My Sister's Voice

by Mary Carter

  “None of your business,” she enunciated as clearly as she could.

  “Monica,” Mike said. “Please don’t drag me into this.”

  “Can you give us some privacy, Mike?” Monica said. Mike shook his head, but left.

  “You’re my sister,” Monica signed. “We’re twins.” Like that, the cloak of anger Monica wore evaporated. She didn’t know what to say or do anymore. But she knew she couldn’t imagine life without Lacey. This was the person she was supposed to be closest to in the world. How could Lacey not know that? How could she treat her like a total stranger, or even worse, an enemy?

  “Please,” Monica signed. “Please.” Lacey signed something back. It took several tries, but Monica finally got it.

  “What do you want from me?” Lacey had said.

  Monica had too many words. She had the words but not the signs. I want a sister. I want you to love me. I want to know everything I’ve missed in your life. I want to go on vacations with you. I want pictures with you to put on my fridge. I want to be the maid of honor at your wedding. I want to be Aunt Monica to your children. I want to hang one of your paintings in my apartment. I want to talk every day. I want to make up for lost time. I want to go back to when we were kids. I want never to be separated from you. I want you to forgive me. I want you to forgive our mom and dad. I want you to meet them. I want you there to make putting up with them easier. I want you to have to shoot cans in the woods with the Colonel. I want you to receive a million e-mails from our mother and put up with her constant worrying. I want to talk to you about sex, love, religion, and politics. I want a real life with you. I just want a real life.

  But Monica didn’t say any of that. She only knew how to sign: “I want.”

  “Go home,” Lacey said.

  But she didn’t have a home, not anymore. Mike made it clear he didn’t want to get in the middle. Maybe he wanted a break from her and Snookie. What would Lacey do if she were me? Monica thought. She took Snookie to doggy day care and got on an Amtrak train headed for New York City. It was less than two hours away and the ticket was affordable. She walked around Times Square, taking in the crowds and the lights, wondering if she should move here, really could lose herself in the city. She saw a man playing a guitar in his underwear. Good for him, he was living his life. Monica wondered what it would feel like to be him as she watched him, wondered what all those eyes would feel like on her. She thought about her canoe trip with Lacey, how they took off their bras and flung them into the water. But this man was playing the guitar. She didn’t have a guitar.

  Maybe she should join him anyway. Strip down to her panties, stand next to him, and play the harmonica. She didn’t know how to play the harmonica, but she figured she could fake it. Wouldn’t that be something. It would certainly be daring. It would certainly be taking a chance. Is it something her twin would do? Probably not; she couldn’t hear music. Monica kept forgetting her sister was Deaf. Lacey told her to go home. Lacey didn’t want anything to do with her.

  Was she wearing clean underwear? Clean enough to be stared at by strangers? It probably didn’t matter she didn’t even have a harmonica. She thought of Joe reading about her standing naked in the middle of Times Square. She could imagine her mother’s face too. How would they know it was her and not Lacey? She could strip naked, get photographed, and give her name as Lacey Gears. She could commit a crime and tell them she was her sister. She’d read about this, twins once, was it in the nineteen-forties? One of them committed a crime, a murder, Monica thought, but she couldn’t remember exactly. They arrested one twin, who then accused the other. They had the same exact fingerprints, identical DNA, and they couldn’t figure out which one was the guilty party, so they had to let them both go—

  Lacey and Monica aka Bonnie and Clyde! But her sister didn’t even want to be with her, let alone break the law with her, did she? Or would that have been appealing to her daredevil sister? If Monica got arrested, who would be her one phone call? If she called Lacey, would she come?

  Stealing wasn’t for her. Exhibitionism out too. She could go to a club and pick up a strange man. Pretend to be her sister. Pretend to be Deaf so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. She wondered if Mike would miss her. She probably should have left him a note. Monica started walking, wondering what little caper she would pull off as Lacey. Maybe there was an art contest she could enter. Maybe she could apply to grad school.

  Maybe she had a painting talent she wasn’t aware of. She could test it out. Conduct an experiment. Twin discovers identical hidden talent. There had to be an art store nearby. She started investigating the crowd, looking out for anyone whom she considered “artistic” to ask where she could find paint. She was in luck. He was a very nice young man, a boy, but he showed her the way. Minutes later she stood in front of oils, and acrylics, and watercolors. It was too much. She felt dizzy.

