The Stolen Twin

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  “How about for breaking and entering?” David snapped back. “This is my apartment and you’re trespassing.”

  Tommy smiled at him pleasantly, crossing his arms and leaning against the door. “Gee, I thought a David Terry lived here. Isn’t your name David Naughton? How can it be trespassing when it’s not your apartment?”

  David hesitated, his expression melting into confusion. I stepped into his line of vision. “Why the hell did you lie to me about your last name?”

  David transferred his bewildered expression to me, before comprehending my words. His features smoothed themselves out. “What are you talking about?” A smug smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  He knew. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I could see it in his eyes. He had deliberately set out to deceive me about his last name, for reasons I would probably never understand, and now he would continue to lie to me about it.

  Right then, I fully understood the expression “seeing red.” I actually did see red, almost as though a red veil had draped itself across my vision.

  “You ass.” I struggled to keep my voice under control, to not scream at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You told me your name was Naughton.”

  He shifted his position against the wall, his whole body relaxing. Obviously, we were back to playing his game again. “Now, why would I do that? It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, that’s something you can look up for yourself, so it wouldn’t make any sense to lie about a last name. Now, would it?”

  I stalked toward him, coughing a couple of times. “You put a piece of tape on the directory downstairs with the name Naughton on it.” My voice grew louder on each word.

  He pretended to look surprised. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

  That did it. My control disintegrated. “Because you told me your name was Naughton,” I screamed. “Why? Why would you tell me your name was Naughton when it’s Terry? Why? Tell me.” I started coughing.

  “You should take better care of yourself,” David said in a concerned voice. “Take some deep breaths. Try not to let yourself get so stressed out, especially over such small things. It’s clearly not good for you.”

  “What’s clearly not good for me is you,” I gasped, choking back the coughs.

  David’s eyes turned cold, flat. “I’d be careful what you say.”

  “Hey.” Tommy stepped between us. “Are you threatening her?”

  David focused his eerie, empty eyes on Tommy. “Threat? What threat? I just told her she should be careful. It probably wouldn’t hurt you to follow the same advice.”

  “What the … ” Tommy advanced toward him, but I clutched his arm. David smiled, a smile even colder than his eyes, a smile that sent chills through my body. Suddenly I knew David was quite capable of cold-blooded murder. No question about it.

  I dug the jewelry box out of my purse. Now I knew why I held it back from the cops. “Here.” I threw it at him. “I don’t ever want to see your face again. Ever. Don’t come near me, don’t call me and quit hanging around outside my apartment. Consider this goodbye forever. And no, we can’t be friends.”

  The jewelry box bounced off his chest and hit the floor. He watched it, the sinister smile slipping a notch. I pushed Tommy toward the door.

  “Sixty-five roses,” he called out. I turned to look at him. His smile had transformed into a sneer – an ugly, calculating, horrifying sneer.

  “He knows.” I paused to smile triumphantly at David. “In fact, the whole school knows. Goodbye, David.” I yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind us.

  “Get me out of here,” I hissed to Tommy, afraid if I said much more I would collapse into another coughing fit. My chest burned, every breath wheezing and shuttering out of me. Tommy put his arm around me and helped me to the elevator.

  Despite the agony I was in, I refused to break down, refused to let David see my weakness. He had already seen too much of it. Even if it killed me, I would not give in to my disease.

  Outside, I still didn’t let my guard down. He could see me from the window. I kept a tight rein on my coughs, refusing to let them come out and play, as I staggered to the nearest restaurant, Tom’s Sub Shop. Once inside, I stumbled to the bathroom and proceeded to hack from my lungs all the stress, frustration and rage of the day.

  Finished, my body exhausted and sore, I stayed on the floor, leaning against the stall. Luckily, nobody else had walked in to witness my humiliation. Everything hurt – head, chest, throat. On top of that, the mucus had a worrisome green tinge to it. Wonderful. The beginning of an infection. The perfect end to a perfect day.

