Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
AUDRY
E ven as I was occupied with my problems, I made a point to visit Sophia. Most times she didn't recognize me, other times she called me Amy, a few times, she knew who I was.
Mostly, when that happened, we just sat together and cried. Mostly I just fed her whatever meal Marco had prepared for her, other times we discussed the art on her walls. Even at her most forgetful, she was very enthusiastic about it.
She would say things like, “You know, my daughter really cherished that piece. She said it gave her comfort.” I clutched those little fragments of Amy to myself as if they were solid gold. It was likely to be all I would know about my twin, besides the stories I heard from Marco and he did not like to talk about her much. I really couldn't blame him.
I knew I should go and see him - my father - confront him about what he did to me. But I did not have the guts. My heart quailed at the thought of facing him. It's one thing to know that your father sold you, it's another to look him in the eye and have him tell you, perhaps, that he had no regrets.
I didn't need that shit. My life had been awful enough as it was. The only bright light, well perhaps not the only one, but certainly the brightest, was Marco. He turned out to be quite skilled at the boyfriend stuff.
Some mornings he would wake me up it's the smell of coffee and pancakes permeating the room. I'm not a morning person, if I could have, I would’ve slept until noon every day. So sometimes before he left to do his gangster shit, he would make me a tray and put it at my bedside, so I could have breakfast in bed and go right back to sleep. Or have it when I woke up.
It was very healing to be able to do that and know that he had no expectations of me to be anywhere or do anything. Of course, I didn't take advantage of that for too long - being a trad wife was not my calling. Instead, I began to write it all down, my life, what I liked about it, what I hated about it, and I tried to answer the question - all things being equal, what did I want my future to look like?
It helped me feel less adrift. Now that I had my life back, I wanted to do something with it. Something I could be proud of. I tried talking to Sophia about it a few times when she was lucid.
“My dear,” she told me as she squeezed my hands, “I can't tell you what to do. You have to decide that for yourself.” Her bottom lip trembled as she tried not to cry. “I can't even promise that I will be there for you, or even remember this conversation. All I can do is love you the best I can.”
She literally broke my heart in two. I truly felt how awful it must be for her to be losing the threads of her life, slowly and insidiously. That was what motivated me to write. Perhaps when she forgot about me completely, she could still read my story and know that she had two daughters, and that they adored her.
Weirdly enough, Sophia never spoke of Claude when I visited, and I never ran into him at the old folks home. I asked Marco about it. “What's up with Claude anyway? Does he visit his wife?”
Marco shrugged. “I don't really know. He's the one who put her in there, and I've never asked the nurses who else comes to visit. I've never seen him there myself.”
“Do you not visit with him?”
Marcus snorted. “Claude doesn't really like me that much. I don't blame him. I wouldn't like me either if I was the cause of my child's death.”
“Ah, but he's the only one who knew that Amy wasn't their only child.”
“Yeah, and how hard must it have been for him not to be able to say so.”
I narrowed my eyes at Marco. “Don't tell me you have pity for that man.”
“Yeah, I pity him - just for being so spineless and weak. It must suck to be him.”
I couldn't exactly disagree.
Two days after my last visit to Sophia, Marco came up to me clutching a book in his hands. He held it out to me. “This belonged to Amy. She used to write incessantly in it every morning when she woke up, and every night before bed. She wouldn't let me see what was in it, and I've respected her privacy all these years. But I think if anything could help you understand who your sister was, this is it.” He handed the patent leather covered diary to me. I stared down at it in wonder, feeling my hands trembling slightly. My sister lay between its pages. It was as if I could feel her physical presence just by holding it.
It was quite a large volume, more like a journal than a diary.
“How long did she have it for?” I asked.
He shrugged. “She already had it when I met her so I'm guessing a while. Now that I think of it, there were probably others, but I can't guess where they would be.”
I turned the book in my hands, feeling the embedded initials with my finger. “It's alright. This is enough. Would you mind if I…?” I gestured towards his office with the book, indicating that I'd like to sit in his comfortable leather armchair and read.
He made a by all means gesture, and I walked to his office closing the door behind me. I knew I wouldn't get up again until I had read every word.
