My Sister's Voice (20 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
“Monica,” Joe called. “Let her go.” Monica ignored him.
“Stop,” Monica yelled, even though she knew it was foolish and futile to yell at the back of a deaf woman. “Please, stop.” Nobody was gathering in their groups; they were all standing and gaping back and forth between her and the woman. Monica felt her hair start to come out of its bun; her underarms were suddenly soaked. She picked up speed. The woman maintained a quick pace, but Monica broke into an out-and-out run. When she finally caught up with her, Monica didn’t know the proper way to get her attention. She didn’t want to scare her, but she couldn’t let her go, and didn’t the woman see the entire room full of people staring? Didn’t she know someone was behind her?
Monica reached out, caught the edge of the woman’s coat sleeve and tugged. The woman stopped, then finally turned around. Monica stared at the oversized sunglasses and long blond wig. Both were too big for the woman’s face. She reminded Monica of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes.
“Don’t go,” Monica said. Could the woman understand her, read her lips? “Interpreter,” Monica yelled. It wasn’t necessary, there was one right behind her. Joe was also following. She wanted to yell at him to go away. She wanted everyone in the room, everyone but this woman, to disappear.
“Tell her to wait,” Monica said to the interpreter.
“You don’t have to say ‘tell her,’ ” the deaf woman said. “Talk to me directly.”
“You were right,” Monica said. “The book isn’t my voice.” She pointed to Joe. “I’m a fake. It’s his. All his.” The microphone Monica wore on stage was still attached to her, and she was aware that her voice was being carried throughout the seminar hall. The participants were clinging to every word, and after her declaration, the murmurs turned into steadily growing chatter. Monica didn’t care. Strangely, as long as the woman in front of her didn’t go anywhere, she felt as if she could say or do anything. Maybe it was true. Maybe the truth did set you free. Monica started to laugh.
“Monica,” Joe said. “We can hear you.” He touched her shoulder. She brushed him off.
“Who are you?” she said to the woman.
“I work with Mike,” she answered. “I believe you wanted to buy one of my paintings?”
“The artist,” Monica said. “The one who hates me.”
“What?” the woman said.
“Mike?” Joe said. “Tina’s boyfriend?”
“I was told you think my book is ‘total crap,’ ” Monica said.
“Should I call security?” Joe said.
“Shut up,” Monica told Joe. A hundred thoughts crashed the gates of her mind. Meeting Mike for the first time. How he stared at her. His interview. How he knew about her birthmark. Tina’s last words to her. “Everyone is going to feel sorry for her.” Aunt Grace. “Lacey.” Her mother—you had a sister—
Monica stepped forward, reached for the wig, and tore it off.
“Monica!” Joe said. She ignored him and snatched off the sunglasses.
“Holy shit,” Joe said from somewhere far, far away. “Holy shit.” Monica kept staring. She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. The participants suddenly burst into applause, as if they’d just witnessed a performance.
“Twins,” Monica heard someone say. “They’re twins.” Monica heard the words echo her own thoughts.
She looks like me. Her hair is longer. She has a freckle by her chin, she’s dressed way casual, but she looks just like me. I’m not crazy, someone just said twins. I’m not seeing things. Joe just said “holy shit.” Joe never ever swears.
She looks like me. Her hair is longer. She has a freckle by her chin, she’s dressed way casual, but she looks just like me. I’m not crazy, someone just said twins. I’m not seeing things. Joe just said “holy shit.” Joe never ever swears.
“Lacey,” Monica whispered, touching her own freckle-less chin. “Lacey.”
“Hello, Monica,” Lacey said.
“I don’t believe this,” Monica said. It was true, she didn’t. It was a dream. She felt light, as if gravity itself had been snatched away from her, lighter than a helium balloon soaring to the sky. Her head was going to come right off and float to the ceiling. Maybe it was a dream, or she’d been drugged. Either way, she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop staring. She stopped short of feeling her face like a blind woman.
“Believe it,” Lacey said. “Believe it.”
“I understood you. I understand your voice—”
“Good for you,” Lacey said, switching back to sign language. Everything Monica wanted to say, an onslaught of words, funneled through her mind and hardened to a stop like a puddle of congealed grease.
She’s deaf,
Monica thought.
I’ll just use my hands.
She’s deaf,
Monica thought.
I’ll just use my hands.
Monica lifted her hands and then didn’t know what to do with them. They hovered mid-hip, then sank to her side like kites without enough wind to soar.
