Chapter Six
Six
My earliest memory is of Marcie bathed in a pool of golden light. It is one of those intangible recollections where you’re never quite sure if you’ve conflated and warped it. Added details here and there to bolster a particular feeling or emotion.
It was our first day of primary school, so we can’t have been more than five, but I distinctly remember the thrum of anxiety in my chest. Meeting new people.
Understanding social dynamics. Marcie was bouncing off the walls at the promise of it all.
That morning, Mum had dressed us in our new uniforms: pinafore dresses, checkered shirts neatly ironed underneath.
The cheap material was scratchy against my skin.
I looked at myself in the mirror and held out my hand as I’d seen my parents doing with new people.
“Hello,” I said, and the gesture felt awkward and alien. “I’m Iris.”
When it was time to go, I gripped my new book bag so hard my hands grew sweaty.
Marcie ran ahead of us on the walk there. I hung back, a step or two behind Mum and Dad, and dragged my feet. Periodically, Dad checked over his shoulder for me. Mum’s attention, as always, was on Marcie. She darted, spritelike, between the trees, ebullient with excitement.
We walked through the park as an odd isosceles triangle, as though, even then, Marcie—detached from our little group as she was—was somehow distinct from our prosaic trio.
The tree canopy in the early-September light threw strange shadows onto the concrete walkway.
Marcie, at least twenty feet ahead of us, had stopped to wait, her whole body gyrating with impatience.
“Wait there,” Mum called to her. “Don’t go onto the road alone.”
Marcie huffed, and as she did, a ray of light broke free from the blanket of cloud.
It hit her directly, soaking her in warmth.
Her blond hair, so different from my own thin, dark locks, caught the light so she looked almost otherworldly.
Ethereal. Beautiful, even at that age. Wisps of baby hair created a halo around her.
Mum caught her breath, grabbed for Dad’s arm, nodded toward her.
They smiled at each other in a way they never seemed to for me.
The ray disappeared. We caught up with Marcie, and she was forced to stick with us for the rest of the walk.
At the school gates, Mum gave her a hug that was at least two seconds longer than mine.
Dad patted us both genially on the shoulder. Equally. Like we were the same.
And then it was just the two of us.
It’s not always true what they say about twins: I didn’t always know what Marcie was thinking, and she was usually oblivious to my emotions. But that day, she seemed to sense my nerves. Her small hand slipped into mine.
“Stick with me,” she’d whispered with a confidence that felt too old for her.
I suppose, looking back, it was a confidence that came from always coming first. She’d never had to fight for her place in the family, whereas the trauma of my birth still hung over my every interaction with Mum.
Dad tried to bridge the yawning chasm between us, but it had never been right.
I craved the looks Mum directed at Marcie.
The pride I’d see in her expression when Marcie excelled.
The laughter when she told a boring joke.
Even when Marcie was told off, it was done with smiling eyes.
When Marcie looked at me as we stood at the school gates, it was with an expression similar to the one Mum wore as she bandaged a cut.
Pity. Marcie knew she was the favored one, and she felt sorry for me.
But I let her clasp my hand in hers anyway, and I was grateful—stupidly grateful—for the comfort.
She didn’t mention how it was still clammy from being clamped round my book bag.
She led me through the cavernous hallways, into our new classroom, and she didn’t let go, even when the teacher came over to greet us.
Marcie beamed at her, then introduced us to everyone in the vicinity.
“I’m Marcie, and this is my twin sister, Iris.”
It was that easy. I became popular by default, on the assumption that any sister of the wonderful, sweet, enigmatic Marcie Jones was someone worth being friends with.
The day passed mostly without incident. Marcie was swarmed by our new classmates, and she tried to include me at every turn.
Being twins worked in our favor. We had that hint of the exotic about us, even if our looks could not have been more different.
At the end of the day the teacher called us over to her, asked us questions about home and if we’d enjoyed our first day.
I scuffed my foot against the carpet and allowed Marcie to answer for both of us.
But as we were leaving, I looked up and saw the teacher’s quizzical expression travel from Marcie to me.
It was one I’d seen countless times before.
A look that could not quite comprehend how two such different personalities could have come from the same womb.
People claim all children are charming, but it’s not true. I knew, even then, that I did not possess that special quality. That I was a mere moon reflecting Marcie’s radiant light. She carried that charm with her until the day she died.