  That’s where she saw it. A can of spray paint. It was the right thing to buy, she knew it. Graffiti artist, that was her, could be her, she knew it. And one color would not do; she needed a rainbow at her fingertips. First she picked up a can of black. Then gold and silver. Purple, pink, blue, yellow, red. She felt so happy. She was alive, she was almost swooning. Lacey Gears, graffiti artist—

  Where did she get the last name Gears? Yet another mystery, another question, another family lie. Her arms were stuffed with paint cans. She liked the clinking sound they made as she wrestled them to the counter. She tried to imagine what she would paint. Maybe something simple. Maybe just: Lacey was here.

  Whoever she was, she thought as she watched the clerk punch in number after number, the bill doubling, then tripling, she wasn’t Monica. Monica didn’t spray paint anything. Should she climb up a bridge? Spray paint a trestle. The side of a building? Should she practice first? Yes, otherwise how would she find out if she was any good? Practice made perfect.

  Lacey stopped mid-brush. Monica needs you. It was clear as day, and it was a voice. Lacey could hear a voice. She tried to ignore it and focus on the eyes of the Siamese cat, but she couldn’t get rid of the voice. What was this? Guilt? What had she done that was so bad? Go home, she’d said. Go home.

  There were worse things she could have said. She was probably doing Monica a favor. Encouraging her to get back to her life, her fiancé, her book tour. But Monica hadn’t gone home; Lacey could feel that too. What the hell was this? Some kind of psychic link with her twin? She didn’t want that. She didn’t believe in that.

  Go home. Lacey saw it in color. Big, splashy, billboard color. Go home. She took out her BlackBerry. She texted Monica.

  Are you okay?

  That should do. Monica dropped her cans of paint at her feet. She didn’t care what the building was. It was enough that it had a smooth, gray surface area in which to spray. Now that she was here, however, she saw the flaw in her plan. She was too close to the building. She would need to be about twenty feet in the air and farther away. How was she going to work under these conditions? If she tried to back up, she’d be standing in the middle of the street. There were too many people about. They were stopping and staring at the pile of cans at her feet, whispering. They were wondering who she was, what she was going to paint. Nobody suspected the pretty woman of potential vandalism. She was obviously an artist for hire. Besides, who in their right mind would spray paint a building in broad daylight unless they had permission to do so?

  But just like her experience with the Naked Cowboy, she was choking. When it came right down to it, she couldn’t do it. She picked up her paint cans one by one, stopping, dropping, squatting, scooping the cans back up until she had them all safely in her arms. This wasn’t the right building; she would walk on, find something a little more private, out of the way. Perhaps she needed to wait until dark. She could hear her phone ringing, but her hands were too full to fish in her purse. She started walking.

  The Hotel Chelsea. 222 West Twenty-third Street. It was a sign. Monica had seen a fascinating documentary on the Hotel Chel
sea, and it was on her list of places to visit. Elegant old bricks standing since the late 1800s. A colorful history to boot. Bob Dylan composed songs here and Allen Ginsberg waxed philosophical with other poets within her walls. Dylan Thomas is said to have died of alcohol poisoning here, and Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols stabbed and killed Nancy Spungen in room 100. Monica’s little plan paled in comparison. It was the perfect place for a budding artist to make a statement. She walked into the hotel with the cans still in her arms.

  A spiral staircase rose from floor to ceiling, drawing Monica’s eye to the artwork depicting the hotel, staged up and down the wall behind the turning steps. Perfect, Monica thought, I’m spiraling out of control. She approached the front desk.

  She pointed to her ears and shook her head. She gestured, wanting a pen. The man behind the counter eyed her paint cans, but gave her a notepad and pens.

  My carrying case broke, Monica wrote. I paint theatrical backgrounds. I need a nap before I go back to the theatre. Single room, please. With lots of wall space, she thought. His face remained still, only his protruding eyes flicking from her to the computer screen in front of him. He slid her a form and she filled out Lacey’s name and e-mail. He showed her the total on the computer screen. She paid in cash. He handed her the key and pointed up the spiral stairs. The entire transaction was completed without uttering a word.