“Joe,” Monica said. “Take over the workshop.”
“You got it,” Joe said. Monica took Lacey’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, pulling her out of the conference room. Lacey signaled for one of the interpreters to follow. Both trotted after them; apparently, neither of them wanted to miss this. Monica stopped.
“Can you read my lips?” she asked.
“A little,” Lacey said.
“Do we need them?” she said, pointing to the interpreters, a little embarrassed that one of them had to interpret her asking that question.
“You’re paying them anyway,” Lacey said.
“You’re so pretty,” Monica said. They were out in the courtyard of the hotel, sitting at a little table.
“You too,” Lacey said. Monica laughed. After a few seconds, Lacey joined in. Monica’s laughter was feminine and lilting, Lacey’s was guttural and hollow. Monica started to cry. Lacey held out her hand. Monica grabbed on to it. She had such soft hands. Were they just like hers?
“I don’t understand,” Monica said. “How can I have a twin? How?”
“I didn’t know until I saw your book,” Lacey said.
“Oh my God,” Monica said. “I’m adopted.”
“What?”
“This means I’m adopted,” Monica said. “I have to be adopted.” She stood up suddenly and looked at the surrounding fauna and plants as if waiting for them to rally to her side. “No wonder I’m such a bad shot,” she said. “And the cabin, maybe that’s why I hate the cabin. It’s not in my blood.” Monica patted herself down. Where was her cell phone?
“Hey,” Lacey said, standing. “You’re not adopted.”
“I have to be. Because if I’m not adopted, then—”
“Your parents are my parents.”
“But that’s impossible. My parents wouldn’t have—they couldn’t—” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “That’s why there’s lace all over the house. Every surface of the house—lace.” Aunt Grace. Her mother in the kitchen.
You had a sister. You had a sister.
You had a sister. You had a sister.
“You didn’t die at birth,” Monica said. “Oh my God.” She went to the wall and put her head against it. She had an urge to bang it against the bricks. She actually wanted to feel the pain in her head. It scared her, this sudden urge. She felt a hand on her back, rubbing her. She turned around and threw herself into Lacey’s arms. She hugged her as if she’d known her all her life; she sobbed into her shoulder. When she was done she lifted her head.
“Let’s go somewhere,” Monica said. Lacey turned to the interpreters. They were both in tears. Lacey hugged them good-bye. Then she held out her hand. Monica took it, and without even discussing where they were going, they headed out of the courtyard and started walking, hand in hand, down the street.
Chapter 20
T
hey sat across from each other at a small wooden table in a café they’d never recall the name of, and soaked each other up like shipwreck survivors who’d just been told their deserted island was actually inhabited, always had been. There was a bittersweet feel to it, as if Tom Hanks in
Cast Away
found out at the end of the movie that he had formed an unhealthy attachment to a volleyball for nothing.
hey sat across from each other at a small wooden table in a café they’d never recall the name of, and soaked each other up like shipwreck survivors who’d just been told their deserted island was actually inhabited, always had been. There was a bittersweet feel to it, as if Tom Hanks in
Cast Away
found out at the end of the movie that he had formed an unhealthy attachment to a volleyball for nothing.
She cries more than I do,
Lacey thought.
Do I look like that when I cry?
She vowed never to do it again. A pile of napkins sat in front of Monica.
Is she always this messy?
Lacey thought.
I can’t be the neat one.
Monica swiped the last napkin from the dispenser, blew her nose, and added it to the germ-filled heap.
Lacey thought.
Do I look like that when I cry?
She vowed never to do it again. A pile of napkins sat in front of Monica.
Is she always this messy?
Lacey thought.
I can’t be the neat one.
Monica swiped the last napkin from the dispenser, blew her nose, and added it to the germ-filled heap.
“These are happy tears,” Monica said.
Happy tears,
she wrote on the pad of paper sitting between them. Lacey took the pen out of her hands before she could draw a happy face with fat tears dripping out of it. “I have so many questions,” Monica said. Lacey held up her hand.
Rules,
she wrote at the top of the paper and underlined it three times. Monica became a bobble-head, nodding her agreement.
Happy tears,
she wrote on the pad of paper sitting between them. Lacey took the pen out of her hands before she could draw a happy face with fat tears dripping out of it. “I have so many questions,” Monica said. Lacey held up her hand.