  All right, enough of this. Time to pull myself together. Standing up, I splashed water on my face. Did my forehead feel warmer than normal? No, stop right there. I did not have a fever. This was just a reaction to my horrible day.

  Tommy waved as I tottered out of the bathroom. He was sitting at a booth with two cups in front of him. The rest of the restaurant was empty except for one employee, a woman cleaning up the sandwich area. A gold nose ring gleamed against the soft chocolaty brown color of her skin.

  “Hot tea with lemon and honey.” He gestured to the cup as I slid into the cracked red vinyl booth across from him. I smelled cold cuts, tomatoes and onions mixed with that distinctive tea scent. “Always tasted good when I was sick.”

  “Thanks.” I took a sip, the warm liquid soothing, coating my aching throat. “It does help.”

  He flashed me a quick grin before turning his attention to his own tea bag. “Well, I’d say that was on the major intense side.”

  I continued to drink. “Gee, you think?”

  He laughed a little. “Okay, understatement of the century. But, seriously, I’m worried about you. David doesn’t seem … entirely stable.”

  “Another understatement. Are you going for the record?” I tried to keep my voice light despite my seesawing emotions. On one side, warm and soft at the idea of Tommy worrying about me. On the other, cold and edgy because I too was worried about me.

  A tinkling bell rang, announcing the entrance of a young red-haired freckled woman, loaded with books. She studied the menu for a moment before marching up to the counter and ordering.

  Tommy continued to dunk his tea bag, eyes fixed on his mug. “I’m serious.”

  I sighed. “So am I. Why do you think I went to the cops and the university today? Why do you think I’m carrying around pepper spray and this obnoxious noisemaker? I’ll give you hint – it’s not because I’m having fun here.”

  He didn’t look reassured. “But he’s hanging around your apartment, he knows your class schedule. And look at how he acted today. I mean, this is a real problem.”

  “Tommy, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” I sipped more tea as the red-haired woman started arguing with the employee. Something about mayonnaise, but whether she wanted it or not, I wasn’t sure.

  He drummed his fingers on the table, next to the steamy circle his mug had made on the plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “And the way he lied to you first about his last name and then lied to you about lying to you. He could be capable of anything.”

  “And your point is … ”

  His eyes flickered at me. “Okay, you’re right. But, Kit, you gotta understand. This is all new to me. And, I’ve never seen anything like this – this blatant manipulation. It’s kinda scary.”

  “Tell me about it,” I murmured into my tea, trying to block out the throbbing aches coming from my head, chest and throat. They seemed to be conducting an orchestration of pain with different scores. Each ache had its own unique rendition to torment me with.

  “And the worst part is that it doesn’t make sense,” Tommy continued. “Why would he lie about his name? Something so easily caught. It’s weird. And how does this Cat person fit into all this? Even if she knew what David
was capable of, how would she know you and he would meet? And why be so vague about it, why not tell you straight out this guy has some serious issues?”

  I closed my eyes. “I don’t know, Tommy. I really don’t.” What I almost added, but didn’t, was that right now I didn’t care. I was too exhausted, too drained and in too much pain to care about the “whys.” I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

  Maybe some of that came across in my tone, because Tommy finally focused on me. “We should get you home, Kit. You don’t look too good.”

  “I don’t feel too good either,” I said, finishing my tea.

  “We should get dinner too. Are you hungry?”

  I nodded, although I wasn’t. But I should be, I hadn’t had that much to eat. “Don’t you have football practice?”

  “Had it this morning. Coach made a few changes,” he said quickly. A little too quickly, I thought, then chastised myself for being so paranoid. Why would Tommy lie to me about football practice? I was letting David get to me.

  “Do you want a sandwich here or go somewhere else or just go home?” he asked

  “Whatever.” I was too tired to make any decisions.

  Tommy slid out of the booth. “I’ll take you to your apartment.”

