The Stolen Twin

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  I ordered a huge breakfast – cheese and mushroom omelet, bacon, hash browns and English muffin – and managed to polish most of it off between jumping at every noise and eyeing every person around me. Pretty pathetic.

  Maybe I would go watch Tommy practice for a bit. It would be a good distraction for my mind, plus the fresh air would be good for my health. Seemed like a good idea all around.

  I had always loved watching Tommy play. A natural athlete, he exhibited grace and dexterity on the field. Combined with his obvious pure enjoyment of the game and a body that all that padding couldn’t hide, he was quite a sight on the field (even for those who didn’t like football).

  I found a seat near the field and settled in to watch, hugging myself to keep out the cold, trying not to peer at every person who strolled by. It was clear and crisp – a perfect autumn day. The sun sparkled on the trees, a few still clinging to some vestiges of color – dark rust, rich orange and bright gold. In the distance, the taller campus buildings stood out in bold relief against the dark blue sky. The air smelled clean and sharp, a combination of apples, wood smoke and dried leaves. No question about it – autumn was by far Wisconsin’s most spectacular season. Its beauty could almost make me forget how much I actually hated the season. How much it reminded me of death.

  With a shiver, I recalled Halloween, getting out of the cab and catching a whiff of the night. The scent of autumn, heavy and thick. Then, too, the thought of death had crossed my mind. And still I walked merrily into that party.

  Maybe the reason autumn made me think of death wasn’t some general, philosophical mindset – the change of seasons and all that. Maybe it was personal. My own death. I would die in autumn. And somehow I had sensed it all these years.

  My chest spasmed and a huge, mucusy coughing fit erupted. As if my body was verifying what my mind had always known.

  No. I had to stop this right now. My priority should be finding a way out of the mess I was in, not morbid thoughts of death. Unfortunately, with a mad stalker after me and my body deteriorating by the day, the idea of my death no longer seemed farfetched. In fact, death might be right down the street, perhaps in a bar having a couple of beers to warm up from the cold before coming to find me. Death had been distracted once. It wouldn’t twice.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. The thought came from nowhere, startling me. Why would I think that? What a horrible thought.

  But there was truth in it. I felt it.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. I turned that statement over in my mind. Examined it from different angles. Maybe it didn’t matter. Finally allowed myself to finish it.

  Maybe it didn’t matter because I wasn’t bothering to live anyway.

  I sucked in my breath. I wasn’t bothering to live anyway.

  The pieces suddenly clicked and there was my life – spread out in front of me like a dissected frog. By not discussing my disease, I had never analyzed my feelings about it. Worse yet, I had been deceiving myself about it. Back when I did attend support groups, an issue that had come up was how most CF children rebelled against their disease at some point in their lives. What usually happened was they quit taking care of themselves – ignored their treatments, refused to exercise, that sort of thing. That had never happened to me. Other than overdoing it on the partying, I had always taken meticulous care of my health. My mother had drilled that into me. Besides, I had always refused to be like other CF patients.

  But I was just like them. I, too, had rebelled. Just in a different fashion. Rather than refuse to take my pancreatic enzymes or do my daily lung-clearing exercises, I had refused to live. Instead of embracing life, embracing love, I had drifted.

  Some people are accused of possessing death wishes. What I was doing was far worse. I had spent my life drifting. Drifting, until the one day I would drift into death.

  At that moment, Coach Barrymore blew the whistle, ending practice. Not a second too soon, I thought, getting to my feet. Definitely needed something else to think about.

  I trotted down the stairs leading to the locker room, still shaken by my discovery. The guys were already filing in – a few nodded to me, most ignored me. Still on that black list apparently.

  At last, I spotted Tommy. He had taken his helmet off and his hair clung to his face, dripping with sweat despite the cold. My heart made an odd lurch as I stared at him, watching him rub his neck as he spoke to the guy next to him. God, was he gorgeous. God, did I miss him.

  “Tommy.”

  He glanced up, saw me. His expression hardened.

  “Tommy, can I talk to you?” I pleaded, trying not to sound too desperate. A couple of his teammates glanced over, saw me, and hurried into the locker room.

  Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head, then made his way over to me. “What?”

  I stamped my feet, trying to warm them. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “You’re talking. What do you want?”

  I sighed. Guess he had decided not to make this easy.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. It’s just … look, you more than anyone know what’s been happening to me. My life is coming apart at the seams. And it keeps getting worse. I really need a friend right now. I’d like it to be you. But, as for the other stuff, I can’t focus on that now. I have no energy for anything else except dealing with all this crap. I can’t even deal with school. I’ve gotten extensions on all but one of my classes. So, can we call a truce? Once I get some control back, then we can talk, but can you just be my friend for now?” I ended my speech with a few rumbling coughs. Not planned, but they did a nice job of underscoring my illness.

  His face tightened, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, things getting worse?”

  I stamped my feet a second time. “I’d tell you, but I’m freezing and you need to take a shower.”

