The Wrong Sister, page 3
Rosie’s got a sister. Violet’s two years older than Rosie, with a personality that’s polar opposite. Where Rosie’s burning that midnight oil in order to graduate and is already planning on going down to Iowa to pick up her MFA, Violet’s focus is men. I’ve overheard her more than a few times when she drops by for a quick visit, clucking her tongue at Rosie and calling her a chump for working so hard.
“Don’t waste the pretty, Rosie,” she says. “Get yourself down to that business school library. It’s as easy to fall in love with a man who’s gonna make the big bucks as it is some dreamy-eyed poet.”
Violet’s a clerk at an art gallery two blocks up from the library. She’s never set foot in a college classroom, but she dresses and talks like someone from the royal family. Rosie once told me Violet doesn’t give a flying fig about art. She’s just interested in the men who have the money to plunk down thousands of dollars for an original painting to hang over their fireplace. I asked her one time, didn’t most men who go to the gallery get there because their wives dragged them in? Rosie got that cute little grin of hers going and told me Violet doesn’t think of the men as married.
“She thinks of them as between divorces.”
Violet came into the library that afternoon to bring Rosie a pair of sandals she’d borrowed. The minute I saw her I flashed on the woman I’d seen the day before. You see, even though you’d be hard-pressed to find two young women more dissimilar than Rosie and Violet Verdon, if they weren’t speaking you’d have to do an extralong double-take to tell them apart. It doesn’t matter that twenty-six months separate them in age. Those two are mirror images of one another. Same dark hair worn in the same slick pixie cut. Carbon-copy turned-up noses with a constellation of freckles floating over each. Identical cheekbones—high and sharp in the middle of the same heart-shaped face. Each with eyes as green as an Irish morning. They were different women, that’s for sure. But on the face of things they were identical.
Violet stayed all of three minutes. Her drop-offs were never much longer than that. It was only when she wanted to borrow something that she hung around the front desk, gossiping and telling Rosie all the things wrong with the way her baby sister was living her life.
“Did you two always look so much alike?” I asked after Violet sang out her good-byes and walked out the door.
Rosie thought for a moment. “I don’t think I noticed it until I was in high school. I spent a long time in my gangly stage. The way my parents tell it, Violet was born graceful and stayed that way. I lingered in the all-arms-and-legs phase. Acne declared war on me but never bothered with Violet. A few years ago, my junior or senior year at West, I guess, I started to see it. Then we got more and more alike. Physically anyway. Why?”
I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about the woman at the star intersection. “Is it weird at all? Having someone look so much like you?”
Again Rosie took her time before answering. “I don’t really think about it all that much. Violet’s her own person. But I admit it’s kind of intriguing when I see her wearing an outfit of mine. It’s different from looking in the mirror. I get to see how I look to others, full-on. Not in a reflection.” Rosie scrunched up that elfin face of hers. “I guess it is kind of strange, now that you mention it. I wonder how twins feel. Identical ones, I mean.”
We were having this conversation behind the front desk. The library is always slow that time of day. I guess most folks would rather spend a hot afternoon down by one of the lakes.
“I’ve heard people say there’s a twin for every person on the planet,” I said. “Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Look at me and Violet. We look plenty alike. Of course there are twins who are the spitting image of each other. And when you get right down to it, how many different ways can you arrange two eyes, a nose, and a mouth? Think of it statistically. Sooner or later you’re gonna come up with an identical combination. So, yeah, I guess I have no trouble believing there’s an exact duplicate running around somewhere.” She tossed the dust rag she was using to wipe down the counter into the bin under the desk and smiled at me. “Maybe your doppelganger is strolling along some river in Amsterdam this very moment. Or maybe on some wild African safari. Armed only with a camera, coming face-to-face with the deadliest predators on the planet. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
I didn’t tell her I thought my look-alike might be a whole lot closer than that.