Rules,
she wrote at the top of the paper and underlined it three times. Monica became a bobble-head, nodding her agreement.
I would’ve always gotten my way,
Lacey thought.
Mother,
Lacey wrote under
Rules. Father.
Then she slashed a diagonal line through them. Will not discuss. A pained look passed across Monica’s face. Then she shifted, smiled, and it was gone.
Tell no one,
Lacey wrote. Monica opened her mouth. Closed it. She dug in her purse and pulled out her own pen.
Interpreters. Joe. Two hundred participants, Mike, Tina, Aunt Grace, parents,
Monica wrote.
Lacey thought.
Mother,
Lacey wrote under
Rules. Father.
Then she slashed a diagonal line through them. Will not discuss. A pained look passed across Monica’s face. Then she shifted, smiled, and it was gone.
Tell no one,
Lacey wrote. Monica opened her mouth. Closed it. She dug in her purse and pulled out her own pen.
Interpreters. Joe. Two hundred participants, Mike, Tina, Aunt Grace, parents,
Monica wrote.
Lacey laughed.
That’s it for now.
That’s it for now.
“For now,” Monica repeated. “Just for now.” Monica’s cell phone buzzed. She looked at Lacey and mouthed,
It’s Joe.
She turned off her phone and stowed it in her purse. The waitress came over, flipped open her pad, and waited. Lacey pointed at a sandwich on the menu. The waitress pointed back at it. Lacey nodded. Still not convinced, the waitress looked to Monica.
It’s Joe.
She turned off her phone and stowed it in her purse. The waitress came over, flipped open her pad, and waited. Lacey pointed at a sandwich on the menu. The waitress pointed back at it. Lacey nodded. Still not convinced, the waitress looked to Monica.
“Would she like anything to drink?” the waitress asked Monica. Lacey pounded on the table. The waitress continued to stare at Monica. Monica pointed to Lacey.
“She’s capable of ordering for herself,” Monica said.
“Pepsi,” Lacey said.
“I’ll have the same exact thing,” Monica said. “My God,” she said when the waitress left. “It was like you were invisible—or a child. Does that happen often?”
All the time. I once had a doctor try and hand my prescription to the interpreter. Why did you copy my order?
“It’s exactly what I was going to order. I swear. I love curry chicken salad and Pepsi.” Monica tore off a sheet of paper for each of them. “Write down your top ten favorite foods,” she said.
“Including dessert?”
“Anything—your favorites. Go.”
They hovered over their papers and began writing. When they were done, they exchanged papers. They had pepperoni pizza, curry chicken, and cheesecake in common.
“We both work in creative fields,” Monica said. She wrote
Writer
and
Artist
on the paper. Lacey scrolled through her BlackBerry until she found what she was looking for. Then she held a picture of Rookie up to Monica.
Writer
and
Artist
on the paper. Lacey scrolled through her BlackBerry until she found what she was looking for. Then she held a picture of Rookie up to Monica.
“My puggle, Rookie,” she said.
“No way!” Several heads turned as Monica shouted it out. Her enthusiasm was undeterred by the gawkers. “I have a puggle named Snookie!”
“I know,” Lacey said.
“How did you—” Lacey held up Monica’s book. “My bio.” Lacey pulled the cover of the book out of her bag and slid it over to Monica. Monica looked at the mustache and horns and laughed. Then, she stopped suddenly.
“The bookstore,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Lacey said, doing the sign for “sorry.” Monica repeated the sign. She laughed again. “I thought you were a face thief,” Lacey said. Monica laughed even louder. Lacey mimed her reaction when she had seen the poster in the window of the bookstore. Monica scribbled on the pad.
Where did you grow up?
Just outside Philly. Hillside Children’s Center.
Monica’s face registered surprise. Then it flamed red and she examined her fingernails before picking up the pen and putting it to paper again.
Monica’s face registered surprise. Then it flamed red and she examined her fingernails before picking up the pen and putting it to paper again.
Why, why, why, why, why, why????????????
Lacey tapped the first rule. Then, she wrote.
You never knew?
You never knew?
Of course not.
But they ... Monica looked at the words
Mother, Father.
But they ... Monica looked at the words
Mother, Father.
“We have to go to them. We have to confront them.”
“No.”
“We deserve answers. There has to be an explanation.”
“No, no, no, no.” Their curry chicken sandwiches and Pepsis arrived. Lacey put the pad of paper away and concentrated on her food. Monica played with her straw and watched Lacey.