  The room was simple but beautiful: a white four-poster bed, a fireplace with an ornate mantel, salmon-colored walls. Modern touches as well: a round glass coffee table, a plasma TV mounted to the wall. She couldn’t do it to this beautiful room, could she?

  Go home, go home, go home....

  First she sprayed it on the far wall in black. Then she sprayed it above the bed in red. She sprayed it underneath the window in silver. The fumes were suffocating, but she’d been unable to open the windows. Did they keep them locked so people couldn’t leap to their death? She stepped into the bathtub (what a nice pedestal tub; she should come back sometime and enjoy it) and tried to pry open the little window behind the shower. She was in luck; after considerable effort it opened a crack. She leaned forward and tried to suck in the outdoor air. It was only slightly better than the paint fumes. She looked around the bathroom. It too could use some spray paint.

  She brought in the can of blue. Repetition was the mother of invention? Or master of invention? What did it even mean? Repetition leads to new inventions? So far she wasn’t learning anything new, wasn’t convincing herself of anything, she just couldn’t stop writing it. Maybe soon she’d feel it, get under her sister’s skin, really know how she felt when she said it. She’d never know if she had any artistic talent or not. This was hardly painting. It was just writing with paint. She surveyed the walls. Everywhere was written on.

  She was so dizzy. She could barely read the label on her bottle of pills. Monica Bowman. She would just take three. Three would let her sleep. The ceiling was spinning. Her eyelids were heavy. Suddenly, the shadows above her looked like trees. They were the woods behind her house. She could hear two little girls singing. She smiled as she watched them hold hands, identical raven-haired girls singing. Sweet, Monica thought. They’re so sweet. One of the girls was gripping the other’s hand very tight. The farther they got into the woods, the little girl singing the loudest pulled her hand away.

  “No!” Monica heard herself say out loud. Or did she? Maybe she shouldn’t have taken three pills. Or was it six? Three for herself, three for Lacey? The little girl who pulled her hand away was skipping ahead. She had something else to occupy her, a plastic toy horse. The other little girl started to cry. She ran after the girl with the blue plastic horse, hands outstretched.

  “Mine,” Monica heard one of the girls say. “Mine.” They were playing tug-of-war. It wasn’t so sweet now. Back and forth they tugged, tears and screams from both girls now. Where was their mother?

  “No,” Monica cried. She felt her big hand join the hand of the little girl who had managed to yank the horse away from the other. The other was reaching for it, she was going to take it back. Monica felt her hand raise in sync with the little girl’s, the front leg of the blue plastic horse tilted back as if rearing up. Then it went black.

  What happened? What’s with the screaming? There she is, the mother. Oh, that look on her face. Her mouth open in horror, her hands clasped over her own ears, two little girls on the ground, one with a blue plastic horse sticking out of her ear. The mother grabbed the little girl on the ground. Blood pooled around the toy horse and spilled down the little girl’s cheek.

  Monica woke in a sweat. It was just a dream, it was just a dream. Wasn’t it? Oh God. She felt like she was going to be sick. It couldn’t have been real. In the dream, Lacey was singing and babbling and—

  Lacey was singing and babbling. Lacey could hear. Until Monica stabbed her in the ear with the horse.

  Monica tried to scream again, for real this time. She couldn’t find her voice. I’m the reason Lacey is deaf. I’m the reason they separated us. It was just a dream. Just a bad dream. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t, it couldn’t, it couldn’t.

  Monica sat straight up and reached for the bottle of pills.

  Chapter 32

  Lacey checked her BlackBerry again. An hour had gone by and Monica still hadn’t answered the text. Lacey’s feeling that something was wrong was stronger than ever. She opened her e-mail to send Alan a quick message, when another message caught her eye. It was from the Hotel Chelsea in New York City.

  Welcome to the Hotel Chelsea. We hope you are enjoying your stay. Do you have a few minutes to complete our quick customer satisfaction survey? ...

  Lacey had never stayed at the Hotel Chelsea in New York City. She hovered the mouse over the message to delete it. Something made her stop. That feeling again, that something was wrong with Monica, came back full force.

