Twin Savage

by Sunniva Dee

  “Seems you’re doing the same thing,” I blurted.

  Julian’s attention strayed from his computer to study me.

  “What, med school?” Luka asked.

  “No, sleeping with everyone and their grandma.”

  “That bugs you, doesn’t it? Does my brother not give it to you right?”

  “What the fuck?” It was rare to see Julian work himself up, but he straightened on the chair and pierced Luka with a glare. “Don’t fucking disrespect my girlfriend.”

  Luka shrugged. “I’m not going to be obvious here and say that she started it and I was just happy to play along.”

  But who was he disrespecting? Wasn’t it Julian?

  “See, some people need money to live. Some people can’t do without a job on the side.” Luka’s voice lowered into a sexy murmur, and I didn’t like how it made me feel. His similarity to Julian was the only reason though. That’s why excitement curled in my stomach.

  Dad and I roll onto the gravel of where I grew up, a two-story house made entirely out of wood. White, romantic, and so completely home, its old-fashioned glass veranda gives to a lawn-clad riverbank.

  In my first year in high school, the veranda became the Reading Room, its name alluding to the books not being plentiful enough to call it a library. Deep chairs with adjustable reading lamps and a tucked-in study desk make it the perfect sanctuary for dreamers like their oldest daughter.

  Our neighborhood is located within a verdant forest. Heavy with the promise of rain, a breeze flushes the scent of incense cedar and pine at me. I inhale deeply and take my first step toward the Reading Room in six months.

  “It’s locked,” Dad says. He and I have some sort of unspoken telepathy between us. Now, I crave the peace of the Reading Room, and he knows. “Take the front door, and I’ll bring your luggage in. Mom’s got a surprise for you. It’s on your bed.”

  I walk through our cream hallway, small palm trees guiding the way in. The smell is the same, familiar, home. As soon as I hit the living room, French doors give to the Reading Room, and I enter, inhaling Mom’s diffuser, her signature lemongrass scent.

  God, this room.

  “Mom coming soon?” I call out.

  “She’s at an open house, so it depends on the interest.”

  I head on to my teenage room. It’s untouched, which is what happens when you move away from my kind of parents. I guess Mom approves of how I kept it. Whenever I visit, it feels like returning to a simpler time in life.

  There’s a lot of pink in here, a lighter shade than in my room at the Queen. The walls are covered with horse paraphernalia, and I still have the big bed I got years before my friends changed out their own twin beds. I was a little spoiled, I guess, much like Aci is now.

  I start to unwrap Mom’s gift.

  I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be pampered. You just have to figure out how to survive when the world beats you up at a later stage in life. It’s what I’m trying to do now. For a moment, I see the irony in me coming back home. Maybe I did flee after all.

  My mother has bought me the Encyclopedia of the Amazon. It’s overwhelming, because at the hundreds of dollars price tag, I’ve only ever borrowed it from the library. The three-volume collection is the most comprehensive work on the lives of Amazon tribes ever presented. It’s up to date too, with findings we discussed as late as last semester.

  I open to the first page: “Social anthropology, the branch of anthropology concerned with the study of human societies and cultures and their development.”

  How old was I when I first became fascinated with the Lara’ people of the western Amazons? Mark Z. Moore was my first anthropologist crush. I don’t remember the name of his partner, but the two of them lived in a small village among the Lara’ people for extended periods of time. After their second stay, they returned with a film crew to document their approach to grief.

  I flip the pages and find the chapter recounting the last Lara’ stay. It’s complete with pictures and quotes by Mark Z. Moore. God, the story still enthralls me, even though my studies and the mere fact of growing up have changed my response to it.

  When I watched my first documentary back in my teens, I had opinions. I was sad and shocked over the Lara’s behavior, but today, as an anthropologist, I don’t let my background influence my reactions to my material. It’s a fine balance we teeter at the edge of, to remain objective and observe in fine detail while never jeopardizing our compassion and respect.

