She has proven she won’t take
our lives and turn them
into a sensational story
but hold them gently
and mould her movie
around the
truth.
And so Caroline is welcome—
welcome to film us,
our decision,
and what
might be
the last few months of
our lives.
The Things I Tell Dr Murphy
‘You know,
I’ve spent so
long trying to convince everyone
that I’m an individual,
that Tippi’s my twin
but not me,
that I’ve never really thought about
how it would be if
we weren’t together,
how
losing her would be like
lying in a pyre
and waiting for the flames.
She’s not a piece of me.
She’s me entirely
and without her
there would be
a gaping space
in my chest,
an expanding black hole
that nothing
else could
fill.
You know?
Nothing else could fill that space.’
Dr Murphy sits back in her chair.
‘Finally you’re opening up,’
she says.
Right.
All these years
she hadn’t been
buying my bullshit at all.
Catching Up
Although it’s a Saturday
and Hornbeacon is closed up,
and although Mom is terrified of us leaving her sight,
Grammie drives us to Montclair where
Yasmeen and Jon meet us on the school’s front steps.
Yasmeen is clutching a pile of papers,
wearing a frown,
and glowering at us.
Her hair is no longer hot pink
but dark denim blue,
her bangs tickling her eyes.
Jon stands behind her
blinking against the sun,
a silver gum wrapper stuck to his sneaker.
Carefully they reach for us then hold on tight.
‘You losers have a lot to do,’ Yasmeen says.
‘I’m not sure how you’ll catch up before the semester ends.’
She slams a heavy wad of papers
against Tippi’s chest.
‘We won’t be back for a while.
You think we’re going to spend our dying days
working on the French conditional?’ Tippi asks,
pitching the multicoloured papers into the air so they
scatter like supersized confetti
across the courtyard.
‘You’re so dramatic,’ Yasmeen says,
and rolls her half-hidden eyes.
‘So what are you guys doing instead?
Do you even have a bucket list?’
Behind us Caroline clears her throat.
‘We’re filming,’ she warns.
‘Who cares?’ Tippi asks,
and we hobble off to The Church.
Bucket Lists
Sitting on a log,
Tippi and I write up our lists,
shoulders curled away from each other,
hands hiding our words.
But I can’t think of much:
1) Read Jane Eyre
2) Watch the sun rise
3) Climb a tree
4) Kiss a boy—for real
Tippi looks over my shoulder.
‘I’ve heard Jane Eyre’s a real bore,’
she says,
then hands me her list.
This is what she has written:
1) Stop being such a bitch
‘That’s gonna take some time,’
I tell her.
‘And so is your number four,’ she says.
Easy
Yasmeen runs a jagged nail down my list.
‘Ugh,’ she says.
‘Couldn’t you have added something
cool like
running naked through the school hallways
or getting whipped by pint-sized circus clowns?’
Tippi says,
and I laugh very, very loudly,
hoping Jon won’t look at my list
and hoping he will.
‘You’ve never climbed a tree?’
Yasmeen asks,
then quickly says,
‘Jon, you gotta kiss Grace.’
She slams my list into his hand
like a court summons.
‘And lend her this stupid book.’
‘He doesn’t have to do anything,’ I mumble.
Jon runs his eyes over the paper
and puts out his cigarette.
He bites his bottom lip.
‘I’ve an old copy of Jane Eyre you can keep.
I’ll drive it over to your place,’ he says.
‘Oh, for the love of God, a kiss is just a kiss,’ Yasmeen says.
But she is wrong:
a kiss from Jon
would mean
Everything.
Nightmare
In the public library next to Church Square Park
where Tippi and I go to borrow free movies,
a girl with an iPhone
huffs and sighs.
‘My phone’s lost its signal. I can’t connect to the Wi-Fi.
What a nightmare,’
she tells her friend,
waving the phone around
and hoping to catch a stray ray
of connectivity in the air.
Isn’t it funny what people worry about
when their lives are going
swimmingly?