The book started out with the poem, ironically, ‘If I must die’ by Refaat Alareer. I read it all to myself mouthing the words, feeling tears prick my eyes. The poem was about remembrance, and making sure that the death was not for nought. I thought about doing as a poem said, flying a kite high as a symbol hope. Why not?
I grabbed a paper from Marco’s desk, so I could make a note of that idea. I had a feeling that I would be making quite a few notes through the reading of the journal. I turned to the first page and looked upon Amy's handwriting for the first time. I stared at it marveling at how closely our handwritings resembled the other’s. It hit me in the solar plexus once again that this was my twin.
“We even fell in love with the same man.” I shook my head in consternation.
Hi, my name is Amy Mercer, and these are my thoughts and feelings about life, the universe, and everything.
“Oh, I love that book too.” Tears were already falling from my eyes.
In typical teenage fashion I'm going to start this journal by whining about my parents and just how much I hate them. Just kidding. I can't hate my parents, they feed me. I can vehemently disagree with their need to keep me wrapped in cotton wool and hidden away from the world. Look I get it mom, you lost a child. You don't want to lose another one. But I'm 18 years old now. Unclench.
I can't tell you how it made me feel to read that. There are no words. I reached for the tissues and wiped my face. The next pages told of her relief at finally being able to go off to school, making a point to call her mother every week, lest she fly out with a swat team to rescue her, and her volunteer work. Claude wasn't mentioned much, which I found interesting. There was only one entry I found that talked about him directly.
Dad came for parents’ weekend with mom, which was awkward because I hadn't planned for it. All the activities I had signed us up for were kind of mother-daughter oriented. So, I had to scramble a bit to find a few things he'd like to do. I shouldn't have wasted my time. He found the nearest card game faster than I found the student center on my first day. We didn't see him much all weekend, which was kind of a relief.
So, it seemed that while I had a very present stepfather - if only because he was my puppet master - Amy had lived with a rather distant father figure. I bet anytime he looked at her, he was reminded of me. A wave of shared vindictiveness went through me and I decided that yes, I was going to confront him at some point.
I turned the page and kept reading.
I have just met the dreamiest man. Like McDreamy needs to step aside, he has been replaced! God help me, I am such a klutz, I literally wanted to peel my face off today because of how I embarrassed myself in front of him. He was dropping off his niece at school (yes, I asked if it was his daughter, after checking for a wedding ring - I am just that shameless) and I just marched up to him and gave him a lecture about this being a school lane and whatnot, and he was looking at me like I had literally lost my mind. I got mad and started telling him that just because he's good looking doesn't mean he can get away with anything. His niece chose that moment to pop up and ask ‘Uncle Marco’ why the traffic Marshall was shouting at him!
I laughed out loud. I could just imagine how mortified she felt.
I offered the world's most awkward apology followed by the clumsiest invitation to a coffee date I have ever heard. He must have felt sorry for me because he agreed to go on the date. It's tomorrow and I have nothing to wear. Someone help me please.
I paused there, wondering if I should read more about their relationship. I anticipated having mixed feelings, and maybe it wasn't necessary to know. I put the book down biting my lip as I thought about it. Then I got to my feet and went in search of Marco.
“Hey,” I said.
He turned from where he was slicing carrots with a smile. It slid off his face when he took a look at my face. “What's wrong?” He asked.
I remembered now that my eyes must still be puffy from crying and waved the hand in dismissal. “It's nothing. Just all the feels. I've reached the part of the book where you feature prominently and I was wondering if you wanted to read it with me. Reading it on my own is making me feel kind of like a creeper.”
He laughed and shrugged one-shouldered. “Yeah sure. That's actually a very good idea. Let's read it together.” He pointed at the carrots with his knife, “after I've finished making this soup for lunch.”
I gave a little gratified skip, “Great. I'll just leave you to your cooking. Come find me when you're done.”
“Will do. I love you.”
I froze, turning to stare back at him. “Are you talking to me ?” I asked just to be sure.
He laughed nonchalantly, his eyes on his knife slicing through carrots. “Who else is here?”
“I don't know. Maybe you thought I was Amy for a minute?”
He put his knife down, the smile dropping from his face, and turned to face me arms crossed. He looked into my eyes. “I love you Audry-One-Name-Like-Madonna,” he said.
I blinked at him, once again caught wrong-footed, then threw my back my head and laughed and laughed.