  I should have boarded a different flight today. I should have been on my way to my first big field study with Julian as my husband and colleague. I pull in a breath and remind myself of the truth, that even if the logistics had worked out, I couldn’t have completed the job with my current mindset.

  My heart hammers when I get to the photo of the old woman they buried at the center of the Lara’ people’s “town square.” They showed their respect for her by digging a hole, stuffing her in there, and filling it with dirt. Then they danced on top of her until all there was, was trampled dirt.

  I flip forward to the tribe that practiced compassionate cannibalism. Until the sixties, it was their preferred burial rite. They left the body to decompose until the funeral guests arrived from distant parts of the jungle. When all were present, the deceased was cooked and eaten in small morsels so that they would live on in their relatives’ bodies. It was considered disrespectful to let the leftover human remains rot and disintegrate, so they burned the rest.

  “Geneva!” My sister explodes into the room and drops her backpack on the floor. Then, she throws herself at me on the bed. “I’m so glad you’re home. Are you okay?”

  I hug her tight, my little sister with those big violet eyes brimming with concern. Oh how I’ve missed her.

  I go to bed early. Taking the encyclopedia with me, I plan to read until I fall asleep. It works too. A few sections in, the book slips out of my hand, hitting the mattress next to me. Then, I dream.

  I’m in the jungle, unknown critters humming in the air, the flaps of insect wings stroking against my temple. I swat them off. Even in sleep, I recognize the scene in front of me from the Lara’ documentary. It’s almost clairvoyant in its accuracy, moving forward in chronological order and without the bizarre sidesteps typical in dreams.

  The indigenous woman lost her husband a few days ago, and this is the ritual of the tribe. Now that the funeral is over, the widow sleeps alone in her hammock. She’s an outcast with her grief, and yet she’s not alone.

  Each night, a man comes to be with her. It’s dark. I can’t tell if she’s being raped or if it’s consensual. Some nights, more than one man comes. They take shifts being with her in her hammock.

  My dream lasts and lasts. I observe their behavior for months. I eat with the tribe, while the widow has to eat alone. I know that if this wasn’t a dream, if I wasn’t in the perfect state of objective analysis, my heart would have broken for this woman who lost everything and is forced to welcome every man who wants to visit her at night.

  Even in the dream, I see how strange it is that I don’t wake up until I’m on a flight taking the last conclusive notes from my field study. It’s seven months later, and the woman is now pregnant and marrying one of the men who visited her hammock. The Lara’ society has included her again. The period of grief has come to an end, and no men other than her new husband lies with her at night. I wake up just as I key out, She displays no sign of emotional scarring from having been coerced, at best, into sexual activities for months during a highly sensitive time.

  I breathe quickly. I know I’m onto something, and for the first time since Julian’s death, my subconscious has pulled me deep into an anthropological mystery. Why wasn’t she disturbed? Why didn’t she want to kill herself? I could guess that she was strong, but my gut says that there’s more to it than that.

  The existent studies about th
e Lara’ people’s treatment of grief are good, but I’ve been wondering about the conclusions drawn when it comes to their new widows. These women were social pariahs, outcasts, taken advantage of and sexually abused while the entire village looked away. There was no empathy anywhere. How could they survive?

  The woman from the documentary was alone in her grief. Humans are social beings who need support, which makes it incredible that, only months later, she seemed content with her life. I’m trying to imagine myself in her place. I’m three weeks into my grief, and I can hardly live within my own skin. If I were Yarunami, I’d have wished for a bullet in my head on day two of those nightly visits to my hammock. How did she do it under such harsh conditions?

  Yarunami.

  I turn the face-planted book and flick forward a few pages.

  Yes. Yarunami was her name.

  Mom always switches out of her realtor persona as soon as she comes home. Southern-generous, her forms are as soft and inviting as her personality, and I’ve had people tell me I’m probably of the edgier kind to make up for my nice mother.