* * *
Around six o’clock, after setting the evening crew up with their to-do list, I left the library. The air was heavy and hot as I walked home. It would be another couple of hours before the humidity broke and folks dared to venture out to their front yards and porches. I turned my own AC up when I stepped inside my apartment. Then I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and indulged in a cool shower. I had turned off the faucet and wrapped a towel around my wet hair when I heard something that sounded like a thud coming from my kitchen. I stood stock-still and listened, fully aware of my vulnerability as I stood naked beside that claw-foot tub.
The only sound I heard was my AC humming.
I pulled my robe from the hook on the wall and wrapped it tight around me. I stood behind the closed bathroom door for several seconds, listening. I grabbed a can of hair spray, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway, ready to spray aerosol lacquer into the face of any intruder.
But no one was there.
I checked the rooms. I double-checked the closets. Nothing seemed out of place. I looked under my bed. Then I went to my front door.
It was closed but not latched. Like someone had pulled it shut quietly but had failed to secure it completely. I opened the door and looked outside. The two geranium pots on my porch were undisturbed. The wind chime hanging from a rafter was motionless in the breezeless evening.
I closed the door, threw the dead bolt, and slid the chain lock.
Maybe I didn’t close the door tight when I came home. I remember being so hot I wanted nothing more than to start that AC and get into the shower. I must have been careless.
Funny what we can get ourselves to believe, isn’t it?
CHAPTER 4
I woke up with another one of those headaches. I never used to get them. I mean, like, ever. Truth is, I’m one of the healthiest people I know. But in the last month or so it’s been like a ninja warrior has been taking sword practice inside my skull. Stabbing and lunging. Lunging and stabbing. Sometimes the back of my eyes are his favorite target. Other times it’s straight up the center of my skull. That morning my ninja was mounting a lateral assault across the back of my head, slashing his razor-sharp saber in a straight line, about two inches up from where my neck and skull meet. Ear to ear. And just for giggles he punctuated his onslaught with the occasional kick to my left eardrum.
Rosie tells me it’s stress. Probably caused by Brian.
I thought about calling in sick. But it was Thursday. That’s a busy day for us. Interlibrary loans are reconciled on Thursdays, and a whole lot of folks are chomping at the bit to climb up a few notches on the book reservation list. So I dragged myself to the bathroom and showered and dressed. I felt a little better when I went to the kitchen to make my breakfast and pack a lunch. My favorite knife, the only one I ever bother to keep sharp, wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I keep it in its own little box in my silverware drawer. When I went to cut my ham sandwich, the box was there but the knife wasn’t. That irritation brought the ninja back off the bench with a vengeance. I swallowed a couple of aspirin, hoped for the best, and headed off to the library. Told myself I’d find the knife when I got back home.
It was a normal day, I guess. Maybe I spent a bit more time back in my office than usual, but like I said, my head was killing me. Everything got done, though; I’m pretty good at soldiering on. Next thing I knew it was already quarter past four. Rosie came in with a printout of the books I was supposed to pick up as part of the loan program. She reminded me Elaine Vogeller had been in twice that week already, asking when exactly the latest Lee Child thriller was going to be available for her.
“She’s been tracking the reserve list as if it’s the countdown to Christmas,” Rosie said. “Elaine knows she’s finally made it to number one. If it’s not ready when she comes in tomorrow, you can be the one to break it to her. Have you ever heard how high her voice can get when she’s peeved? I swear neighborhood dogs start howling.”
So I scrambled to finish what I was working on, did a brisk walk home, picked up my car, and drove the few miles to Sequoya Library. I barely made it before Belinda, the librarian in charge of assembling the packages for the exchange, ended her shift at five-thirty. I ran through the listings, made sure Elaine’s book was right on top, loaded the two crates into my car, and headed home in time to join all the other commuters. I was creeping along, air conditioner blasting, in the same traffic clog that got me two days before. It’s a route so familiar I could have driven it blindfolded. As I was oozing my car down Regent Street, the Hotel Red came into view and I remembered the woman I saw before.
