by Mary Carter
Lacey arrived home and walked through their tiny backyard and around to an enclosed porch. When she opened the door and stepped in, she found Alan, stretched out on the His and Her Adirondack chairs they bought at a festival last summer. She was hoping he wouldn’t be home yet. He had a bottle of beer for himself and a glass of wine waiting for her. A jar of fresh daisies sat on the little table in between the chairs. Lacey could have sworn they weren’t there this morning.
“Welcome home, beautiful,” Alan said. He rose to greet her. She gave him a brief kiss. He took her helmet from her and hung it on a hook by the door.
“You’re home early,” she said. She covered her annoyance with a smile. It wasn’t his fault she had a woman to stalk. He returned her smile, but his beat hers by a million men marching.
“It’s a special day,” Alan said. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. Lacey couldn’t believe how attractive she still found him, how fast the six years had flown by, the last three of which they’d lived together, still going strong despite her constant fear of being swallowed whole. He was tall, a little on the skinny side, and blessed with a mop of curly brown hair. She loved his chest and biceps best; they were strong and lean, and always there for her. He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, his parents’ initials in sign language. She loved him. She loved touching his tattoo. She loved kneading her fingers through his soft curls. She loved that his hair smelled like pears and occasionally sawdust. She loved how he would get a little flush of red along the side of his neck when he was nervous. It was there now, a faint line rising from his collarbone. She had to resist the urge to kiss his neck, lick away the red. It would lead to other things, things she didn’t have time for. Why was he so nervous? Who would have thought she would end up with a hearing man?
What she loved most about the relationship was the freedom to just be. Sure, they fantasized about their future, but instead of dreaming about a wedding and names for their children, they talked about the house Alan would build and—as he liked to tease—Lacey would paint.
She wanted a lighthouse in Maine; he wanted a big house in Boston. He proposed a compromise. Their big house in Boston could have a turret, and maybe they could build a summerhouse in Maine. He didn’t pressure her about marriage or kids. If she wanted to be a part of an institution, she’d pick one that came with free Jell-O and bingo night.
Boston, Lacey thought. Monica Bowman lives in Boston. With her fiancé, Joe, and her puggle, Snookie.
Alan pulled her toward him and kissed her long and hard. I have a face thief, Lacey thought as she tasted his lips on hers. Or a twin. Why aren’t I telling him?
Because she didn’t know anything. She wouldn’t know anything until she saw the woman for herself. Rookie ran onto the porch. Lacey picked up his wiggling body and kissed him. He too smelled like fresh shampoo.
“Did you give him a bath?” Lacey asked. Alan smiled at her. His neck was flaring.
“It’s a special night,” he said. It was the second time he’d said that.
“I might be late,” Lacey said. “Can we do dinner at eight?”
“Eight?” Alan looked alarmed. Lacey mentally flashed through the evening. Book reading at six, then who knew what was going to happen? They would talk settlement terms most likely. How much was her face worth? If only she didn’t have to go in disguise; she might be able to kick the price up a bit if she was dolled up. But it had to be a slow attack, she wanted to draw the moment out, then show her face to the audience. Look, I’m her. She’s not!
“Eight,” Lacey said. She put Rookie down and headed for the bedroom. Alan followed at a close clip and before she could climb the stairs he tapped her on the shoulder.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Astute as ever, on full alert.
“I’m running late,” Lacey said. “I have errands.”
“What errands?”
“I can’t tell you.” Lacey ran up the stairs and headed into the bedroom. She stood in front of the closet. Alan tapped her on the shoulder again, even though she already knew he was there.
“What?”
“What errands?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Alan said. “I thought we were over this.”
Translation in English:
By we he meant her.
By this he meant secrets.
By over he meant: Tell me!
In ASL:
Secrets. Me. You. Finish!
Translation: Tell me!
Okay, so maybe she and Alan weren’t as close as they could possibly be, maybe she used to keep everything to herself, maybe she still did. But wasn’t it enough she came home to him? She wasn’t lying to him, or cheating on him, or stealing from him. Although he would argue shutting herself off to him was stealing from their relationship. But tonight was different. Tonight she could feed him a fish.