  “Sweetie, will you scramble the eggs? No one does them like you. They’re so, so good. We’ve missed them almost as much as we’ve missed you.”

  It’s Sunday morning, and Mom has slipped into her floral, whole-body apron, which means she plans to cook more than just breakfast today. She angles her head sideways, urging me with that small dimple appearing.

  “No problem. Do we have more eggs than these?”

  “Sure we do in the garage fridge. There should be a new carton out there. Just bring the whole thing inside, will you?”

  We talk about the encyclopedia while we cook. We don’t talk about Kenya. We don’t even mention Julian this morning, and it feels good. The family breakfast of four, my sister tugging playfully on my too-long hair, feels good too.

  “You know, you should dye your hair,” Aci garbles to me.

  Mom sends her an admonishing look. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  “I’m not.” Her voice is thick while she talks and swallows at once, and Mom shakes her head.

  “Aci’s right,” I say. “The food’s in her throat, not in her mouth. What color should I dye it?”

  “Seriously? I’ve, like, told you one hundred times that you need to do something about that boring dark color, and you’re finally thinking about it?”

  “Kids, no one needs to change hair color.” Dad’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows sink in disapproval, and Mom reaches out to pat his thigh.

  “It’s a phase, Paul. The color will grow out.”

  I sigh. “It’s not like I’ve made up my mind. I was just curious.”

  “Well, we know you, don’t we? When you consider something, you do it.”

  I’m at the hairdresser’s with Aci one chair over when Connor calls. I pick up right away. A hint of pleasure curls at the bottom of my stomach at the memory of his body around me.

  “Hey, Connor.”

  “Hey. How’s Portland?”

  “It’s good,” I say. “I was right. I do feel better here.”

  “Does that mean you’re not coming back?” Humor tinges his pitch, but there’s an undertone of concern too. “Asking for a friend who misses you.”

  “Aww, you are?” That surprises me. They’re seven people in the house, plus all of their visiting friends... not to mention Luka’s porn sluts.

  “I think you could use us for one of your studies. People are getting grumpy.”

  “Seriously? I’ve only been gone for a couple of days.” I feel my nostrils flare with delight. “You guys need a girl in the Queen. Should I send Joy over?”

  He groans. “Shit, please don’t. As much as we like to look at her, we don’t need another opinionated psych person in here. Diego is on it already, pointing out the obvious.”

  “In his subtle way,” I add.

  “Right, as in, ‘You’re not actually upset about Lenny having put the empty creamer back in the fridge, Marlon. This is because Geneva is gone.’”

  “Shut up.” I’m smiling. “They’re grumpy about creamers?”

  “You name it and they’re grumpy about it. Last night, we tried to do a collective dinner again, and Luka all but instigated a fist fight with Nathaniel over a beer argument. I had to break them apart.”

  “No way.” My smile is falling. “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I express my agony in poetry,” he mocks, which has me smiling again. “Then I go to my room and pout. But seriously, if you’re enjoying it up there, never mind us.”

  “Who is it?” Aci asks. Judging by her gaze, she’s hoping it’s Fairytale Prince James.

  “It’s Connor. The guys miss me,” I say.

  “Tell your fam we’re tearing the house down without you.”

  “Stop it. You know I was no fun being around. All you did was try to keep me sane.”

  His voice slinks low. “I had fun doing that.”

  “Shh—shut up.”

  “What, you have me on speaker phone?”

  “No, but I mean, geez, Connor.”

  “Is it wrong to enjoy hugging someone?” he almost purrs. “We were medieval-chaste, don’t you think? Just a little bit of bare skin is all. It was nice.”

  Aci leans forward, the black hairdresser’s smock trailing down her calves. “What’s he saying?”

  “None of your business,” I hiss as if I’m not on Connor’s ear and he can’t hear every word I say. He snorts an amused laugh.