For a moment, I thought I saw her again. Near the same spot. A group of seven or eight people was crossing Regent. I was about four cars back, but I could have sworn I saw that same bobbed hair toward the rear of the pack. I recognized the trendy blond streaks. Her head was turned, as though she was looking at that dreadful statue outside Camp Randall. But I couldn’t see her face. Once the group crossed the street, the members dispersed in several directions.
But the woman wearing a black sheath dress, the one with the sharply cut bob, walked straight to the Hotel Red and went inside.
The blaring horn behind me reminded me it was my turn to creep forward. I did, fully intending to head home. All I needed to do was make it two more blocks. Then I could turn, be out of the traffic, and have a clear shot straight to my apartment.
Instead, I turned into the Hotel Red’s parking lot.
I didn’t have a plan. What was I going to do? Knock on every door in the hotel? And if I did meet her, what would I say? Excuse me, but isn’t it funny how much we look alike? I know how crazy this all sounds. A Christmas carol popped into my mind despite all that sunshine and humidity. Do you see what I see?
It was past six o’clock by the time I parked and went inside. The lobby was pretty full. The bar, too. Happy Hours are all the rage in Madison. I didn’t see her.
I thought about getting a drink and grabbing a table with a clear view of the elevator. Maybe she’d gone upstairs to change out of that black dress. If she was from out of town, she’d probably want to come down for dinner. There were plenty of restaurants within walking distance, but she wouldn’t want to stroll in this heat wearing panty hose and heels.
I got to thinking about how idiotic this was. What? Was I a stalker now? Besides, it hit me how out of place I must have looked. Hotel Red is for the chic and trendy. I was in my typical go-to-work outfit. Loose denim skirt, sleeveless cotton blouse, Birkenstocks. Hair pulled back in a scrunchie. No makeup beyond Burt’s Bees lip balm. Nowhere near the sundresses, strappy sandals, and full-face makeup of every other woman in the place. I’d seen a woman who looked like me. Big deal. I decided to take myself home before I could embarrass myself further.
But first I had to go to the bathroom, so I made my way through the crowd to the restroom off the lobby. It was a two-stall setup, and I was glad to see only one was in use. When I was finished I went to the sink to wash my hands. Looking at myself in the mirror, I gave myself a mental talking-to for giving in to what was obviously a heat-related delusion or an easily explained something else. The toilet flushed in the other stall and then a woman stepped up to join me at the double sink. Our eyes locked in the reflection of the mirror. Both of us looked more than a little startled. Maybe there was even some amazement sprinkled in, I don’t know. We stared in silence while warm water ran over my hands. I finally turned off the spigot but made no move for a towel. The other woman didn’t move, either. We stared at each other. She was the first to speak.
“Well,” she said. “I’ll be damned.”
CHAPTER 5
“It’s like looking in a mirror. I mean, I know we’re actually looking in a mirror, but . . .” She let out a long sigh. “This is just plain bizarre.”
The bathroom lighting might have been unflattering, but it was bright enough for detailed accuracy. “I saw you walking the other day. Tuesday. I was in my car.”
“That was you? I thought I saw someone familiar. I chalked it up to my general disorientation.”
“You’re the reason I’m here.”
She pulled her head back in a pose of guarded curiosity.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I saw you on Tuesday. You looked so much like me. Then I saw you again a couple of minutes ago. You were crossing the street. Maybe I wanted to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”
She wiped her hands dry and tossed the paper towel into the trash. “You live in Madison?”
“Yeah. I’m Tess, by the way. Tess Kincaid.”
She nodded but kept her eyes on me, like she was sizing me up.
“I’m Mimi,” she said. “I flew in from Boston on Monday.”
She didn’t have a Boston accent. In fact, I didn’t hear any accent at all. Her voice sounded an awful lot like mine. Maybe a little deeper. Fuller somehow. “What brings you to town?”
“Job interview,” she said. “At the university.”