“It’s our anniversary,” she said. “You can’t make me tell secrets.” It worked. The worry lines across Alan’s forehead disappeared. He smiled again. Why didn’t she just tell him the truth. I got a letter. It says I have a sister. A twin. Her name is Monica.
Maybe it would be a joyous reunion. Maybe it would be the beginning of a friendship, a kinship, a twinship. Alan was still staring at her. She should tell him. Or she could get her jacket, pull the letter out, and hand it to him. Together they could go to the computer and Google Monica Bowman, The Architect of Your Soul. She lifted her hands. It would take little effort to produce the signs. But it was back. Her internal “lockdown,” the sensation of closing in on herself, a selfish clamping of information, the inability to share, and the self-pity it produced. Was it a power trip, or self-punishment? If thoughts and experiences were dancers, meant to leap across the stage and give of themselves, Lacey’s were lame, crippled, knocked and locked at the knees.
“I can’t wait,” Alan said.
“What?” Lacey said.
“Dinner. Big fat spaghetti. Big glass wine.” He mimed sucking a strand of spaghetti into his mouth, making her laugh. She put her hand out and touched his face. This is home base, she thought, stroking his cheek. Never lose sight of home base. She pulled her hand back. Alan reached out and held it again. The worry line visited his forehead again, looking like it was here for a long stay this time.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said. He pointed out the window to the large oak that graced their backyard. He gyrated his hand in a shaking motion. English idioms weren’t part of Deaf Culture just like Deaf idioms were lost on a hearing person who didn’t sign. Alan said he used to act them out for his mother, in their kitchen after school. He carried on the same tradition with Lacey, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him she already knew most of them. It was amusing to watch him exaggerate the whole bit, act them out like mini plays. The tree, the leaf, the wind, how the leaf fluttered. He looked like an idiot, but he was her idiot. But this time it didn’t look like he was joking. Lacey stared at her hand. He was right: She was shaking.
Twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin twin sister sister sister sister sister sister sister sister sister
“Too much coffee,” Lacey said. She didn’t tell him about the parking ticket either. Or Sheila Sherman calling a tow truck. Or visiting Kelly. At dinner, she convinced herself. I’ll tell him at dinner.
“Deaf coffee,” Alan said. Deaf coffee was a Deaf idiom. It meant decaf.
“Deaf coffee next time,” she assured him. Rookie raced into the room, wedged himself between them, and began to spin in circles.
“Genius,” Alan said, looking at him. “Our dog is a pure genius.”
“When good pogo sticks go bad,” Lacey added, quoting Alan. Then she looked at Rookie and signed, “Outside.” Rookie stopped spinning and started jumping. He knew a half dozen signs: walk, sit, work, bathroom, outside, and cookie. In other words, the important stuff, and the good stuff.
“You’re taking Rookie?” Alan asked. “Why?”
“He loves to ride in the jeep,” Lacey said. She made eye contact with Rookie. You have a twin, she conveyed telepathically. Her name is Snookie. Rookie sneezed, shook his head violently, and lowered the front half of his body so that his butt was sticking in the air. Then, he bared his teeth and growled. Exactly, Lacey thought. That’s exactly how I feel.
Chapter 4
Lacey stood in front of the closet in the guest bedroom with the simple black dress she planned on wearing slung in the crook of her arm. Technically, it was Alan’s closet. She had the reign of the big one in the master bedroom, but a couple of months ago she’d snuck a few pairs of high heels into his closet, and she was going to need a pair of them tonight to go along with her dress. She slid Alan’s suits over to get a better look at the floor where her heels were hiding. But just as she moved the last suit out of the way, her hand brushed a pocket, and her fingertips danced across a hard surface. Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached into the pocket and pulled out a blue velvet box.