  I nodded, allowing him to help me out of the booth and into my coat. He even took my books for me.

  “Been a long time since a guy carried my books for me,” I joked as we headed out the door. The red-haired woman, looking vindicated, finished paying for her sandwich.

  “Been a long time since I offered,” he answered, flashing his grin.

  Chapter 20

  Back at the church. Back at the graveyard.

  The wolves were howling, louder now. The bell rang – low, melodious and discordant against the eerie calls of the wolves.

  “Ah, there it is,” Cat the seven-year-old said. She walked next to me. Our parents, in front of us, headed purposefully toward the graveyard, ignoring us both.

  “There what is? My doll?” I craned my neck forward, trying to see around my parents.

  Cat looked at me, sighed. “Forget the doll, Kit. It’s not about the doll. The doll is here to distract. It will only get you in trouble.”

  “How can it get me in any more trouble than I’m already in? Besides, the doll will protect me. It would never hurt me. Why won’t you give it to me?” My voice rose, sounding more like a child on the verge of a temper tantrum. We turned the corner of the church and the graveyard appeared. My breath hitched in my throat, coughs bubbled in my chest.

  “I can’t give you what I don’t have. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Do you understand? That doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Why don’t you make any sense?” I said, suddenly exasperated, suddenly an adult. “You used to make sense. Why don’t you anymore? What did the fairies do to you?”

  Cat’s face turned stark white. “Oh God, Kit. You don’t want to hear about the fairies. The fairies are evil. Pure evil. That’s why you have to save the innocent. It’s all up to you.”

  “Fairies aren’t evil,” I said, confused. “Fairies are good.”

  Cat glared at me. “If they’re so good, why did they take me away? I was happy, I wanted to stay with you, but the fairies came and took me away. I didn’t want to go. Kit, you gotta believe me, I didn’t want to go!” Her voice changed, becoming plaintive, frantic.

  “I believe you,” I said, alarmed by the change. Cat looked ill, her face so white it was almost featureless, contrasting with the intensity of her glassy blue eyes.

  “Promise me, Kit. You’ll save the innocent.”

  “I promise,” I said, willing to say anything to reassure her. The freshly dug grave slid into my view, surrounded by people, surrounded by the evil Being. I began coughing in earnest.

  “You promised, Kit. Don’t forget.”

  Cat’s voice was fading away. I tried to turn, but my head refused to move. I was staring, transfixed by the grave, the people, the evil. My coughing became choking and I collapsed, gasping like a fish, but not before seeing it. The evil shadow. It looked like it was gathering itself up, molding itself into form. A recognizable form.

  A human form.

  I woke with a gasp and a shudder, so violent I fell out of bed and toppled to the floor, banging my shoulder hard against the nightstand. Wheezing and coughing, I reached for my inhaler, but found myself twisted in blankets instead. The cold fist of panic gripped me, and I thrashed around in the dark, disoriented, unable to breathe. David was in the room watching me, waiting for me to settle down enough so he could pounce on me, hold a pillow over my face or maybe slash me with a knife …

  I wrenched my arm free. Desperate, I flung it up to my nightstand, knocking stuff everywhere. Finally, my fingers closed upon the familiar plastic device and I shoved it into my mouth, sucking the medicine in fiercely.

  Moments later my breathing quieted, and with it, my thoughts. Here I was, lying on the floor, dripping with sweat, knotted in covers and convinced David was hiding in the shadows of my room. Pathetic.

  Sighing, I snapped on a light and finished untangling myself. Three in the morning. Great. Another night of broken sleep. Much more of this and I’d be sick in no time, probably end up in the hospital. Wonderful. Instead of David showing up unexpectedly at my classes, he could show up unexpectedly at my bedside. Maybe I could convince the hospital to lie about me being a patient. Better yet, maybe my parents would spring for a guard. I didn’t think Riverview’s Finest would volunteer for the task. Not after yesterday’s reception.

