My right is her left,
unblemished.
We are exact
opposites,
Kaeleigh and me.
Mirror-image identical
twins. One egg, one sperm,
one zygote, divided,
sharing one complete
set of genetic markers.
On the outside
we are the same. But not
inside. I think
she is the egg, so
much like our mother
it makes me want to scream.
Cold.
Controlled.
That makes me the sperm,
I guess. I take completely
after our father.
All Daddy, that’s me.
Codependent.
Cowardly.
Good, bad. Left, right.
Kaeleigh and Raeanne.
One egg, one sperm.
One being, split in two.
And how many
souls?
Interesting Question
Don’t you think?
I mean, if the Supreme
Being inserts a single soul
at the moment of conception,
does that essence divide
itself? Does each half then
strive to become whole
again, like a starfish
or an earthworm?
Or might the soul clone itself,
create a perfect imitation
of something yet to be
defined? In this way,
can a reflection be altered?
Or does the Maker,
in fact, choose
to place two
separate souls within
a single cell, to spark
the skirmish that ultimately
causes such an unlikely rift?
Do twins begin in the womb?
Or in a better place?
One Soul or Two
We live in a smug California
valley. Rolling ranch land, surrounded
by shrugs of oak-jeweled hills.
Green for two brilliant
months sometime around spring,
burnt-toast brown the rest of the year.
Just over an unremarkable mountain
stretches the endless Pacific.
Mornings here come wrapped
in droops of gray mist.
Most days it burns off by noon.
Other days it just hangs on
and on. Smothers like a wet blanket.
Three towns triangulate
the valley, three corners, each
with a unique flavor:
weathered Old West;
antiques and wine tasting;
just-off-the-freeway boring.
Smack in the center is the town
where we live, and it is the most
unique of all, with its windmills
and cobbled sidewalks, designed
to carry tourists to Denmark.
Denmark, California-style.
The houses line smooth black
streets, prim rows
of postcard-pretty dwellings,
coiffed and manicured from curb
to chimney. Like Kaeleigh
and me, they’re perfect
on the outside. But behind
the Norman Rockwell facades,
each holds its secrets.
Like Kaeleigh’s and mine,
some are dark. Untellable.
Practically unbelievable.
But Telling
Isn’t an option.
If you tell
a secret
about someone
you don’t really know,
other people might
listen,
but decide you’re
making it up. Even if you
happen to know for a fact
it’s true.
If you tell a secret
about a friend, other people
want to hear
all of it, prologue
to epilogue. But then they
think
you’re totally messed
up for telling it
in the first place. They
think
they can’t trust you.
And hey, they probably
can’t. Once a nark,
always a nark, you
know?
Kaeleigh
I Wish I Could Tell
But to whom could
I possibly confess
a secret,
any secret? Not to my mom,
who’s never around. A time
or two, I’ve begged her to
listen,
to give me just a few
precious minutes between
campaign swings. Of course
it’s true
the wrong secret could take her
down, but you’d think she’d
want to hear
it. I mean, what if she had
to defend it? Really, you’d
think
she’d want to be forewarned,
in case the International Inquisitor
got hold of it. Does she
think
this family has no secrets?
The clues are everywhere, whether
or not she wants to
know.
There’s Daddy
Who comes
home every
day, dives
straight into
a tall amber
bottle, falls
into a stone
walled well
of silence, a
place where he can tread
the suffocating loneliness.
On the surface, he’s a proud
man. But just beneath his not
-so-thick skin, is a broken soul.
In his courtroom, he’s a tough
but evenhanded jurist, respected
if not particularly well liked. At
home, he doesn’t try to disguise his
bad habits, has no friends, a tattered
family. A part of me despises him,
what he’s done. What he continues
to do. Another part pities him and
will always be his little girl, his
devoted, copper-haired daughter.
His unfolding flower. But enough
about Daddy, who most definitely
has plenty of secrets. Secrets Mom
should want to know about. Secrets
I should tell, but instead tuck away.
Because if I tell on him, I’d have to…
Tell on Me
How I’m a total
wreck. Afraid to
let anyone near.
Afraid they’ll see
the real me, not
Kaeleigh at all.
I do have friends,
but they don’t know
me, only someone
I’ve created to take
my place. Someone
sculpted from ice.
I keep the melted
me bottled up
inside. Where no
one can touch her,
until, unbidden, she
comes pouring out.
She puddles then,
upon fear-trodden
ground. I am always
afraid, and I am vague
about why. My life
isn’t so awful. Is it?
We Live in a Fine Home
With lots of beautiful stuff—
fine leather sofas and oiled
teak tables and expensive
artwork on walls and shelves.
Of course, someone used to
such things might wonder
why there are no family
photos anywhere. It’s almost
like we’re afraid of ourselves.
And maybe we are, and not
only ourselves, bu
t whatever
history created us. There are no
albums, with pictures of graying
grandparents, or pony rides
(never done one of those)
or memorable Gardella family parties.
(The Gardellas don’t do parties,
not even on holidays.)
No first communions or christening
gowns. (We don’t do church, either.)
Of course, no one ever comes
over, so no one has ever wondered
about these things, unless it’s our
housekeeper, Manuela. Have to have
one of those, since Mom’s never home
and Daddy often works late, and even
if he didn’t, he wouldn’t clean house
or go to the grocery store. Normal
parents do those things, right? I’m
not sure what normal is or isn’t.
But It Really
Doesn’t matter. Normal
is what’s normal for me.