  He drummed his fingers against his football helmet, studied my red cheeks and running nose. “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you at The Wagon in about a half hour.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I had just left there. That’s all right, I could have a cup of tea and warm up while I waited. I could even check my purse for the thousandth time to make sure all my weapons were accounted for and my cell phone was set to auto-dial 9-1-1.

  ***

  “This is getting really weird.” Tommy flipped through the photos and latest Cat message. We were walking to my apartment. Tommy thought I belonged in bed, and he didn’t even leer when he said it. I must look like death if I couldn’t sexually interest a twenty-one-year-old male. Not a comforting thought. Not to mention a huge blow to my ego.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He used one photo to tap on the other one. “I guess she must be the innocent we keep hearing about.”

  “You think, Sherlock?”

  He smiled. “Am I being too obvious, Watson? Well, how about this? Did you notice she’s in Minnesota?”

  I looked over his shoulder. “No. Where’d you get that?”

  He showed me the photo of the child and adult. “See. Right here. The Minneapolis School for Special Children.”

  I leaned closer. There it was, right at the top, nearly cut off. “You’re right. I guess I was too busy looking at the girl.”

  “It’s a tough burden to carry, being a genius, but I do it because it needs to be done.” He attempted to look both noble and martyred at the same time.

  I snorted. “Genius. Right. If you’re a genius, you’d know what it means.”

  “All in good time, my child.” He tried to sound ancient and wise, but then he saw my expression and burst out laughing, ruining the effect. “No clue whatsoever. I don’t know why a child in Minneapolis would have anything to do with you being stalked in Riverview.”

  “Not to mention what any of this has to do with Cat being kidnapped,” I mused. “Nothing makes any s
ense. I keep getting pieces, but it’s like I’m getting pieces from different areas of a jigsaw puzzle, so nothing fits together.”

  “Or you’re getting pieces from different puzzles,” Tommy remarked, taking back the photo.

  I glared at him. “Oh, that’s a comforting thought.”

  He shrugged. “You said it. None of this makes any sense. And why would it all fit together anyway? Seems like completely different problems.”

  I sighed. “You’re probably right.”

  We walked along in silence. An Asian man with thick glasses wobbled by on a bicycle, riding on the wrong side of the street, his worn brown coat billowing out behind him. On the corner, a younger man with a long curly beard and John Lennon glasses argued passionately with a tiny, bird-like girl with long stringy dirty blonde hair and an oversized black overcoat. She appeared to be crying.

  “I haven’t been exactly fair either,” Tommy said suddenly.

  I jerked my head around, wondering if I had missed some part of the conversation. “Excuse me?”

  “To you. I haven’t been fair to you.” He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed in front of him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He paused, cut his eyes at me. “You. What you always say, that I don’t share things. You’re right, I don’t. And that’s not fair to you.”

  Where did this come from? “So you’re planning to share now?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, not exactly.”

  I dropped my arms to my sides before my hands could reach out and throttle him. “Tommy, just spit it out. What are you trying to tell me?”

  He sighed. “I thought this would be easier.”

  “What? What would be easier? You’re making about as much sense as Cat right now.”

  “Hey, at least I’m not doing this in an email.” He half-smiled at me.

  “At least an email I can delete,” I retorted. “If you want to say something, say it or drop it. I’m not in an analyze-y mood.”

  “Okay, okay.” He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. I was surprised he didn’t tear the fabric. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About things … us … things. I know I haven’t told you about myself the way you have. And that isn’t fair to you. But … ” His voice dropped off and he stared at the sidewalk.

  “But,” I prompted, sidestepping a tall, skinny guy swinging a backpack like a lethal weapon.

  “But there are things about me. Things I’m not proud of.”

  I turned away so he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. What did the golden boy have to be ashamed of? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be this big of a deal. “So what do you want me to do about it if you aren’t going to tell me?”

  “That’s not it. I’m doing this all wrong. It’s just that … I tried telling someone once, and it didn’t work out. At all.”

  We passed a bus stop. A stern-looking woman stood waiting, gripping the hand of a little blond-haired girl, reminding me of the photo from Cat. “And that has what to do with me?”

  “Kit, this isn’t easy for me.”

  “I should say not.” My voice had developed an edge, echoing the glow of anger beginning to burn inside me. “You’re making that painfully clear. Nor is it easy for me. Because what you seem to be saying is because you had a bad experience confessing your sins to someone once before, you’re not willing to trust me. Despite the fact you know all of my deep dark secrets.”

  His expression tightened. “Don’t make this so difficult.”

  “Me making this difficult?” I stretched my arms out. “How is this suddenly my fault? I didn’t bring this up, you did.”

  “I know. I wanted you to understand.”

  “Understand?” I stared at the sky in exasperation. “Understand what? You didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Yes, I did.” He took his hands out of his pocket and balled them into fits. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself. It’s just that I can’t right now. It needs to be the right time.”

