by Terry Fallis
Just relax, Matt. Don’t flip out on me, now. I know it’s a shock. It was to me, too, and I was sitting alone in a bank vault. But just try to hold it together and all will be made clear. This is no time to lose it.
“Matthew,” I said quietly.
It was the only word I could utter. I released my hair, letting it fall long again. I slowly slid out of the booth and stood to face him. I gestured with my left hand for him to sit down. I said nothing after uttering his name. My heart was making so much noise in my chest I thought surely he could hear it. We kept staring at each other, saying nothing, just a few feet and a quarter-century between us. He broke eye contact briefly to look me up and down. He looked quite swish, at least to my somewhat underdeveloped fashion sense. He was wearing tight, narrow-legged blue pants, a rather funky brown leather belt, cool low-cut red running shoes that looked more for fashion than fitness, and a tight, white button-down shirt. I forgot what I was wearing and looked myself up and down when he did. Jeans, sort of brownish desert boot–like shoes, and my favourite blue-plaid flannel shirt from the Northern Trapper spring line. No belt. I’d forgotten my belt.
Clothes aside, I could see that he could see that we were obviously made in the very same mould. Height, weight, build, face, skin, hair colour, hands, all the same. All that separated us was the length of my hair. Okay, he probably wouldn’t have been caught dead in my blue-plaid flannel shirt, but it would have fit him perfectly.
Come on, Matt. Stay with me, bro. And I do mean bro. Have a seat and we’ll talk. We’ll talk for a very long time. Just make it to a sitting position, please.
“Matthew,” I said again. “Please.” I waved my hand again for him to sit across from me. Looking at him, I felt at least a bit of my omnipresent shyness drain away. This was my brother. He was family. My only family.
He raised his hands, closed his eyes, and shook his head as if trying to banish this apparition. But I was still before him when he took his hands away from his face and his eyes opened again.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you tell just by looking at me?
I said nothing but again pointed to the empty seat opposite mine. He looked at it and then at the table. His eyes and mouth opened wide when he saw the half-photo of me. He stared at it for a moment, his brow and forehead compressed in what appeared to be incredulity. If Matt had seen his own face in that moment, I think he might have described it as “gobsmacked.”
“Where did you get this?” he demanded as he reached for it. “How did you get this?”
Easy, Matt. Stay calm. You’ll get all the answers I can provide. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came to find you. That’s why I drank a whole Guinness yesterday. I can’t believe I found you.
I still had no words lined up in my mouth. Matt grabbed the photo and studied it. Soon a whole new level of puzzlement creased his face. He tilted his head again, I assume, processing. He stared at that half-photo for a long time trying to figure it out. Then, slowly, almost as if he dared not, he turned the photo over, examining the back. He cycled through so many different facial contortions I gave up trying to interpret them. That’s when all the colour suddenly drained from his face, and he sank into the seat. I dropped back into mine, facing him.
That’s it, Matt. Good. You made it. You’re here. We’re here. Finally.
“Matt, your latté’s here, luv,” the woman said from the bar before disappearing into the kitchen.
Sit tight, Matt. I’ll get it. Don’t move! Do. Not. Move.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
I jumped out and fetched his latté. I placed it on the table and resumed my seat as he carefully placed my half-photo, baby face up, on the table between us. Then he hauled his wallet from his front right pocket, stuck his fingers in a little slit inside, and pulled out a battered, curved, and creased half-photo of his own.
Holy shit! Where did you get that?
“Holy shit!” I said. “Where did you get that?”
Matt ignored me and slid his up against mine. What had been half was now whole. Two arms now. Two babies.
I can’t believe it. Where did you get that? Who gave that to you? Was it my mother? Our mother?
“Who gave that to you?” I asked again, more urgently than before.
Matt held his hand up to silence me. I complied. He then turned his long-suffering half of the photo over. There, in blue ballpoint ink, in my…in our mother’s hand, it said:
1/3 December 24, 199
He flipped over my half-photo and pushed the overturned halves together. With them reunited for the first time in nearly twenty-five years, the script on one half lined up perfectly with the script on the other half to yield:
1/3 December 24, 1990
He still hadn’t touched his latté. I pointed to the envelope still lying on the table between us. He picked it up, opened it, and withdrew the full photo. He placed it beside the recently reconnected bisected photo to confirm it was in fact the same shot. He stared at it for a long time.
“I’d always wondered why it was only half a photo. Now I know,” he said, still studying the full shot.
Yep. Now we both know why. That, bro, I guess is what they call “the big reveal.”
He turned the photo over and just nodded when he read in our mother’s hand:
2/3 December 24, 1990
He took a very deep breath, almost as if it might be his last, placed the photo back on the table, and stared at my face for what seemed like a long time. It was probably under a minute, but for someone like me who’s tried to avoid careful scrutiny of his face, it felt like a very long time. But I forced myself to keep my eyes fixed on his.
“Would you mind pushing your hair back again?” he asked in the same tone he might have used to ask for the salt shaker.