Don’t open it, she told herself. She opened it. It was a diamond ring. One carat. Princess cut. Platinum band. Lacey shut the box and put it back in the suit pocket. She took it out again and opened it. Shut it. Put it back. Took it out. Put it back. Took it out. Opened it. Shut it. Put it back in the opposite pocket. Took it out. Tried to shove it in her pocket. Her jeans were too tight. Put it back. Shut the closet door and leaned against it.
Oh God. Didn’t he know her at all? Hadn’t he been listening? Didn’t she make her views on holy matrimony oh so perfectly clear? Didn’t she drop enough hints, enough digs for him to get the picture? Didn’t she always point out couples they knew who were either miserably married or getting a divorce? Didn’t she place bets on how long celebrity marriages would last? Didn’t she draw little skulls and crossbones over the engagement section of the Sunday Times? If nothing else, dressing up as the Bride of Frankenstein last Halloween and telling Alan it was the only time he’d ever see her in a wedding dress should have been a clue.
That’s why his neck had been red. She didn’t need this right now, she couldn’t handle this right now. She grabbed her pumps and threw them in a backpack along with her little black dress. She didn’t care anymore if it got wrinkled. Maybe if she showed up looking like the Bride of Frankenstein, he wouldn’t propose.
She turned off her thoughts, moving about the house on autopilot. She would figure it out later. She still needed to get to the art studio and whip up a painting for Alan, one that now said I-love-you-but-let’s-not-ruin-a-good-thing-by-getting-married. Then bookstore, cat fight, dinner. She looked at her watch. It was too late. She had to get to Benjamin Books now. Then she would go to the studio. She could text Alan and push dinner back to nine. Or ten.
Lacey tucked her hair into one of Alan’s ProBuild baseball caps and concealed her blue eyes behind mountainous sunglasses. Given that it was way too hot to hide anything else, she threw on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and her flip-flops. Rookie’s little paws were sensitive to the hot summer sidewalks, so Lacey nestled him in the crook of her right arm. As she neared the bookstore, she wondered if bringing him had been a huge mistake. This Monica was also pretending to have a puggle, so instead of fading into the background, she would notice Lacey right away. Maybe that was the way to go. Maybe she shouldn’t have disguised herself at all. Should she hurry back to the jeep and change into her little black dress? After all, she had already received the shock of a lifetime; why shouldn’t Ms. Monica? Lacey realized the flutter in the pit of her stomach wasn’t just fear, it was excitement. She was actually looking forward to shocking this woman.
She stopped at the entrance of the bookstore to take a deep breath and look at the poster. She managed only one out of the two. The poster was gone. The windows were wiped clean, there were no prints, no dust outlines of the poster, no vestiges of Scotch tape. Lacey looked at her watch. It was 5:50. Lacey wanted to stake out the perfect seat. Not too close, not too far. Who had stolen the poster of her stolen face?
She hurried into the bookstore and made a beeline for the table laden with Sharpie markers and the copies of The Architect of Your Soul propped up like the frame of a house—
Gone, gone, gone. Table gone. Sharpies gone. Folding metal chairs set up facing the table, gone. Books gone. Somebody was playing a trick on her.
Alan. The proposal. Oh my God, she was such a dimwit! The Architect of Your Soul. Snookie instead of Rookie. Access to her picture and Photoshop. Oh, he got her good! He was going to propose, here, tonight. A twin. She had actually started to believe she had a twin. She took her BlackBerry out and texted Alan.
You got me! Ha-ha. Where are you? She wandered the bookstore as she waited for his reply. Was he hiding in Science Fiction? Horror? With the way she felt about marriage, he should be. She hoped the store didn’t throw away the poster or the fake book. She wanted to keep copies. That didn’t mean she was going to say yes. But she had to give him credit for originality. She always figured Alan would be more traditional. Candles, champagne, on his knees.
What???? Where are you?
Science Fiction. Where r u?
Lacey. This is Alan. What is going on?
I’m sorry. I’m early. Surprise is ruined. Come out.
What???????????
This was a little much. He was busted, he should just fess up. She glanced up to find herself in front of the information desk, where a young girl listlessly shuffled books from one side of the desk to the other. She lit up when she saw Rookie. She reached her hands out and made a cooing face.
