~~~~
Rick was always more sensitive about our condition than I---which is strange because it means that he somehow aspired to normality. In Hong Kong there was such crowded diversity that all shapes and manner of things were given their true measure of space. Yet even there Rick was short on acceptance. And had his pride—which is ridiculous when you’re a Siamese twin, joined at the side, when you’ve been featured in freak shows and been prodded and stared at, when, even in the land of the free, you’re paid half a salary because you’ve only got one useful arm to work with. Nor is there much cause for pride when you’re the oldest surviving pair, featured in the Guinness Book of World Records.
What of the future? There are no actuarial tables for us. We’re off the chart, outliers. We probably won’t live much longer but we want to make it as long as possible. There is some comfort in knowing we’ll both go together whenever that is.
The question of souls: I think they intersect where our bodies meet. I can, even now at this moment, sense Rick asking me to leave him out of these ramblings. (But this is my way of coping.) He was stronger at birth by all accounts and could have made it without me. For some reason the doctors who congregated miraculously at the scene---a clutch of Maji----? having left their plush offices uptown, decided not to amputate. I don’t know what our parents thought. They lit out for the hills and we never saw them again. We were taken into care by English missionaries in Victoria. That was our first break. Although they tended to act in a high-handed way, they were kind people.
Rick dozes while I scribble in my journal. His dreams are bad. Fortunately I don’t dream much but then I don’t think as deeply as he does. I’m more concerned with simple survival, getting by. For this we need a lot of rules---about eating, exercise, hygiene, synchronised bowel movements, you name it. Intimacy takes on a whole new meaning. But we try to respect each other’s space, if that’s not some sort of contradiction.
When Rick wakes I try to cheer him by suggesting a visit to the house on Fourteenth Street. A couple of Chinese working girls have accommodated us in the past—at a price and with some effort. But he wasn’t in the mood. He makes a sudden effort to pull away from me and we almost overbalance. Sudden movements like that are completely against the rules, so I have to infer a certain hostility, a warning at the very least.
“Come on Rick. What’s up?” I might have added, “We’re in this together,” but his silence chills me to the bone.
Later that night I wake to find him crying. Since we lie on our backs it is difficult to see his face but the dry sound of sobbing is unmistakeable.
“What’s the matter, Rick?” Dread rises up in me; the question is pointless.
“I....can’t....”
“Escape?” I finish it for him. Prisoner and jailer locked together every second of every day. I know he wants to be independent for once in his life—to stand alone. I can feel the tug of his will. Personally, I think individualism is overrated, and it has caused a lot of problems in the world. But Rick clearly wants a shot at it. It was bound to come to that sooner or later. I had been the weak one after all and he had carried me for thirty-three years.
“It’s not my fault.”
“That’s what’s driving me crazy.” He manoeuvres his way out of bed. Naturally, I follow. Two crabs moving sideways.
In the kitchen he pours out a tumbler of Scotch and knocks it back with a vengeance. It makes me feel nauseous.
“This isn’t the way.” I know the liquor isn’t going down well for him either.
“It’ll do for now.” He throws back another glass, wrenching my neck in the process. It occurs to me that he may not believe in reincarnation anymore. But I do and I find it comforting; next time around we’re going to get a better deal. Anyway this life isn’t all that bad. People adapt to most things when they have no choice in the matter. We could probably use a little counselling now and again but there’s no therapy for Siamese twins, at least not that I know of. It’s an orphan disease, I guess. Not enough of us around to form a lobby group or get up a petition. In the whole country there are only three conjoined pairs still surviving and we’ve never even met.
I finally persuade Rick to come back to bed. He falls into a drunken sleep and I gaze at the ceiling afraid to move in case I’d wake him. My brother...... I’m a little woozy from the liquor too and I fall asleep after a while.
When I wake up it feels as if no time has passed. Rick’s breath comes in rasps from deep in his throat. His face is glazed over with no contortion or movement. This is no drunken stupor. Then I see the empty pill bottle and the scattered Seconal. I wrestle him out of bed and try to walk him around the room. But I’m really carrying him. His head is slumped and there is no strength in his legs. With the strength that panic brings I manage to reach the phone.......
Eileen and True Hunger Page 3