I’ll do it, as long as you don’t ask me why, against all societal trends, I choose to have such long hair while still hating heavy metal. Please don’t ask.
I lifted both hands this time, pushed my hair back behind my ears, and held it there in place. He just stared.
“Eerie and uncanny,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you.”
No problem. But remember our deal.
I released my hair. He looked down again at the baby photos, then quickly back up to me.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Alex,” I replied. “Alex MacAskill. I was born in…”
“I know. In Ottawa,” he interjected. “It stands to reason.”
So you know where you were born. I wondered if you would.
I nodded.
“So, Alexander,” he said.
Nope. Not Alexander.
“No. Just Alex.”
“Right then. Well, Alex MacAskill, I’m Matthew Paterson,” he said, offering his right hand. “Where the hell have you been all my life?”
Okay. Good. So you’re on board. The doubts have dissipated. We can move past wondering if it’s true and on to how and why it happened.
I gripped his hand to shake it. But he held on to it beyond the customary duration. He shook his head.
“This somehow does not do the occasion justice,” Matt said, standing up while still holding my hand in his.
He pulled me up and out of the booth, and into what I guess you would call a brotherly embrace, the first I’d ever experienced.
Whoa, Matt. Easy. I’m not a real hugger, but…
I generally didn’t do very much hugging, so this should have felt strange to me. But somehow it didn’t. In that moment, it was both natural and almost overwhelming. We stood there, arms around one another, for a moment or two, or three. It took a Herculean effort for me not to burst into tears. We both had watery eyes when we eventually pulled apart and resumed our seats. My chronic reticence left me in silence. So I just looked at him. It felt like I was smiling continuously, but I seemed to have lost the ability to know for sure.
“I don’t kno
w what to say. I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I have a million questions orbiting but I don’t know where to start.”
Don’t worry about it! There is no guidebook for this situation. We just have to navigate it on our own. But we’re here together. That’s what’s important. I’ve sort of gotten used to the idea in the last few days. But I know what you’re feeling right now. I know.
“I don’t know what to do or where to start either,” I replied. “But I’ve had some time to get used to this idea, so you should start. Ask whatever you want. Ask in whatever order the questions come to you. I don’t have anywhere to be right now.”
“Shit!” he said and reached for his phone and punched in a number. “Just give me one second.”
I’m sitting right across from you. I’m not going anywhere. Take all the time you need.
I remembered only then that also in the envelope still resting on the table was my high school Christmas pageant program from 2005 with the wooden Lucky Strike Mom had taped to it. I did not want to get into that with Matt right then. It wasn’t time. Maybe it would never be time. So while he focused on his cellphone, I slid the envelope over to me and off the table into my lap. I shoved it in my back pocket as he lifted the phone to his ear.
“Karen, it’s Matt. Yes, I’m downstairs. Yes, I got my latté, thank you. But I’ve just realized I’ve got something to do today outside of the office. I’d forgotten completely about it. Can you bump the team meeting to tomorrow, same time, and let everyone know my day today is now rubbish and I probably won’t be back until tomorrow? Thanks. Yes, but only if it’s mega-urgent. Right. Cheers.”
He ended the call and put his phone down on the table.
“Sorry. Where were we?” he asked. “I mean, other than just discovering that for my entire life, I’ve had an identical twin brother growing up in, I assume, Canada.”
I nodded.
The floor is yours, Matt. We just have to start somewhere. So fire away.
“You were about to ask questions and I was about to attempt answers,” I replied.
“Right. I’m almost too overwhelmed to fathom any of this, let alone ask sensible questions.”
Who cares if they make sense? Just ask.
“They don’t have to make sense. Not much about this makes much sense at all. Just ask,” I said.
“Right, then. Well, this is a weird place to start, but why do you wear your hair long? I mean, it looks fine. But I’m just curious.”
Wait a second, Matt. We agreed you wouldn’t go there. Remember? Anyway, it’s a long story. Sometimes people recognize me for the wrong reasons and it’s, well, it’s fucking embarrassing.
“Um. It’s kind of a long story. I’ve had my hair like this for the last decade or so. Not really sure why. Maybe I’m trying not to resemble, um, somebody.”
“Who are you trying not to resemble? Me?”
No, not you, me. I don’t want to look like me. Well, when you think about it, that’s the same thing. But it’s not because of you. It’s because of me.
“No, not you. Not at all. I’m trying not to, um, well, look like me.”
“But we look the same?”
“Yes, but this isn’t about you. It’s all about me. I can’t explain now. I just can’t. It’s too soon,” I explained.
“Fair enough,” Matt said. “Right then, when did you learn about, well, about me? When did you know you had a twin brother?”
“It was last Tuesday night when I first laid eyes on the half-photo, and Wednesday morning when I first saw the whole photo.”
“Obviously there’s a third photo. Do you know who has it?”
I think our father has it, whoever he is.
“No idea,” I answered. “Unless it’s with the headless guy in the photo.”