  By the time we leave Scissors Sharp, my hair has morphed into a long, dark chocolate bob parted on one side, front sections reaching my collarbone. I even surrendered to Aci and added a purple stripe. It’s thin but obvious, shaping along my cheekbone. Somehow, the flash of purple makes the green in my hazel eyes stand out more than usual, a culturally endorsed update my sister is a fan of.

  “You look so pretty! We need lipstick on you now,” Aci determines as she drives us home. “Because we’re so pale, the lipstick needs to be really sharp and fresh. Did you bring makeup from L.A.?”

  “Mmm, yeah. I think I’ve got some at home.” My eyes find the sky outside, mood dipping from its momentary high at the hairdresser’s.

  “Do you have lipstick too? Is it, like, a bright, full red? Not slutty, but you know really hot? If not, we’ll go by the store and grab something Revlon. Those are awesome if they’re creamy.”

  “Right, because that way I can impress Mom and Dad.”

  Aci flashes me a toothy grin.

  The nights suck in Portland too. Julian came here often. I can count on one hand the times I’ve been home without him over the last years, and honestly, this bed is as much ours as the bed at the Queen.

  I do the tossing and turning. I do the getting up and pacing like I did in the Valley. My father would prescribe me something to sleep on if he knew, but it’s a temporary fix I don’t believe in.

  I’m going crazy, missing Julian’s body, next to me, under the sheets, his warmth, his touch, the content puff against my temple when he came. I miss his huffed praise and our never-ending embrace as we drifted to sleep. I touch myself. It just isn’t enough.

  I do what I can to stop missing him around me. I dig out my old teddy bear. I need something to hold onto.

  Connor tells me you’re doing good up there, Diego texts me at two fifteen in the morning on a Tuesday. I’m awake to read it.

  Not too bad.

  Oh you’re awake. Still having a hard time sleeping?

  My fingers curve around the back of my thigh, recalling the density of his butt as he hugged me in my bed. It felt like nearness. Wondering if you guys weren’t the best cure for insomnia.

  Makes sense. We want you home.

  I am home.

  Whenever you’re ready.

  I thump back on the bed, st
retching my hands over my head and touching the headboard. The moon glows, lending shine to the river. Its ripples flow over my ceiling. When I was little, their reflection would leave me hypnotized.

  Slowly, my eyelids droop. Seconds pass, minutes, while I drift away. Until my eyes slam open, heart hammering fast.

  Diego always goes to sleep early. It’s a weekday, and he schedules classes and hospital visits as early as he can. Why was he still awake at two fifteen?

  I call him.

  He picks up right away.

  In the background, the music is loud and odd. It’s not the straight up rock-n-roll Nathaniel and James prefer. Neither is it Lenny’s dubstep.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Hey! Let me get back to my room.”

  “What’s going on over there?”

  A door slams, and the slow, seductive music is muffled but still audible.

  “You’re having a party, aren’t you?”

  “Luka is. He’s done that a bit lately.” Diego sighs. “It’s okay. It’s his way of getting over everything.”

  “Bullshit. What kind of party is Luka throwing?”

  “He’s doing his thing,” Diego clips out.

  “As in he’s having orgies at the house? Where? It doesn’t sound like he’s in his room.”

  “Oh no, the party’s a tad big to fit into his room. But it’ll be over soon, I’m sure.”

  Disgust unfolds like smoke in my chest. “Jesus. This is so— I live there too! He can’t just...” I don’t know what to say next. What can I say? Really, it’s none of my business what he does in that house when I’m not around.

  “I don’t want any of you guys to lose sleep because he’s being a whore,” I spit. “What are the others doing?”

  “Asleep. Wait, they’re packing up downstairs. It’s all good, Geneva.” He says it so serenely I could almost believe him.

  This is how much Luka respects his brother.

  I huff out my anger and hurt.

  I tell Diego I’m going back to sleep. He doesn’t believe me but doesn’t object when I hang up. I call Lenny, who picks up right away.