. I get a good flow of rationalization going and I coast with it. Our dad texts to say he’s having dinner out and won’t be home until late, and Ruby and I hang out and watch movies until after one in the morning. We’re careful to stay away from awkward subjects like dead junkies and murder and early-onset schizophrenia, and I know all of that stuff is just drama anyway. Those are the kinds of noises people make to convince themselves that their lives are intense and important. But suffering is ultimately just as boring and trivial as expensive cars and fancy outfits. None of it matters. I should have kept that in mind today and not let myself get so worked up.
It gets late, and our dad texts again to say we shouldn’t wait up for him, so he’s probably with some girlfriend. It starts to feel like Ruby and I are waiting for something—not Dad, that’s for sure—but whatever it is doesn’t happen and eventually we give up and go to bed.
* * *
And I wake to find a shadow bending over me, someone’s weight mashing down the side of my mattress, and more warmth than there should be in my bedroom at who-knows-what a.m. There’s enough light from the street that I can make out the slanting hair and I know it must be Ruby, freakishly invading my privacy and sitting on my bed in the darkness. Watching me sleep.
Except that the posture is wrong for Ruby. Too sultry and arrogant. The whole atmosphere of personality around that gray shape is wrong for Ruby. I sit up so fast my shoulder blades crack and throw myself back against the wall. My breathing is so loud it sounds like I’m trying to say something, just with huffing air instead of words. I scramble for my inhaler—it’s right there on the nightstand—and suck in hard.
“Well hi, Never-Ever,” the not-Ruby says—and of course I recognize that voice, even though it isn’t hers. The tone is slow and teasing. “I’m curious. Who would you say is talking to you now?”
I can’t think Ruby or she anymore, but he would be even worse. It tips back a little and contemplates me with a sliver of smile, barely visible in the dimness. “You can’t be Dashiell,” I say.
I shouldn’t have said even that much. I should have left that name out of it completely. I’m still a little bit asleep and my guard is down.
“I can’t be Dashiell? What a shame that is, Never-Ever, considering that I’ve always sucked at being anyone else.” It grins. He grins. “And to think that you accuse our lovely Miss Slippers of being in denial. Oh, the hypocrisy!”
“You are my twin sister, Ruby, and you have completely lost your mind,” I say. I’m trying to make it sound firm and calm, but I realize that I don’t entirely believe any of what I’m saying now. My blood is throbbing so hard it smacks against my eardrums. “You’ve gone insane from grief over Dashiell, but you are not him no matter how intensely you pretend to be. Because once someone is dead they are gone, and that’s it.”
Dashiell’s harsh laugh burbles up through Ruby’s throat. My eyes have adjusted enough to make out her round
cheeks and snubby nose wrapped in this burned-tinfoil light.
“Ruby Slippers has been taking it hard indeed, poor sweet girl. Hard enough to make this ludicrously easy, but she’s definitely not insane. Just very confused and out of her depth. Now you would have hung back on the riverbank, Never-Ever. You would have made self-preservation your top priority and told me to scamper off to hell. Not so my Ruby-Ru. She was ready to go to the most extravagant lengths to bring me safely home.”
I don’t understand any of this. The light from the window looks grubby and it can’t quite reach around the room. But I don’t like the mention of the riverbank, I know that, and I don’t like the phrase out of her depth.
“Was that you today? You were going to make Ruby walk into the river and drown, just so you don’t have to be dead all alone—”
I stop, because everything I’m saying implies that I’ve started to believe that this is actually Dashiell sitting on my bed and watching me with Ruby’s eyes, smiling slyly with her mouth. And I am not the type of person who would believe something that is so clearly impossible.
Therefore I don’t believe it. In fact, I know that this is Ruby. Ruby having some kind of sick breakdown. I have to keep a tight grip on that thought: It’s not him.
“I have never been less alone than I am now. What a grave misunderstanding of my circumstances, Never. There is no fine and private place out there, I promise you. And I brought you along today precisely so that you would stop Miss Slippers from doing anything that we would all regret. It took a terrific effort, by the way, summoning sufficient oomph to make you feel me touch your wrist. I wouldn’t go to all that trouble lightly.”
“Then you knew! You knew she was going to try it!”
Ugh. I just did it again. I’m talking to this blob, this psychotic nothing controlling Ruby’s body, just as if it was truly and in genuine fact my dead brother, and I cannot stop myself. The voice, tone, and gestures are all so Dashiell that I feel slashed every time he moves.
He, he, he. Even though it can’t be.
“I knew there was a risk,” the not-Ruby concedes. “I knew the initial adjustment would be difficult for her. What might be described as an identity crisis, if it helps you to think of it that way, a jostling and discomfort at having too many minds in the pot. I’d heard that the experience can drive people to extremes, especially before they’ve had time to get used to it. But I was looking after my darling baby sister through it all, even if I had to solicit your help with the physical aspects, yanking her back from the brink and all that. And aren’t you glad you tagged along on our walk with us?”
Us.
I don’t know why that makes me believe it, or almost believe it. But it does.
“Is Ruby even going to remember this?” I ask. And then I try it out. “Dash-Dot-Dot.” If it’s really you, then what are you doing here?
Now he grins for real. A very Dashiell grin, impish and conspiratorial. He leans closer. “Well, Never-Ever, I could choose to let her remember. I could choose to let her listen in on our conversation right now. Do you think I should?”
The idea makes me nauseous with panic and I’m shaking my head frantically before I can find the words to stop him. “Dash, don’t! Do not do that! There’s no way she’ll be able to handle it.”
“Maybe I’ll let her remember just a taste of it. A few fragments, hazy, like something out of a dream. Ruby-Ru loves nothing more than dreaming about me, does she?”
“She said those dreams were horrible.”