“Right. And just who do we both think the guy in the photo is?”
You know and I know.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably our father. Who else would be holding us the day after our birth?”
“Right. That’s what I’ve always thought,” Matt replied. “Wait! Do you know who he is? Have you met him?”
“No and no,” I replied. “We know absolutely nothing about him. Not even a first name.”
“So how did you come to have the photos?”
“My mother,” I replied. “Our mother.”
It was as if it hit him only in that instant. He executed what kind of looked like a very mild, understated version of the classic Warner Brothers cartoon character double-take shiver, but without the over-the-top sound effects.
“Our mother. My mother!” he said, looking past me somewhere for a moment before coming back. “My mother. Is she here in London with you?”
Pass. Any other questions? Any different questions?
Shit.
Above me, I could hear them laughing. No, not really laughing so much as snickering.
CHAPTER 7
I liked him enormously. I guessed I loved him, in that familial sense, almost instantly. Perhaps it was something like when a mother bonded with her newborn. That afternoon in the William Blake pub, I bonded with my identical twin brother, more than two decades late. I knew. I could feel it because in a very short time, call it a few hours, I was almost “inside-out” with Matt, as Dr. Weaver would have put it. I felt like I could say out loud to him what I really wanted to say rather than what usually came out of my mouth. And bear in mind, we were both still reeling from the shock, he more than I. Still, he was warm and funny and thoughtful, and completely accepting of the unlikely news I had broken to him. The finally reunited half-photos and our identical appearance – my long hair notwithstanding – left the truth beyond doubt. Shock? Yes. Doubt? No. Not a shred.
“But how did you find me?” he asked as if just then recognizing how miraculous it all was. “The world is big. There are more than seven billion people on the planet. How did you find me from a single photograph?”
“Well, you could say I followed our face,” I replied.
He furrowed his brow and turned his head just a bit.
“Okay, I need more than that.”
“If we’d been fraternal twins, I may never have found you. But we are identical. That saved us,” I said. “Maybe fate pushed me into my current job, but I helped write the most advanced facial recognition software available. I work at Facetech.”
I paused and watched as understanding dawned.
“Right. Facetech. So you searched for your own face and I popped up,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Brilliant. Very clever,” he said.
Well, the software really kicks ass.
“Thanks,” I replied. “But perhaps not as clever as you might think. The idea didn’t occur to me until after I’d spent far too many hours scouring Facebook for photos of guys born on our birth date.”
It took me about an hour to encapsulate the narrative of my life thus far. Matt asked me to go first. I think it was helping him process what had just happened. I described what had always seemed to me to be my idyllic childhood. Just Mom and me. A happy mother and a happy kid. When I got to my high school years, I talked about my love of acting and of Cyndy Stirling. I did not mention Gabriel or his role in my eventual breakup with Cyndy. I hadn’t decided whether I ever would. I did say I experienced what I described as “a bit of a setback” in high school, but because of when, and how, I said it, Matt likely assumed it was all about the dissolution of my high school romance. And that was fine with me.
I took him through my university years, my software engineering degree, and Mom’s diagnosis. He’d never heard of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Neither had our mother, and neither had I before that doctor’s appointment when everything changed. This seemed like an appropriate time to break the bad news. Like the nervous driver who makes three right turns to avoid making one left turn, I usually went to extreme lengths to avoid emotionally charged conversations. But I knew I owed Matt more. My identical twin brother deserved
more.
So I told him of our mother’s recent passing. This hit him harder than I expected it would. But we moved past it reasonably quickly. In fact, he seemed to understand that we wouldn’t have been together that afternoon in the William Blake had she not died. In a way, bringing us together had been her parting gift to both of us.
The owner sauntered over to see if we wanted any lunch, given the hour. We did, and ordered. She then spent the next several seconds staring from Matt to me, and back again. It was the first of countless future occasions when people stared, questioned their grasp on reality, and perhaps briefly believed in the possibility of cloning.
“Um, Maggie, I believe that’s your jaw on the floor there, just next to your left foot,” Matt said, pointing. She closed her mouth. “Maggie, this is Alex MacAskill, my twin brother. He’s visiting from Canada.”
“How wonderful! I didn’t know you had an identical twin,” she said as we shook hands.
“Funny you should say that,” Matt said, looking at me. “Anyway, we’re just catching up after not seeing each other for a while.”
“Lovely to meet you, Alex,” Maggie said before heading back to the kitchen to place our lunch orders.
I don’t remember what we ordered. I don’t really remember eating whatever it was we’d ordered. I just remember looking at, and listening to, my brother. I noticed after a while that I simply could not take my eyes off him. It was also clear that he was keeping his gaze completely focused on me. I guess that’s not surprising. We were studying one another’s faces and seeing our own. We were isolated in our own little private fraternal universe. Not to get too weird about it all, but it was like we were back in the womb, just the two of us. Okay, I admit, that does sound a little weird. But we were making up for a quarter-century of lost time. It was surreal, and strangely calming.