“Sorry,” Monica signed. “Just us,” she added. “For now.” Lacey smiled. “I just ...” Monica continued. “This is the most incredible. I want to tell people. I don’t want to hide.” Lacey, her hand clenched in a soft fist, brought the nail of her thumb up to her lips and drew it down twice, teaching Monica her second sign for the day.
“Patience,” she signed. “Patience.” Monica repeated the sign, but there was no patience in her eyes, only wild desperation. The waitress caught Monica’s eye as they were walking out the door.
“A ton of people order the curry chicken salad and Pepsi,” she said. “It’s not that special.” Monica gave her a huge fake smile, and the finger.
It was Monica’s idea to rent a canoe. Float. Escape. Along the way, they noticed people staring. “Double takes,” Monica told Lacey. Lacey laughed. They went to Boathouse Row; Monica insisted on paying. They floated out onto the Schuylkill River, gently paddled to nowhere, and simply looked at each other across the boat. Monica was wearing her skirt and jacket, Lacey jeans and a T-shirt. Monica slipped off her pumps and pointed to Lacey’s feet. Lacey peeled off her tennis shoes. They put their feet together, Monica in stockings, Lacey in black socks, making a little bridge over the canoe.
“Same feet,” Monica said. Lacey whipped off a sock and showed Monica her toenails. Each nail was painted a different color: green, orange, blue, red, violet. Monica laughed. She stuck her hands up her skirt and peeled off her pantyhose. She showed Monica her foot. French manicure. Lacey whipped off her other sock. Then Lacey reached forward, grabbed Monica’s hose and chucked them into the water. Monica laughed, lifted them with her oar, and threw them even farther. Then she grabbed Lacey’s socks and flung them overboard as well. Lacey reached under her shirt with both hands and wrestled until she had removed her bra. She dangled it in front of Monica. Monica looked at the tag.
“Me too.” She winked. Then she too removed her bra. They each set theirs on their oar and Monica counted. One, two, three. The bras went flying, in two directions. A couple of kayakers stopped to gawk. Lacey and Monica broke into laughter. They couldn’t have explained to anyone else what they were doing or why. They just knew they were having fun. It wasn’t every day you found out you were a twin. They could strip if they wanted, they could skinny-dip, they could bend over and moon the cars whizzing past on the Schuylkill Expressway.
It hurt a little, walking in their shoes without hose and socks, and they couldn’t quite jog without bras, but after the canoe ride they still managed to walk downtown. They found a little store and bought matching pink flip-flops. Then they set off down the street, taking in the little dog park next to the church, talking about their puggles.
“So weird,” Monica said, pointing to the picture of Snookie on her phone. “Snookie and Rookie. I mean, that’s just strange!”
“Pepsi and curry chicken,” Lacey said. She pulled a business card out of her pocket. It said A
LAN
F
ISHER
, G
ENERAL
C
ONTRACTOR
. She wrote on the back of the card.
My boyfriend.
LAN
F
ISHER
, G
ENERAL
C
ONTRACTOR
. She wrote on the back of the card.
My boyfriend.
“My God,” Monica said. “Joe is an architect.” Lacey nodded; she knew this. Monica pointed to her ring finger and then at Lacey. Lacey shook her head no. Monica pointed at herself, shook her head no. She rocked an imaginary baby. Lacey shook her head no again and pointed at Monica, who did the same. No husbands or babies, just boyfriends and dogs. Suddenly someone grabbed Monica around the waist and yanked her off the ground, swinging her around like a child. Just as suddenly, she was dropped. When Monica turned around, a huge man in a jester’s outfit was staring at her like she was the weird one. Then he signed furiously to Lacey, who was laughing so hard, tears were coming out of her eyes. As the two signed rapidly back and forth, Monica looked helplessly from one to the other.
“Monica, meet Robert,” Lacey said. “Robert, this is Monica. My twin.” Robert’s expression couldn’t have been clearer. He was truly shocked. He mimicked coming up and picking up Monica and then doing a double take when he spotted Lacey. The three of them laughed. Then Robert hugged Lacey, waved at Monica, and headed off. As he walked away, the little bells adorning his costume jingled with every step he took.
“You have a lot of friends,” Monica said, remembering all the deaf people at the art opening. “I’m so glad.”
“The Deaf Community is my family,” Lacey said. “The only one I’ve ever had.”
