The Twin Read online

  Unless she’s taken up yoga.

  But who does that after they’ve gone to bed? Maybe she does sleep yoga. Okay, I’m ridiculous.

  I wish I could get some sleep. My thoughts would be much more rational.

  Another thump hits my wall from her side.

  For real? I already have countless thoughts that prevent me from falling asleep quickly as it is. I don’t need Iris doing…whatever it is she’s doing keeping me up too.

  I don’t want to get out of bed because I just got comfortable, so I pick up my phone and text Iris.

  Everything okay?

  She takes a minute to reply.

  Fine. Why?

  Oh, playing it like that, are we?

  The banging?

  Sorry, just organizing some things. I’ll be quiet now

  Organizing what at this hour? She’s not starting school yet; there will be plenty of time to make changes to her room.

  Do you need help?

  Yeah, I’m being polite. It’ll be so annoying if she accepts my offer.

  No, thanks. I’m kind of private about my room and my things.

  I relax my muscles and sigh. Good, I’m glad that I don’t have to move. My body pulses with the ache of the day and sitting in some awkward position earlier.

  Okay. Night.

  I love how she’s private and her room is off-limits but she has no issue walking into my space. Double standards much?

  Putting my phone back on my nightstand, I close my eyes and wait.

  Outside, the patter of rain slowly hits my window. It’s soothing, the constant yet intermittent taps against the glass. The rain is always the best thing to take my mind off…well, my mind. I’ve tried listening to rain forest noises, but it does nothing for me.

  I focus on the rain and breathe deeply until I eventually fall asleep.

  5

  Stretching my arms above my head, I yawn. It’s early—6:05. The rain helped me fall asleep, but I woke up at 3:30 and was drifting in and out for the rest of the night—or morning. Whatever.

  I’m tired. Fortunately, I’m used to being tired.

  Mom kept popping back in my head in the early hours, consuming every thought. Some of them were facts; some took on a fictional route and ran with it. I know how she died, so why did my mind keep conjuring thoughts and images of her being hit or being drowned? Why did I think about her recovering from the fall and running away? That one was the cruelest, because there is no chance of her coming home. She didn’t recover; I’ve seen her lifeless body. Which, in hindsight, isn’t smart for someone with an overactive imagination.

  She would never leave us by choice. Nothing could scare her away from her family.

  So I tossed and turned for that whole time, worrying that I’ll never get Mom out of my head. I don’t want to picture her lying on the ground bleeding. Or whatever else I dream up.

  The grief process needs to begin now; maybe then I’ll get some peace. Or at the very least, I’ll stop seeing my mom dead in different scenarios. I’ll take that.

  My feet hit the carpet as I swing out of bed. I curl my toes, feeling the thick pile under my bare feet.

  I practically drag my heavy legs downstairs in search of caffeine.

  The house is still and quiet. At this hour it always appears empty, like no one is living here at all. Dad and I don’t have much stuff, so the house is a little on the bare side since Mom took all the house “bling,” as she called it.

  I walk into the kitchen and raise my hand for the light switch.

  “Morning,” Iris says.

  Her chipper voice makes me jump. I flick the light on as my heart races, and Iris smiles. The blinds are shut, so it’s still pretty dark.

  She laughs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, taking a breath.

  “I live here now, Ivy.”

  God, my heart is still thumping. “No, I mean, in the kitchen. Sitting in the dark.”

  “I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “But why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “I like it.”

  She likes sitting alone in the dark in total silence.

  “Uh, okay. Do you want coffee?” I ask.

  Folding her arms, she rests them on the counter and watches me. “Please. It’s nice to have someone make the coffee for me. Mom sometimes did it before she went for a run.”

  “Ugh, I love running, but I couldn’t do it every day.”

  “Yeah, you and Mom probably had more in common than she and I did. You both like to exercise.”

  “You cheer,” I say, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard as the coffee brews.

  “I did. Now I’m not going to be doing anything.”

  I look over my shoulder. What a bleak view. “Why do you say that?”

  “Dad doesn’t want me to start school for another two weeks.” She rolls her eyes. “Yet you can go back in four days. How is that fair?”

  “He’s worried about you, Iris. You’re not only dealing with Mom’s death, but you’ve also had to move away from everything you’ve known for the last six years. I’m going back to a school I know. You’re going to be the new girl.”

  “I’m aware, but I’m not made of glass. I can handle a new school. Besides, it’s not like this place is all new to me. I did live here once. In this very house.”

  She has a point. Iris was always the confident one, the kid who played outside. Mom would sit in front and watch her play with a couple of the neighbor’s children. Shame that they moved away years ago, because Iris could probably do with seeing a familiar face—one that isn’t exactly the same as hers.

  “Talk to Dad. He’s always been a good listener. If you’re ready to start earlier, he’ll let you.”

  At least, I think he will. He’s nowhere near as laid back as Mom was, but he’s still not great at denying his daughters something they want.