  Lacey got up from her easels and walked into the living area to find Mike. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at his phone.

  “Would Monica ever hurt herself?” he asked when he saw Lacey.

  “What’s going on?” Lacey asked. He showed her his phone.

  First text: It’s all my fault. Tell her it’s my fault.

  Second text: I’m so sorry.

  Third text: I’m so sleepy.

  Lacey motioned for Mike to follow and they ran over to her computer. She showed him the e-mail from the Hotel Chelsea. He held his hand out in confusion.

  “Not me,” Lacey said.

  “You tried texting her?” Mike asked. Lacey held up her BlackBerry.

  “She won’t answer.”

  “Something’s definitely wrong, then,” Mike said. “She worships you. She would answer.” Mike took out his phone. Lacey watched him dial 4-1-1 and ask for the number to the Hotel Chelsea. Lacey waited as he made the call. Lacey shook her head when Mike asked for Monica Bowman.

  “Lacey Gears,” Mike corrected himself. “She’s Deaf?” he said. “Actually, she’s not. Please, just ring her room. Just do it!” Mike counted as the phone rang. When he reached six, Lacey tapped him.

  “Tell front desk 9-1-1,” Lacey said. “Hurry.”

  The phone was ringing. She counted them, there were six. Someone should really answer that. She was so heavy, but not quite asleep. Funny, because she’d taken enough to put her to sleep, hadn’t she? Her head was pounding, or was it the door? She couldn’t move.

  “Open up,” a man’s voice yelled. “I was told I needed to call 9-1-1. Either answer the door or I’m coming in.” The nice man sounds nice, man, Monica thought. I wonder who he’s mad at. He shouldn’t get mad at the little things. Getting mad at the little things wasn’t good for your health. Getting mad at the little things wasn’t recommended in The Architect of Your Soul. Still, Monica understood how the poor man felt. She was upset about something earlier too. Only now she couldn’t remember why. What was it about?

  “Jesus Christ,” she heard the man say. He sounded closer now. “She spray painte
d the freakin’ walls,” the man said. “She’s swallowed a whole bottle of pills! Jesus. Call it in.” Who spray painted the walls? Who swallowed a bottle of pills? Why were they in her room? They should be taking care of the poor person. Monica didn’t hear anymore. Everything went black.

  “She spray painted the walls,” Mike said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They said she wrote Go Home all over the place.” Lacey slapped her hand over her mouth. “Let’s go,” Mike said. “She’s at Beth Israel hospital. They say she’ll be okay, but I want to be there—I don’t know about you—”

  “I’m coming,” Lacey said.

  “What about her parents? Her—boyfriend?” Mike seemed to have a hard time getting the words out of his mouth.

  “She broke up with Joe,” Lacey said.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “We’ll wait and call whoever Monica wants us to.” Lacey sent Alan a text on her way to Mike’s car. She prayed he wasn’t going to be mad she was going with Mike. But he offered to drive, and even though she could probably make it there faster on her motorcycle, she was too upset to be speeding. After all, this was all her fault. None of this would have ever happened if it hadn’t been for her. And there was now no denying what deep down she’d known all along. There must be a bond between twins. Because Lacey’s heart was breaking as if it weren’t her own.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse behind the counter said. “She’s resting. Unless you’re family—” Lacey stuck her face in front of the woman and pointed to herself.

  “Oh my,” the nurse said. “You’re twins.”

  Lacey’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Yes,” Lacey said. “Twins.” The nurse said Lacey could see her. Lacey took out her pad and pen. Gift shop? The nurse drew a little map on the piece of paper and pointed down the corridor.

  Lacey stood irresolute in the middle of the gift shop. She didn’t know what to buy. Flowers? A teddy bear? With each item she picked up, she was at a bigger loss. None of them said “I’m sorry.” None of them said “This wasn’t your fault.” The responsibility for what happened to them as children lay squarely on their parents’ shoulders. Lacey could buy every present in the store and it wouldn’t give them what they really deserved: twenty-five years of their lives back. She settled on a bouquet of flowers and a mug. It said: YOU CAN KID THE WORLD. BUT NOT YOUR SISTER.