And that’s how special twins can be: they actually had a special name, shared between them.
In which case, this piercingly calm statement from Kirstie—Mummy, I’m Lydia, it was Kirstie that died—could be just another example of twin-ness, just another symptom of their uniqueness. But even so, I am fighting panic, and the urge to cry. Because she’s reminding me of Lydia. And because I am worried for Kirstie.
What terrible delusion is haunting her thoughts, to make her say these terrible words? Mummy, I’m Lydia, it was Kirstie that died. Why do you keep calling me Kirstie?
“Sweetheart,” I say to Kirstie, with a fake and deliberate calmness, “it’s time for bed soon.”
She gives me that placid blue gaze, identical to her sister’s. She is missing a milk tooth from the top. Another one is wobbling, on the bottom. This is quite a new thing; until Lydia’s death both twins had perfect smiles: they were similarly late in losing their teeth.
Holding the book a little higher, Kirstie says,
“But actually the chapter is only three more pages. Did you know that?”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, look it actually ends here, Mummy.”
“OK then, we can read three more pages to the end of the chapter. Why don’t you read them to me?”
Kirstie nods, and turns to her book; she begins to read aloud.
“I had to wrap myself up in toi-let paper so I didn’t get hypo… hy… po…”
Leaning closer, I point out the word and begin to help. “Hypoth—”
“No, Mummy.” She laughs, softly. “No. I know it. I can say it!”
“OK.”
Kirstie closes her eyes, which is what she does when she really thinks hard, then she opens her eyes again, and reads: “So I didn’t get hy-po-thermia.”
She’s got it. Quite a difficult word. But I am not surprised. There has been a rapid improvement in her reading, just recently. Which means…?
I drive the thought away.
Apart from Kirstie’s reading, the room is quiet. I presume Angus is downstairs with Imogen, in the distant kitchen; perhaps they are opening a bottle of wine, to celebrate the news. And why not? There have been too many bad days, with bad news, for fourteen months.
“That’s how I spent a pretty big chunk of my sum-mer holidays…”
While Kirstie reads, I hug her little shoulders, and kiss her soft blonde hair. As I do, I feel something small and jagged beneath me, digging into my thigh. Trying not to disturb Kirstie’s reading, trying not to think about what she said, I reach under.
It is a small toy: a miniature plastic dragon we bought at London Zoo. But we bought it for Lydia. She especially liked dragons and alligators, all the spooky reptiles and monsters; Kirstie was—is—keener on lions and leopards, fluffier, bouncy, cuter, mammalian creatures. It was one of the things that differentiated them.
“When I got to school today… every-one was acting all strange.”
I examine the plastic dragon, turning it in my hand. Why is it here, laying on the floor? Angus and I carefully boxed all of Lydia’s toys in the months after it happened. We couldn’t bear to throw them away; that was too final, too primitive. So we put everything—toys and clothes, everything related exclusively to Lydia—in the loft: psychologically buried in the space above us.
“The prob-lem with the Cheese Touch is that you’ve got it… un-til you can pass it on to some-one else…”
Lydia adored this plastic dragon. I remember the afternoon we bought it; I remember Lydia skipping down Regent’s Park Road, waving the dragon in the air, dreaming of a pet dragon of her own, making us all smile. The memory suffuses me with sadness, so I discreetly slip the little dragon in the pocket of my jeans and calm myself, listening to Kirstie for a few more minutes, until the chapter is finished. She reluctantly closes the book and looks up at me: innocent, expectant.
“OK darling. Definitely time for bed.”
“But, Mummy.”
“But, Mummy nothing. Come on, Kirstie.”
A pause. It’s the first time I’ve used her name since she said what she said. Kirstie looks at me, puzzled, and frowning. Is she going to use those terrible words again?
Mummy, I’m Lydia, it was Kirstie that died. Why do you keep calling me Kirstie?
My daughter shakes her head, as if I am making a very basic mistake. Then she says, “OK, we’re going to bed.”
We? We? What does she mean by “we”? The silent, creeping anxiety sidles up behind me, but I refuse to be worried. I am worried. But I am worried about nothing.
We?
“OK. Goodnight, darling.”
This will all be gone tomorrow. Definitely. Kirstie just needs to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning, and then this unpleasant confusion will have disappeared, with her dreams.
“It’s OK, Mummy. We can put our own ’jamas on, actually.”
I smile, and keep my words neutral. If I acknowledge this confusion it might make things worse. “All right then, but we need to be quick. It’s really late now, and you’ve got a school day tomorrow.”
Kirstie nods, somberly. Looking at me.
School.
School.
Another source of grief.
I know—all-too-painfully, and all-too-guiltily—that she doesn’t like her school much. Not anymore. She used to love it when she had her sister in the same class. The Ice Twins were the Mischief Sisters, then. Every schoolday morning I would strap them in the back of my car, in their monochrome uniforms, and as I drove up Kentish Town Road to the gates of St. Luke’s I would watch them in the mirror: whispering and signaling to each other, pointing at people through the window, and collapsing in fits of laughter at in-jokes, at twin-jokes, at jokes that I never quite understood.
Every time we did this—each and every morning—I felt pride and love and yet, also, sometimes I felt perplexity, because the twins were so entire unto themselves. Speaking their twin language.
It was hard not to feel a little excluded, a lesser person in either of their lives than the identical and opposite person with whom they spent every minute of every day. Yet I adored them. I revered them.
And now it’s all gone: now Kirstie goes to school alone, and she does it in silence. In the back of my car. Saying nothing. Staring in a trance-like way at a sadder world. She still has friends at the school, but they have not replaced Lydia. Nothing will ever come close to replacing Lydia. So maybe this is another good reason for leaving London: a new school, new friends, a playground not haunted by the ghost of her twin, giggling and miming.
“You brushed your teeth?”
“Immyjen did them, after tea.”
“OK then, hop into bed. Do you want me tuck you in?”
“No. Mmm. Yes…”
She has stopped saying “we.” The silly but disturbing confusion has passed? She climbs into bed and lays her face on the pillow and as she does she looks very small. Like a toddler again.
Kirstie’s eyes are fluttering, and she is clutching Leopardy to her chest—and I am leaning to check the nightlight.
Just as I have done, almost every evening, for six years.
From the beginning, the twins were horribly scared of total darkness: it terrified them into special screams. After a year or so, we realized why: it was because, in pitch darkness, they couldn’t see each other. For that reason Angus and I have always been religiously careful to keep some light available to the girls: we’ve always had lamps and nightlights on hand. Even when the twins got their own rooms, they still wanted light, at night, as if they could see each other through walls: as long as they had enough light.