  Her pale eyes gloss over like she’s no longer listening, or she doesn’t believe me. She taps a manicured fingernail on the marble countertop.

  The coffeemaker stops and I put a mug down in front of her. I take the next stool, joining her in sitting.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lips purse. She’s uncomfortable when I talk about Mom or ask how she’s doing. It’s been the same since Mom died. Iris has closed that part of her life completely.

  “Fine. You?” she replies in a sharp tone.

  She doesn’t want to talk, and she doesn’t want me to talk. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m going to call a therapist today. Have you thought about talking to someone?”

  “Nope. But good for you.”

  “Okay,” I reply, wrapping my hands lightly around the hot mug. “What do you want to do today?”

  “I want to go out. No offense, but this house is kind of depressing. Now that I’m living here full-time, we need to decorate.”

  “Go for it.” Iris has good taste; she decorated Mom’s house with her. It doesn’t bother me if she wants to hang art or scatter throw cushions on the sofas. Dad is a major minimalist and he loves his gadgets, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving the house a little more personality.

  “What are you girls doing up so early?”

  Iris and I look to the doorway, where Dad is standing. His arms are folded like he’s ready to give us the third degree. He’s suspicious, but I don’t know why.

  “We couldn’t sleep,” I tell him.

  “You’re huddled together like when you were little and wanted something. Power in numbers?”

  Iris laughs and flicks her hair over her shoulder. “We don’t want
anything, Dad.”

  “Maybe not right now. What do you want to eat?”

  “Do you have Pop-Tarts?” Iris asks. “I haven’t had those in years.”

  I sigh. “I can’t go a week without having them.”

  Iris raises her eyebrows. “You got the better metabolism. I have to eat perfectly for this.” She gestures down her body with her hand.

  I don’t think there’s any difference in size. We both keep active, but Iris puts a lot more pressure on herself.

  “Neither of you needs to change a thing,” Dad says. He’s very diplomatic. “I’ll get the Pop-Tarts.”

  “There’s coffee in the pot, Dad,” I tell him. “So, I’d like to make an appointment with that therapist today. You still have the number, right?”

  Dad slowly turns around. “Of course. I’ll give Dr. Rajan a call. She comes highly recommended. Iris?”

  Iris looks up and blinks slowly. “Yes, Dad?” she asks as if she doesn’t know where he’s going.

  “Would you like me to make you an appointment too? It doesn’t have to be the same therapist.”

  “No, thanks.” She smiles tightly, her eyes dropping back to her coffee mug.

  6

  I don’t know what it says about a therapist when they can see you immediately. Or, more to the point, what it says about me when she wants to see me immediately.

  Either way, I’m in my bedroom getting dressed because Dr. Rajan managed to squeeze me in this morning.

  Does Dad know that I haven’t slept as well since Mom died, so he begged her for an emergency appointment? That would be incredibly embarrassing.

  It was Dad who answered her questions; he was on his phone with her for ages. In his office, of course, so I don’t know what he said. All I know is that he came back after speaking to her at nine and I have an hour to get to my appointment.

  I’m overthinking. She probably had a cancellation. I have taken plenty of appointments for my hair last-minute because someone canceled.

  I zip my skinny jeans and tug a dark gray tank top over my head. I have Ty’s hoodie in case it gets cooler. Actually, I have a lot of Ty’s hoodies here. Also, now my hoodies. The sun has scorched away any sign of last night’s rain, though, so I think it’s going to be hot.

  My phone rings and Ty’s name flashes on the screen. I texted him about three minutes ago to tell him I’m off to have my head examined.

  My session with Dr. Rajan is predominately about bereavement, but I’m not naïve enough to think that’s where it’s going to end. Not when I have a twin who moved home. I think she’s going to say things and ask questions that go way beyond my mom’s death. Maybe lots of them are connected. Maybe I’m overthinking. Again.

  If I could get an off switch for my brain, that would be aces.

  “Hey, Ty,” I say into the phone.

  “Right now? You’re going to see someone right now?”

  His voice is rushed, and he sounds like he’s on high alert. He’s worried. Ty knows that I find it hard to switch off and that I don’t sleep well. But that’s nothing new. That’s always been me. He’s worried this rush-job therapy session is more than the doctor having time to see me so soon.

  I think I actually don’t want to know. Ignorance can be bliss and all that.

  “Like, right now. I’m slipping my shoes on as we speak. What do I say to her?”

  “Um…I don’t know. Let her ask the questions if you’re not sure where to start. What happened last night or this morning to make this happen so suddenly?”

  “Nothing, really. She has a session free this morning, I guess.”

  I don’t want to worry him. Before me, he didn’t worry much about anything. Ty is super laid back, except when it comes to me. It’s sweet, but I hate that I cause him stress.

  “Okay,” he says hesitantly. “You can talk to me, too, you know? I get that you want to speak to a professional, and I’m all for it, but I’m here.”