Ruby’s mouth twists mockingly. Ruby’s face is being used to make fun of Ruby, and she doesn’t even know it. Ruby’s hand lifts up and pats me on the shoulder, and I flinch.
“Dashiell,” I say, though I still don’t know how I can say that. “You shouldn’t be doing this. You should go back to wherever you’re supposed to be. Just because Ruby loves you doesn’t mean you get to use her!”
“Oh, pah. And do you think Ruby would say that? ‘Dashiell, get out of here! Dashiell, just go back to being dead!’” Ruby’s throat and tongue mimic Ruby’s squeaky voice and it is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. Chill patters down my spine and my guts roll over. “Is that what she would do, Never-Ever?”
I can’t say anything. Because we both know beyond all doubt that Ruby would never tell Dashiell, dead or not, to go away.
We both know that she’d do anything at all to keep him alive. Or even half alive. Or whatever the hell he is now. Just as long as he stayed with her.
Ruby’s mouth curls in an ironic smile. And then Ruby-Dashiell presses in and hugs me tight. I sit rigid with my arms tucked in, too freaked to move, but something fires in my memory. “She said you need her.”
“Ah, well, she’s starting to understand. I do need her.”
“She said you need both of us.”
He-she lets me go and angles back enough to look at me. “And my Ruby Slippers is right about that too.” A hand that should belong to Ruby and doesn’t lifts my chin—a totally Dashiell thing to do, to make you look at him even when you don’t want to. “You still haven’t welcomed me home, Never-Ever.”
DASHIELL
How soft the night is, with Ruby-Ru’s dreams wrapped around me. Everett has crashed back into what may be a none-too-restful sleep and I’ve slipped into my old room—though it’s been reduced to a state of revolting blandness, all my old possessions ruthlessly purged, and while I was still alive at that. How determined our father was to erase every trace of me, and yet here I am, cross-legged on the bed in indigo darkness. He sees me as a blotch on the family, a stain on all their hearts, and just look at that stain now.
I refuse to come out.
Even dead. Even dead. I’d like to scream it in his face, but I suppose that might not be my most inspired idea. He called me a monster and I listened, here in my dear sister’s skull, clenching teeth that aren’t technically mine. And to think how overjoyed I’d been to see him again, when Ru-Ru first carried me into the kitchen!
I’d like to call our mother in London as well, whisper her own words back to her: You’re the only one who can make the decision to live, Dashiell. If you’re determined to kill yourself in slow motion, you can stop waiting for me to interfere. I respect your choices, even when I don’t like them, and I’m afraid it’s up to you. Whisper them again and again, until she can’t help but recognize my voice. And when she hangs up in terror, I’ll call her back, and repeat it all into her voice mail. Haunting could turn out to be much more fun than I’d imagined, back when I was first hatching my plans in the gray blur of nothingness.
But I have to prioritize. Tormenting my parents isn’t my primary reason for being here, after all. I have more pressing concerns.
Death is a bit like an unending childhood, the ghosts milling about with no real responsibilities, nothing in particular to do. No sources of amusement but the suffering we can inflict on one another. People like to talk about the cruelty of children, ah, but it’s nothing compared to the cruelty the dead get up to, in our dreary, everlasting after-school.
Aloysius will find it challenging to pursue me here. I don’t doubt he’ll try, though, if only on principle. I suppose he isn’t worried, yet, about what I might do with the benefit of breath, since he’d never expect that anyone would have the nerve to challenge him; he’ll only see that I’ve conned him out of a prize he feels entitled to. He’s much too spoiled to let that slide, and vindictive enough that he’ll most likely strive to destroy whatever he can’t claim for himself. But Aloysius isn’t the only one who might feel strongly about territorial issues.
What am I, then, now that I’ve made it this far? The twists in his maze, the wraith that will shriek from his shadow. Ah, he was so sure he had me crushed, helpless and submissive to all his orders. But now? I’d like to see him try to take me down.
My sister stirs faintly, her drowsy consciousness rustling against mine for a moment before she subsides. Back to sleep, now. Don’t be afraid, sweet Ru. I lift Ruby S
lippers’s sleeping hand to her own lips, kiss the back of it.
It couldn’t be you, I say into her dreams. No, simply. No. Never you, my own Ruby-Ru.
RUBY
I wake up to soft golden light that rambles through my room, folding on sheets and fluttering through curtains. It’s crazy late, already way after noon, and I stretch and wallow for a while before I realize what I’m feeling. I’m happy in a way that I haven’t been for a long time, and I actually feel rested. Brooklyn today will be a marvelous place, full of birds and windows that flicker and beckon, and subtly enchanted garbage cans, and graffiti painted by rebel angels.
There’s no good reason for it. It’s just the way it is. Even doing research for my history paper sounds like an exciting adventure. I take my time getting up, letting my soles explore the wood floor for a while, then walking with a lot of slow pivots and twirls to the bathroom, just to thoroughly enjoy being a girl in a body in a house in Brooklyn. I don’t care how silly that would sound to anyone else. I shower in the same lazy way and then let my toes squirm slowly down the fuzzy tunnels of my socks, pretending my feet are two badgers digging their way to China.
As soon as I’m dressed there’s a knock on my door. “Ruby?”
I jump up and fling it open. “Never-Ever-Everett. Whazzup?”
The look on his face is so urgent and tense that it nearly punches a hole straight through my fabulous mood, but then he just stands there awkwardly staring at me with his big soft mouth opening and closing. “Can I come in?”
“Since when do you ask?” I say and spin back from the door, then sit on my bed and start bouncing. I can see that Everett is still flipping out, and I know I gave him plenty of reason to be on edge, but I’m just not ready to feel like crap yet. “Everett, you don’t have to be worried about me anymore, okay? I’m sorry I stressed you out so bad, but I am truly fine now.”