This time, Monica moved through Lacey’s studio as if she herself planned on painting it later from memory. She took in her worktable, her brushes, her pads of paper. She was so creative, so beautiful, so confident. Was that why Monica was so insecure? Had Lacey been given her dose of confidence? Monica was the one who had been given everything, yet Lacey was the one who walked with her chin up. Along the side wall, Monica saw new paintings. Fifteen portraits of people with their pets were propped against the wall. They weren’t captivating like her horse paintings, but they were well done, with a whimsical touch. “Cute,” Monica said. She would have to get Lacey to paint her with Snookie.
They were stolen,
Lacey wrote.
Right before the art show.
Lacey wrote.
Right before the art show.
Monica frowned.
How did you get them back?
How did you get them back?
Someone mailed them all back.
Weird!
You don’t know the half of it.
Monica waited politely, but Lacey didn’t offer any more information. A picture! She had to have a picture of the two of them. Monica mimed snapping a camera. Lacey shook her head no. Monica took out her cell phone. She stood by Lacey and held the phone toward them, ready to snap. Lacey pushed her hand away.
“What’s wrong?” Lacey shook her head no. They moved over to the horse paintings still hanging where they were for the art show.
“You’re so talented,” Monica said. “I’m mesmerized. Really, I’ve been thinking of them nonstop, I can’t get them out of my mind—” Monica stopped babbling; she was talking way too fast.
Lacey ran to a large easel with a huge sketch pad set up and picked up a marker.
Do you like horses?
she wrote.
Do you like horses?
she wrote.
Monica followed, picked up the marker.
I love yours.
I love yours.
Do you ride?
No.
Did you have toy horses as a kid?
No.
Monica didn’t know what she said wrong, but Lacey was definitely upset with her answer. It was as if she thought she was lying to her. Was it because she was disappointed she obviously didn’t share the same passion for horses? Monica pointed to the paintings again.
Really
AM
AZING!!!
Monica didn’t know what she said wrong, but Lacey was definitely upset with her answer. It was as if she thought she was lying to her. Was it because she was disappointed she obviously didn’t share the same passion for horses? Monica pointed to the paintings again.
Really
AM
AZING!!!
Lacey dropped the marker with a shrug. She went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of red wine and held it up.
They sat on the couch, laughing at everything after only one glass of wine each. They continued to communicate through a series of gestures and lipreading and writing. Monica indicated she got drunk easily, after only one glass; Lacey confirmed she was the same. Monica asked her how old she was when she first got drunk. Lacey leaned her head back on the couch as she tried to remember. Then she held up nine fingers.
“Nine?!” Monica shrieked. “Nine?” Lacey laughed.
Orphans,
she wrote.
House mother had a whole cabinet of liquor.
Monica wished she knew sign. Whereas earlier she had wished them away, now she wished there were an interpreter here. Suddenly writing and gesturing weren’t enough. She wanted detailed stories. She wanted to tell Lacey a searing pain went through her side when Lacey wrote the word “orphan.” She wanted to know everything she’d missed about her twin’s life. She wanted to tell Lacey all about hers. She wanted to call her parents. She wanted to bring Lacey home right now and demand an answer. True to her promise, she hadn’t brought them up again, but surely they couldn’t ignore it forever? How could they have done this to her? To them? Lacey offered Monica another glass of wine. She glanced at Lacey’s empty glass and raised her eyebrow. Lacey shook her head.
None for me.
Monica copied her. Lacey stuck the cork back in the bottle and stood up. She looked at her watch. She pointed to Monica.
she wrote.
House mother had a whole cabinet of liquor.
Monica wished she knew sign. Whereas earlier she had wished them away, now she wished there were an interpreter here. Suddenly writing and gesturing weren’t enough. She wanted detailed stories. She wanted to tell Lacey a searing pain went through her side when Lacey wrote the word “orphan.” She wanted to know everything she’d missed about her twin’s life. She wanted to tell Lacey all about hers. She wanted to call her parents. She wanted to bring Lacey home right now and demand an answer. True to her promise, she hadn’t brought them up again, but surely they couldn’t ignore it forever? How could they have done this to her? To them? Lacey offered Monica another glass of wine. She glanced at Lacey’s empty glass and raised her eyebrow. Lacey shook her head.
None for me.
Monica copied her. Lacey stuck the cork back in the bottle and stood up. She looked at her watch. She pointed to Monica.
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