I’ve got nice clothes,
nicer than most. Pricey
things that other girls would
kill for, or shoplift, if they
could get away with it.
I have a room of my own,
decorated to my taste
(okay, with a lot of Daddy’s
input) and most of the time
when I’m home, I hang out in
there, alone. Listen to music.
Read. Do my homework.
What more could a girl ask
for, right? I mean,
my life really isn’t so bad.
Is it?
I Clearly Recall
Once upon a time, long
ago, when everything
was different. Mom
and Daddy were in love,
at least it sure looked
that way to Raeanne
and me. How we used
to giggle at them, kissing
and holding hands.
I remember how they used
to joke about their names.
Ray[mond] and Kay
How fate must have been
a bad poet and wrote them
into a poem together.
Then Raeanne or I would beg
them to tell—just one more time—
the story of how they met.
Mom Always Started
I was in college. UC Santa Barbara,
best university in California.
I had this really awful boyfriend.
I thought we’d run away
and live happily ever after.
Thank God he got arrested.
Then Daddy would humph
and haw and take over.
So there he was, in my court
room, with a despicable
public defender failing
to come up with an even
halfway decent excuse for
why his client was driving
drunk. In one ear, out
the other. I’d heard it all
before, and anyway, the only
thing I could think about
was this creep’s gorgeous
girl, sitting front and center,
hoping I’d go easy on him.
And Mom would interrupt.
Actually, I only hoped that
until I took a good, long look
at your father. Then I kind
of hoped he’d lock up my
boyfriend for a long time.
Then we’d laugh and my
parents would kiss and all
was perfect in our little world.
But That Was Before
Daddy fractured our world,
tilted it off its axis, sent it
careening out of control.
That was before the day
his own impairment
made him overcorrect, jerk
the Mercedes onto unpaved
shoulder, then back
across two lanes of traffic,
and over the double yellow
lines, head-on into traffic.
That was before the one-ton
truck sliced the passenger
side wide open. That was
before premature death, battered
bodies, and scars no plastic
surgeon could ever repair.
Yes, that was before.
Afterward
Mom didn’t love Daddy
anymore, though he stayed
by her side until she healed,
begging forgiveness, promising
to somehow make everything right.
In fact, since the accident,
Mom doesn’t love anyone.
She is marble. Beautiful.
Frigid. Easily stained
by her family. What’s left
of us, anyway. We are corpses.
At first, we sought rebirth.
But resurrection devoid
of her love has made us zombies.
We get up every morning,
skip breakfast, hurry off
to work or school. For in
those other places,
we are more at home.
And sometimes, we stagger
beneath the weight of grief,
No One Else Suspects
Not our neighbors.
Not our friends.
Not even our relatives.
No one
suspects Mom’s real
motive for running
for Congress is to run
away from us. No one
suspects
the depth of her rejection,
or how drowning
in it has affected
my father,
a powerful district
court judge, a man who
puts bad guys away,
slumped down
on his knees,
unable to breathe,
unable to swim,
unable to stop
begging
me to open my arms,
let me stay,
and please, please love
him the way Mom used to.
Raeanne
Kaeleigh Closes Herself Off
From Daddy. And I think
she’s completely insane.
I crave his affection.
No one,
no one normal, that is, will
understand. Yeah, yeah,
I’m all fucked up. My mantra.
But if anyone actually
suspects
how fucked up I am, they’ve
yet to let me know.
And, really, why would
my father
be so taken with her, but distance
himself from me? We’re
identical. Except for the egg/
sperm thing. Would he fall
on his knees
in front of me, if I were
more like Mom and less
like him? Would he come,
begging,
to me, too,
let me stay,
if he realized I want to love
him the way Mom used to?
But Obsessions Are Personal, I Guess
Daddy’s obsession
with Kaeleigh strikes at the
heart of me. But looking at it real
objectively, I think I understand. She’s
soft. Pliable. Gullible. It’s easy enough to
believe his declaration that should someone
root out his secrets, he’ll swallow a bullet.
You know, he just might, though I see him
as much more likely to pick up that gun
and shoot Mom, especially if he’s on
a bender. More and more of those
lately, both for him and for
me. My own obsession.
Falling into a state
of numb.
Numb
Sometimes that seems like a great
place to be. Closed off from it all,
in no need of love, no need of family.
To be honest, I’ve erected a huge,
huge wall between myself and Mom,
myself and Kaeleigh, who I avoid
whenever I can. Can’t stand that hurt,
ever-present in her eyes. Eyes—
and hurt—that mirror my own.
Anyway, she makes me mad, mad
that she hides in her own mind so
well. Hides there from Daddy.
The only person I want to be close
to is Daddy, and he doesn’t even see
me. It’s like I’m not even here.
Most of the time I muddle through,
pretending I don’t need to be held,
need to be touched, kissed.
But then need swells up, a thunderhead.
Storms down, sweeps over me
like a summer flash flood of need.
Numb Cannot Fight Such Need
So I turn to Mick, valley hardass
in more ways than one.
Mom says, That boy is trouble.
You steer clear, understand?
Like I give a rat’s shiny pink
butt about what Mom thinks.
Actually, I’m amazed she even
noticed. Maybe she has spies
who keep an eye on us when
she can’t be bothered. After
all, it wouldn’t do for a daughter
of a United States congresswoman
to get pregnant, now would it?
Oh, she would shit, if she had
any real idea of the things I do
with Mick. So if she has spies,
they must be voyeurs. I know