The door opened and two laughing women entered the bathroom. They stared at us for a moment, probably silently counting the number of cosmos they’d imbibed. If it weren’t for our different styles of dress, they’d have been certain they were seeing double.
“You in line?” one of them asked me.
“No,” I said. “We’re finished.” I turned to Mimi. She nodded toward the door and suggested we continue our conversation outside the bathroom. The two women gave us one last look. I heard their tipsy laughter resume as Mimi and I walked out into the busy lobby.
“Should we get a drink?” she asked, pointing to the outside patio. “Out there, if it’s okay with you. It’ll be hot, but at least we’ll have some quiet.” She must have sensed my hesitation and pressed a little harder. “Come on. How often does a person get to sit across the table from her own face?”
So we pushed our way through the crowded bar and took a seat at a table in the middle of the empty patio. The heat and humidity didn’t bother me. In fact, I like those dog days of summer, even though most people can’t stand them. The world seems smaller somehow when the air is that heavy and close. More manageable.
Mimi told me she wasn’t much of a drinker and wanted nothing more than a glass of water. We waited, but no server came.
“Maybe they figure anyone insane enough to sit outside in this soup doesn’t have cash or even room enough on their credit card for a couple of drinks,” Mimi said. “But I’m used to it. It gets so humid in Florida during the summer you swear you’re gonna have to sprout gills if you hope to keep on breathing.”
“I thought you said you were from Boston.”
“Only the past five years. I took my PhD from Tufts. Florida’s my home. Well, since we moved there when I was about twelve. Coral Gables.”
“Near Miami, right?”
“Actually, Coral Gables is like a donut hole of tranquility surrounded by the spicy Latin wildness that is Miami.” Mimi looked back into the restaurant. There was no sign of anyone coming out to see what we wanted. “Should we stand and flap our arms?”
I offered to get our drinks. She reached for her wallet, but I waved her off. Mimi was a visitor to my town. Besides, she wanted only a glass of water. The least I could do was get it for her while I picked up my own drink. I headed back into the hotel, elbowed my way up to the bar, and returned a few minutes later with two glasses. She thanked me as I set her ice water in front of her. I sat back down and took a sip of my gin and tonic.
“You’re here interviewing for a faculty position?” I asked.
She held up a finger, signaling me to hold on. I realized she’d taken a sip of water and was holding it in her mouth for a second or two before swallowing.
Like I always do.
“My PhD’s in history. I research American popular music. Faculty positions are hard to come by these days. I’m applying everywhere and doing the face-to-face wherever I get asked.”
“Any luck?”
“Here?” She shrugged. “Who knows? The position I interviewed for is only for one year. Somebody’s taking their sabbatical. I met with a lot of people. Even the man whose classes I’ll be covering. That must be strange, huh? Sitting across from the person who’s replacing you?” Mimi’s eyes were teasing. “I mean, how do you convince someone you’re genuine enough to step into their shoes?”
It seemed easy. Talking to her, I mean. I’ve never been the kind of person who likes to make small talk. Particularly with someone I’ve just met. They always seem to be asking questions. Prying, really. How do you feel about this? When’s the first time you whatever? I operate on the assumption that if someone wants me to know something, they’ll tell me. Other than that, I figure it’s none of my business. But having a conversation with Mimi was different. Thirty minutes after we sat down, I was halfway through my gin and tonic, talking to her as easily as I do Rosie. She didn’t pounce on me with questions. We just shared. We learned neither of us was married. We were both only children, and each was more a dog than cat person. Anyone listening to us would never guess we’d met less than an hour before.
“What was your dissertation topic?” I asked.
Mimi rolled her eyes in self-mockery. “I did three hundred forty pages on the healing influence of Barry Manilow. Don’t laugh. I put a lot of solid research in there. The man was a god back in the day. I would love to have been living when he was in his prime. Every heart broken in the seventies and eighties was made a little better with a Manilow tune. I’ll bet you don’t even know who he is.”