I Slip Away
Shane has the flu
and won’t risk coming anywhere near us,
so when Caroline’s busy
taking calls
or arranging interviews,
Paul’s the only one
following us around.
When I can,
I become invisible.
I put in my headphones
and
slip away.
I try
as hard as I can
to give Tippi
a little
time with
him.
‘I know what you’re doing,’
she says.
‘But it’s not like you and Jon.
It’s nothing.’
‘But it could be something,’
I say.
‘Look at me, Grace,’ Tippi replies.
‘Do you think he’d ever
be interested in a
brunette?’
She laughs.
And so do I.
A Replacement
Aunty Anne brings Beau, our newest cousin,
to visit.
He is all drool and whimpers
yet we fight over who gets to hold him,
who changes his diaper and
gives him his bottle.
Aunty Anne yawns and says,
‘Everyone keeps asking when I’ll have the next one.
But I’m so tired.’
Mom titters and gives her sister a mild backrub.
‘It gets easier. They sleep through the night soon enough.’
Aunty Anne closes her eyes.
‘My friend told me to have another child
in case anything ever happened to Beau.
I hate even having to imagine it.’
Mom’s hands freeze.
Baby Beau mewls, sensing our attention is elsewhere.
‘The pain of losing one child
wouldn’t vanish just because you have another,’ Mom says.
‘You can’t make replacements.’
Film
Caroline leaves the cameras in our bedroom
every night
so she doesn’t have to haul them
back and forth from New York City
every day.
They sit on our desk and we don’t pay them any
attention
at all
until
I remember that the crew has been filming
everyone.
I slide a tiny green button sideways
and watch.
We watch.
And we see
Mom and Dad’s crinkled faces
‘Do you think Tippi and Grace
should be separated?’
Dad stares into his lap.
‘I want to keep them alive,’ Mom says.
‘No parent should bury a child,
and definitely not two of them.
But it’s up to them to decide.
It’s up to them.’
We watch
Mom cry into the camera
and beg Caroline to turn it off,
and then we stare at each other
thinking exactly the same thing.
This isn’t just about us.
No Run-throughs
In English class we were encouraged to write
drafts and make edits
until our words were as clear
as filtered water.
In math we were warned to
review our workings,
ensure the figure at the end
was correct.
And in music we rehearsed
songs a hundred times,
trying out a glut of harmonies
before Mr Hunt was satisfied.
Yet when it matters,
when it’s a life-and-death decision,
like whether to slice ourselves
apart or not,
we’ve no way to perfect the path we’re taking
and have only
one choice
and
one chance
to get it right.
Obviously
We meet Dr Derrick to give him our decision
and he is silent for several moments,
his face stone,
none of the excitement we expected seeping through,
no relishing the risks involved,
and I wonder whether we’ve underestimated him.
‘I’ll get the planning under way,’ he says,
‘This is a big project and it won’t happen
overnight.
But we can’t wait too long, either.’
He looks at me directly.
‘Obviously, we can’t wait too long.’
The Call
Yasmeen calls us after midnight.
‘You can relax.
Jon and I have figured it all out.
Winter break we’re going on a road trip.
My uncle has a place in Montauk.
It’s going to be awesome.’
Tippi and I grin.
‘We’re in,’ we say together.
Whether Mom Likes It or Not
Mom is absolutely
one hundred percent
against letting us go anywhere near
Long Island.
‘You think I’m going to let you roam around the country
with your hearts about to screech to a stop at any moment,
and without a drop of adult supervision?
Do you know me at all?
Do you?’
Mom asks.
She nips her lips shut.
But Tippi’s lips are even thinner.
‘I know you’re worried. We’re sorry about that.
But this isn’t a negotiation.
We’re going whether you like it or not,’ Tippi says.
‘We’re going to Long Island with our friends
and there’s not a shit-flicking thing anyone can say to stop us.’
Road Trip
Mom keeps checking the internet,
refreshing the pages
over and over
for news of
bad weather or
traffic accidents on Long Island,
anything that might
prevent us from going.