  “I know you are, Ty, and I appreciate it.”

  But I don’t want to completely fall apart in front of you. Ty has always been supportive and understanding, but we’re teenagers in high school, and we don’t need our lives to be dark and heavy.

  I can deal with the sleepless nights. During the day it’s not so bad. I can still be me and swim and hang with my friends. My chipper attitude begins to fade in the early evening, but by that point I’m usually home. I’ll get used to it if I’m to have even less sleep long-term.

  “Call me when you’re done?”

  “I will. Love you,” I say.

  “Love you, babe.”

  I hang up, put my phone in my bag, along with my water bottle, and grab my car keys off my dresser. Time to face therapy.

  I walk downstairs with my heart thudding and palms sweating. This is something I want, so why do I feel so anxious? If I want to sit in silence for an hour, I can. There’s no pressure. At least, I hope there won’t be.

  My idea of therapy is limited to what I’ve watched on TV, but the therapists definitely don’t force you to talk if you don’t want to.

  Still, if I’m considering sitting in silence, why am I even going?

  I know I’ll talk. It’s how you heal, how you move on from whatever you’re grieving. If there’s one thing I like, it’s a solution to wrap up a problem in a neat little bow.

  “Dad, I’m leaving,” I shout as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  His office door opens down the hall and then his footsteps thud on the wooden floor. Dad works in insurance and deals mostly with large companies. Or something like that. He seems to be busy all the time and had to build an office on the house to work from home. It’s where he spends most of his time.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you?”

  “No thanks, I’ll be fine.”

  He steps forward and wraps me in a hug. His arms squeeze a touch too hard, and I wince.

  “You’re crushing me,” I squeak.

  “Sorry.” He lets go and takes a step back. “I’m proud of you, Ivy.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Hey, where’s Iris?”

  “She went to her room, so I thought I would get some work done,” he says. “You’d better go, or you’ll be late.”

  Maybe I want to be late. So late that I have to reschedule. But that’s a dumb idea, because if I keep putting it off, I’ll always have this first-session anxiety. Once I’m past that, things will be easier. “Later, Dad.”

  I turn around and walk out of the house super slowly. Today I don’t feel in a hurry to get anywhere.

  My thumb slips over the unlock button on my key fob. I shake my hand and press the button again. This time my car clicks, and I get in.

  You can do this, Ivy.

  Mom would want me to do this. She would be right behind me, spurring me on. She and Dad have always been my biggest cheerleaders, and although I didn’t live with her for most of the year, I’ve always been sure that she has my back.

  I feel her with me now. In this car, willing me to start the engine and take the first step to helping myself.

  So that’s what I do. I turn the key in the ignition and pull off the drive.

  Dr. Rajan’s office is about thirty minutes away, so I crank the radio and let the music calm my frayed nerves.

  Thirty-six minutes later, thanks to traffic, I pull into the parking lot, and the nerves are back with a vengeance.

  7

  Dr. Rajan is waiting for me inside. I have four minutes until my session starts. My hand is curled tightly around the steering wheel while my stomach buzzes. This is something that I need to do, and I want to do, but that doesn’t make going in there and talking about my mom’s death any easier.

  Above me, the sky clouds over and shines bright gray. It’s going to rain hard. I should get in there before it starts, but m
y body won’t move.

  Okay, stop being a baby.

  I let go of the steering wheel, tug the door handle, and push the door open. The very second my foot touches the ground, I feel the first cold drop of water splat on the tip of my nose.

  I get out, slam my door shut, and make a run for the building.

  Dr. Rajan looks up as I rush into the foyer.

  She smiles, her dark eyes shining with kindness. “You must be Ivy Mason?”

  “Yeah.” I smooth my hair down. “Hi, Dr. Rajan.”

  “Please, call me Meera. Before we start, can I offer you a glass of water?” she says, leading me into her office.

  I have a feeling I’ll need a drink if I’m going to be talking for an hour. “Water would be great, thanks,” I reply, threading my fingers together behind my back.

  Meera’s office is nice. It’s large enough for a dark oak desk and two brown leather sofas. The dark is softened with pale blue, pink, and white artwork and accessories. Her credentials are framed on the wall behind one of the sofas.

  “Come on in and get comfortable.”

  “Which one?” I ask, looking between both sofas.

  “Whichever one you want.”

  Stepping slowly, I choose the closer one and sit down. Meera places my water on the coffee table in the middle.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles again as she sits opposite me. “Would you like a blanket?”

  “Ummmm,” I say uncertainly. Why would I need a blanket? It’s warm today.

  She looks at a soft fleece cream blanket on the arm of the chair beside me. “Feel free to use the blanket. I want you to be as relaxed and comfortable as possible. A lot of my clients choose to cover themselves during our sessions.”

  “Lots of people have used this?”

  Meera laughs. “I have ten blankets and they’re washed after every use. It’s up to you, but it’s there should you want it.”