Lacey. What’s going on????
It wasn’t like Alan to keep up a joke this long. Lacey slipped a notepad out of her purse.
The Architect of Your Soul. 7:00???
She slid the note over to Rookie’s new slobber toy. The girl wiped her hand on her pants and took the note. Passing notes back and forth was a technique Lacey applied everywhere but banks. Tellers tended to overreact when you silently slipped them notes. But this was a bookstore and writing was welcomed. The woman scribbled something and slid the note back. Lacey asked another question. When they were finished, the piece of paper looked like this:
The Architect of Your Soul. 7:00?
Canceled.
Why?
Rude!
Me?
No. Author. Rude!!! What’s your dog’s name?
Rookie.
Cute!!!
Thank you.
Lacey paused and held Rookie out as bait. The girl took Rookie in her arms. Lacey started writing again.
What did she do?
Refused to sign Benjamin’s book and drew a mustache and horns on her own face!!!
Benjamin?
The owner.
That little nerd MANAGER was the owner? The day, Lacey realized, was an exclamation mark day.
We don’t take that!!!
The words I won rose in Lacey’s mind and kept resurfacing even though she tried to shove them down. Still, Lacey wasn’t convinced.
You’re sure this isn’t a joke? A marriage proposal?
The girl handed Rookie back. Clearly confused. She stared at Lacey’s question. Then she stared at Lacey.
I want to see the book.
The girl shrugged and reached over to a pile of books behind her. She handed Lacey the book. Lacey flipped through it. It was a real book, all right. She flipped through the pages.
You can’t build a house alone. Learn to work in large groups—
Lacey shut the book. Monica Bowman was a real person. A real face thief. How did she take the news of the cancellation? Did she demand an explanation? Deny it? Did Benjamin even tell her why he was canceling? Did she pursue a line of questioning, demand to see the security tapes from the store? Would she go to any lengths to find Lacey? Get a glimpse of this woman with her face and a concealed Sharpie?
Lacey had blown her chance at a sneak attack. Even if she confessed right
now that she was the rude one, the evil scribbler, it was probably too late to get Monica to come back. There was a chance that Monica didn’t know why the reading was canceled, and didn’t care because she was happy to have the evening off. If she followed her own self-help crap, she was at this moment—Lacey opened the book again and flipped to a random section—
Constructing a New Framework
Drawings are constantly revised. Plans change.
Change with them or your life projects will
stall! Think of small changes as decoration. A
new coworker is like new window shades, or
new pillows for the couch. Who doesn’t like to
freshen up a tired old space? Major changes
can be difficult to deal with and the reason is
obvious. Major changes require a complete re-
build, a new set of drawings. Major changes are
time consuming and expensive. But don’t fight
it! Use it to improve yourself. As long as you’re
tearing down walls, why not add that bay win-
dow you’ve always wanted, or that walk-in
closet—
Total crap. Lacey slammed the book shut.
Lacey???????????
Sorry, Alan. See you at Mario’s.
What was that about?
Just a joke. See you at 8:00. Maybe 8:30.
I don’t need a present. Just you.
Then: Xoxoxoxoxoxxoxxoxox and on and on until they ran off the screen.
Lacey disconnected from Alan but kept her BlackBerry out. She brought up her “contact” screen and tried to ignore the faint throbbing of guilt as she texted him. She had no choice; she had to turn to another man.
Chapter 5
Lacey’s art studio was located in a warehouse in downtown Philadelphia, relatively free from the hustle and bustle of the nine-to-fivers. She and a hearing artist, Mike, shared the top floor. Three thousand square feet of creative reign. It had thick wood-beam floors, concrete walls, and exposed pipes. Lacey painted the pipes maroon, and the walls a shade of gray that looked almost black at night but turned silver in the sun. Mike, who was a sculptor, had two large pieces displayed in the entrance, ten feet of twisting design. They were mirror images of each other except for the materials: One was made of steel, the other driftwood.