  Stripping off my soaked tee shirt and sweats, I donned a fresh pair, then went to the bathroom to wash my face. At this rate, I should probably wash an extra load of laundry this week. More fun.

  After cooling myself off, I took Tylenol PM to ease my aching chest and hopefully relax me. Unlike other times, tonight I was determined to get more sleep. I couldn’t keep this up. I absolutely had to sleep – my health depended upon it.

  I stripped the bed, changed the sheets and retrieved all the items that had fallen to the floor in my frantic search for my inhaler. One was the obnoxious noisemaker. Good thing I didn’t set that off. What a great way to top off the evening.

  Everything set, I climbed back into bed. Now to relax. If I was lucky, I could get four good hours of sleep and still make it to my first class.

  The light from a streetlamp slanted across my ceiling, turning my chair into a hunched monster and my desk into a crouching demon. Enough – I had to stop this. I could only think about pleasant things. Not David or Cat or that stupid church dream. Not school or Tommy. Didn’t leave much. Maybe a meditation chant. A meditation chant would be safe ... maybe even put me to sleep.

  I started the familiar routine – deepening my breathing, stilling my mind, focusing on different areas of my body. Tightening, relaxing, tightening, relaxing. Imagining each area getting heavy, relaxing, emptying my mind …

  My mother taught me to meditate. She taught me yoga as well, long before those activities were considered cool. I was eight – weak, in pain, but alive. Barely, unbelievably, amazingly alive.

  My illness had almost killed me. I had both bronchitis and pneumonia – my fever raged as high as 105 degrees. I have almost no memory of that time other than the nightmares. Strange, terrifying fever-induced nightmares gripped me night and day. However, as bad as those nightmares were, in the end I wished they had never let me go.

  I don’t think I ever fully recovered from that period of my life. I’m not talking physically, but emotionally. Imagine – one day I was healthy, living in Milwaukee and playing with my sister. The next I was in Riverview. No longer healthy but contaminated, marked by the cold decaying kiss of death. No longer a twin, but sister-less. No longer with the parents I remembered, but strangers. These new parents were detached, unapproachable and full of sorrow. I had aw
akened from one incomprehensible nightmare to another. Or maybe I never did wake up. Maybe the nightmare had simply changed. Much like my church dream.

  Overall, I think that experience shook me in ways I still can’t comprehend – never mind how my helpless child self felt experiencing it, tossed about by baffling waves of mysterious adult contradictions. Perhaps that’s the reason I never made plans more than a day or two ahead – not because of my disease but because of the lesson I learned. The lesson about the strange unpredictability of life.

  My mom kept me home for two years. At least, I eventually learned to call it home. In the beginning, it was as unrecognizable as everything else in my life.

  My mother taught me how to control my stress and to strengthen my lungs. She took me walking and dancing, anything to get me exercising.

  “Just because God gave you weak lungs doesn’t mean they have to stay weak,” she would say as we marched around the block, as fast as my faltering breathing would allow. “Strong lungs equal strong bodies. My cousin Stella had Cystic Fibrosis, but she never allowed that to stop her. She rode horses and went swimming as often as she could. And she lived to a ripe old age.”

  My mother never actually told me what that ripe old age was, nor did I ever ask. If she wasn’t telling me about Stella, she would recite stories of other CF patients she had read about in one of the zillions of newsletters she received.

  “I just read an update about Jessie. Remember him? He was sick as a child, just like you, but he’s still doing well. He just wrote another article for the CF Foundation about the latest research findings.”

  Her words flowed over me, rich and decadent, suffocating me in their soft folds. It was all I could do to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other, breathing one breath after another.

  She bought me humidifiers to moisten the air I breathed, fed me both food and supplements. She taught me to manage my weight. Although thin, I was never underweight or malnourished, nor did the weight wither off me like some of the kids I knew with CF.