  First he insults me, then he tries to make it up by turning it into some sort of romantic gesture even though he hasn’t shared anything. Couldn’t anything in my life be simple and straightforward? My anger burned a little hotter. “Whatever, Tommy.”

  He sighed. “I’m not very good at this.”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  He faintly smiled. “Look, I’m trying here. Can’t you give me some points for that?”

  “No, but I’ll give you a bit of free advice.” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and waited for him to turn and face me. “Next time you feel like sharing nothing, share nothing.” I waved at him. “Thanks for walking me home. I’ll catch you later.”

  His expression transformed into a mix of puzzlement and irritation. “But you’re not home yet.”

  “I’m a couple of blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

  Now he looked impatient. “Kit, I was trying to tell you something.”

  I clasped my hand to my heart. “You were? I had no idea.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Tommy, you told me nothing and you damn well know it.” I said, my anger getting the better of me. “I’m sick and tired of games and riddles and trying to decipher the real meaning of what people are doing or saying. You of all people should know that, yet you pull the same crap on me.”

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to do that.”

  “Then what were you trying to do? Tell me I wasn’t good enough to share things with? That you had a bad experience once and you think I might do the same thing to you?”

  “Fine.” He backed away, his hands in the air. “I give up. Good-bye, Kit.”

  I didn’t say anything, just watched him stalk off in the opposite direction. I told myself I was in the right, he was the one being a wishy-washy jerk. I still felt my anger burning inside me, hot and righteous. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking how final that good-bye had sounded. In fact, I thought about it the rest of the way to my apartment.

  Chapter 27

  I pushed my empty mug across the bar. “Another,” I said to the bartender, a scrawny African-American guy wearing a stained white shirt. He nodded, substituting my mug for a clean one and filling it with Miller Light. Behind me a couple of pale, exhausted guys wearing faded old tee shirts played a game of pool. The snapping and rolling noise of the balls was in direct contrast to the creepy mellow strains of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” playing on the loudspeaker.

  I had no business being in the Bear Claw. None. I should be home resting. Not sitting on a cracked bar stool suspiciously eyeing everyone who walked through the door and jumping every time the pool balls smacked together. But between my argument with Tommy, the skepticism of Detective Jenkins as to my status as a victim, and not being invited to yet another party, I knew I couldn’t stand being alone in the apartment.

  “It’s just a birthday party,” Brandi had told me, poised at the top of the stairs. “Guy Halloram. He’s turning twenty-one. Just a few beers at the house then off to the bars. No big thing.”

  Right. No big thing. Unless you weren’t invited, of course. I swallowed more tea, trying to hide my expression.

  Brandi put her hand on her hip. “You look like crap. Think of this as a gift, not a punishment. If you were invited, you’d go, and you belong in bed.” She left the rest unspoken, but I heard it anyway.

  Where you’re safe.

  I know you like to play with knives.

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  Brandi shrugged. “Only trying to help. I’m not kidding. You do look like hell. You don’t want Tommy to see you like this.”

  “Newsflash – Tommy has seen me like this. Today even.” Yeah, and he couldn’t wait to get me into bed … to sleep. Brandi was right a
gain. I drank more tea. Maybe I could drown my sorrows in tea – people always tried alcohol and it didn’t work. Maybe the trick was in some nonalcoholic beverage.

  “Oh, so you two lovebirds are finally back together?” She glanced in the hallway mirror and fluffed her hair.

  I swirled my tea around. “Not exactly.”

  She stopped in mid-fluff, eyeing me. “Not exactly?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Whatever.” Brandi picked up her purse and headed down the stairs. “Get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I called out, fully intending to crawl into bed as soon as I finished my tea.

  That intention didn’t even make it to an empty tea cup. I found myself dressed and out the door fifteen minutes later.

  Except I hadn’t much improved my circumstances, sitting there alone in the Bear Claw. All it did was increase my sense of loneliness and isolation. After a few more beers, I would probably feel really sorry for myself.

  The door opened and Elena walked in, shaking out her copper-colored curls. She spotted me and headed over. “Thought I’d find you here.” She slid onto the bar stool next to mine.

  I barely glanced at her. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

  “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  I studied my half-empty, glass mug. “Because I’m wallowing in self-pity. People take your wallowing much more seriously if you’re nursing an alcoholic beverage than if you’re lying in bed.”

  “Glad to see none of this has affected your sense of humor,” Elena said dryly. “I have news for you.”

  “Oh?” I drank more beer. “Good or bad?”

  “Unexpected, I’d say.”

  I turned to look at her. “You’re pregnant?”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Hardly. You need to have sex to get pregnant.”

  A pang of guilt hit me. I had been so wrapped up in my own problems, I had forgotten about hers. Nice friend I was. “Oh, things are that good between you and Brad? Did you finally confront him?”

  Elena became very busy pulling her gloves off and loosening her scarf. “No. With everything you’re going through and finals and papers coming up and playoffs on the line, the timing hasn’t seemed right. But that doesn’t mean things are all Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver either.”