the living room.
“Mallory!” Meredith called. “Mally!”
Mallory didn’t reply.
In the fractional instant it took her to realize that Mallory might not answer, that she might not hear Mally’s voice again except inside her head, Meredith experienced the same yearning her twin had felt hours before.
Giggy , she thought. Without Mallory, she would not feel halved but erased. She would need to draw herself again from a stick figure, filling in her shape and textures. She would be a flat Meredith, who would disappear when she turned in profile, a silhouette Meredith without color or sound.
“Mallory!” Even to herself, she sounded like a wounded lamb, bleating.
She thought she heard a faint answer—where did it come from? The billowing blackness of the living room, the ring of flame left by the open front door? When had all the electricity gone out?
“Mallory!” Merry called again.
Quickly she pushed Heather out the back door—nothing out back was burning now. Merry watched to make sure that Heather jumped down the steps and ran into the yard. Then she grabbed one of the little girl’s coats from the rack and covered her mouth. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl on her elbows toward what she thought should be the couch under the bay window. When she felt what seemed to be Mallory’s shoulder, she hauled her sister on top of her and began to scoot backward toward the door, inch by laborious inch. She could see a lighter rectangle of darkness. Finally . Then she heard a pop and shivering musical sounds of tinkling glass, and then nothing else at all.
FOREVER TWO
They lay in a dream, but the dream wasn’t like sleep. It was like suffocation.
Neither knew how long it lasted.
Both of them were less troubled by the pain than the unnatural sensation of being unable to hear each other, except dully, as if through a blanket. But time indeed was measured by painful interruptions—the positioning of needles, the reflexive gagging on tubes. Their own groans sounded distant, as if their bodies and voices were a radio left on in an empty room. One sister’s thoughts were indistinct to the other, expanding and contracting in shapes rather than in words. They caught mental glimpses: Difficult, congested breathing for Mallory. Merry’s heartbeat taking off at the approach of a claw that would pull and pinch off skin that was as parched as a dead leaf.
After a time, the sense of morning, the change of light, even behind closed eyelids, returned.
That came first.
Next they heard the oceanic murmur of voices that would rise and subside. Thousands of dots collected into pictures, and faces appeared. Between the girls the images ping-ponged—tiny and far off, or close and stretched, grotesque, misshapen, and huge. First to Merry, then to Mally, there appeared snapshots, for a single second. They saw their father, asleep in a chair. They saw their grandmother Arness, Campbell’s mother, on her farmhouse porch in Virginia. But Grandma Arness was dead. She died when they were ten. They saw Grandma Gwenny peering at them, her wild Welsh eyes, so like their own, filled with aching empathy. Nodding, nodding. Grandma Gwenny cried and nodded. There was Gramps outside Uncle Kevin’s house, clutching his cell phone, his face streaked red and gray by the fire and shadow. Their mother, bending low, brushing their cheeks, flooding them with their mother’s smell—gardenia and rubbing alcohol. The sting of her tears on Mally’s face. Adam, his mouth opening in a dark, sucking, expanding cry.
The night images were worse.
First Merry, then Mally, cringed when a tiny black-haired girl in an old-fashioned high-necked dress appeared, leaning over a bridge above a creek, then turned quickly to stare at them, her face zooming nearer, nearer, nearer—her eyes nearly flat against their own eyes. Meredith and Mallory clutched at each other’s minds in fear. The little girl’s face was kind and even familiar, but
“Mallory!” Meredith called. “Mally!”
Mallory didn’t reply.
In the fractional instant it took her to realize that Mallory might not answer, that she might not hear Mally’s voice again except inside her head, Meredith experienced the same yearning her twin had felt hours before.
Giggy , she thought. Without Mallory, she would not feel halved but erased. She would need to draw herself again from a stick figure, filling in her shape and textures. She would be a flat Meredith, who would disappear when she turned in profile, a silhouette Meredith without color or sound.
“Mallory!” Even to herself, she sounded like a wounded lamb, bleating.
She thought she heard a faint answer—where did it come from? The billowing blackness of the living room, the ring of flame left by the open front door? When had all the electricity gone out?
“Mallory!” Merry called again.
Quickly she pushed Heather out the back door—nothing out back was burning now. Merry watched to make sure that Heather jumped down the steps and ran into the yard. Then she grabbed one of the little girl’s coats from the rack and covered her mouth. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl on her elbows toward what she thought should be the couch under the bay window. When she felt what seemed to be Mallory’s shoulder, she hauled her sister on top of her and began to scoot backward toward the door, inch by laborious inch. She could see a lighter rectangle of darkness. Finally . Then she heard a pop and shivering musical sounds of tinkling glass, and then nothing else at all.
FOREVER TWO
They lay in a dream, but the dream wasn’t like sleep. It was like suffocation.
Neither knew how long it lasted.
Both of them were less troubled by the pain than the unnatural sensation of being unable to hear each other, except dully, as if through a blanket. But time indeed was measured by painful interruptions—the positioning of needles, the reflexive gagging on tubes. Their own groans sounded distant, as if their bodies and voices were a radio left on in an empty room. One sister’s thoughts were indistinct to the other, expanding and contracting in shapes rather than in words. They caught mental glimpses: Difficult, congested breathing for Mallory. Merry’s heartbeat taking off at the approach of a claw that would pull and pinch off skin that was as parched as a dead leaf.
After a time, the sense of morning, the change of light, even behind closed eyelids, returned.
That came first.
Next they heard the oceanic murmur of voices that would rise and subside. Thousands of dots collected into pictures, and faces appeared. Between the girls the images ping-ponged—tiny and far off, or close and stretched, grotesque, misshapen, and huge. First to Merry, then to Mally, there appeared snapshots, for a single second. They saw their father, asleep in a chair. They saw their grandmother Arness, Campbell’s mother, on her farmhouse porch in Virginia. But Grandma Arness was dead. She died when they were ten. They saw Grandma Gwenny peering at them, her wild Welsh eyes, so like their own, filled with aching empathy. Nodding, nodding. Grandma Gwenny cried and nodded. There was Gramps outside Uncle Kevin’s house, clutching his cell phone, his face streaked red and gray by the fire and shadow. Their mother, bending low, brushing their cheeks, flooding them with their mother’s smell—gardenia and rubbing alcohol. The sting of her tears on Mally’s face. Adam, his mouth opening in a dark, sucking, expanding cry.
The night images were worse.
First Merry, then Mally, cringed when a tiny black-haired girl in an old-fashioned high-necked dress appeared, leaning over a bridge above a creek, then turned quickly to stare at them, her face zooming nearer, nearer, nearer—her eyes nearly flat against their own eyes. Meredith and Mallory clutched at each other’s minds in fear. The little girl’s face was kind and even familiar, but
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