She pokes around in her purse every few minutes and pulls out things
like Kleenex and cough candies
that ‘might come in handy on the trip.’
She paces the floor.
She checks her watch.
She refreshes the internet again.
Dad is visiting for the weekend.
He is making risotto,
guarding the pot and incessantly stirring.
‘Try to stop worrying,’ he tells Mom,
and behind his back she rolls her eyes
as if to say,
What would you know?
Apparently he hasn’t taken a drink in ten days,
says he’s been going to recovery meetings,
and while Tippi and I don’t hold our breaths,
we see how Mom is revelling a little in his normality,
grinning at jokes and delighting in his overcooked dinners.
‘I actually think it’s very unfair to keep Caroline from going, too,’
Mom says.
‘A deal’s a deal.
What kind of film will it be without footage of the trip?’
Caroline is leafing through an old photo album,
picking out the pictures to take away and scan.
‘It works for me actually,’ she says.
‘Paul’s taking a few days off
to see his brother in Boston,
and poor Shane’s still sick with
the flu.’
‘Cool,’
I say
trying not to feel resentful
of Shane
or the millions of other people
whose hearts don’t die
because they get a little virus.
A car horn honks
and Dad drags our bag out to the curb where Jon
throws it into the trunk of the car.
We strap ourselves into the back seat
and wave to Mom who has taken
our places by the bay window,
where I’m sure she’ll stand until we return.
Dad goes back inside.
Jon jumps into the driver’s seat and looks at us in
the rearview mirror. ‘Did you bring booze?’ he asks.
I delve into our duffle bag and Jon leans over the seat to
look at the bounty of beers and wine and vodka
we’ve pinched from Dad’s dormant stash
in the kitchen.
‘You’re the best,’ he says. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’
Pit Shop
We’ve only driven for an hour when Yasmeen
announces she’s hungry,
that she wants Burger King
or something equally disgusting
to help her stay awake while we drive the measly three hours east.
Jon pulls over at a service station
and Yasmeen jumps out.
Jon turns up the radio and grabs a beer bottle
from our bag,
twisting it open.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Yasmeen asks.
‘Couldn’t you just murder a burger?’
Tippi opens her door and starts to pull on me.
But I don’t want to go anywhere.
I want to sit in the car with Jon,
sharing a beer I shouldn’t be drinking
and listening to the radio.
‘Come on,’ Tippi says. ‘Burgers.’
I hold my body rigid.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Tippi asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘So come on,’ she repeats.
‘You too, Jon.’
He shakes his head.
‘I’m good with
beer and rock music.
Be sure to pick up some Cokes for the vodka
after you’ve eaten your delicious
Brazilian rainforest beef.’
Yasmeen gives him the finger
and takes Tippi’s hand.
‘Don’t drink more than one of those,’ she tells Jon,
and suddenly my body is
out of the car and in the lot,
waiting for a table,
eating fries,
and paying the check.
I go through all the motions of
being in the restaurant
with Tippi and Yasmeen
while all the time
my mind is on Jon—
the back of his head,
the lines of his neck,
his smell,
his voice.
His everything.
The Barn
The library is piled high with old copies of art magazines
and books so yellowed and dry they look like they’d
crack down the middle if you tried to read them.
The bathroom has no light and mould creeps from the corners
of the shower and across the walls.
The kitchen is dappled in tiny brown mouse droppings
and dead beetles.
Upstairs
Yasmeen and Jon
rearrange the furniture,
drag a double bed with
a sunken mattress into the biggest of the rooms so that
two beds
are pushed up together
against the wall making a massive one
for four.
The cobwebby window is wiped clean with the cuff
of Yasmeen’s coat.
Jon sweeps the floor.
I plug in a heater and we all stand around it,
red-nosed,
hands in our armpits.
This is not like the other holiday homes
we saw as we drove through the Hamptons,
milk-white mansions with colonnades and crystal blue fountains,