A personal essay by Elizabeth
“You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not.”
Then comes the curiosity.
“Who’s older?”
It’s me, but no one would guess that.
“Only by one minute.”
Then the question that I dread the most.
“Are you two close?”
Are we?
I usually answer with an “Eh, kind of. We’re close when it truly matters.”
But what constitutes a situation where it really matters? I think it would have mattered if she had been nicer to me during our teenage years. If she hadn’t pretended I was invisible, or worse, embarrassed me in front of my friends.
It’s hard to explain to your parents that you’re being bullied by your twin.
She knew how to attack the most vulnerable part of you, whether your argument was related to it or not. In an argument, she’s brutal. She’s also extremely stubborn. To be honest, so am I, which only makes the whole thing worse. I can’t tell you how many times our Jack and Jill bathroom witnessed our fights, spoken in ferocious whispers as to avoid alerting our parents.
It got better in high school. She started going to the doctor, taking meds, and seeing a therapist. Of course, I never heard anything about this until my senior year, when it slipped out in conversation. She never told me anything.
Just because she started taking medicine didn’t mean our relationship had been completely healed. It was hard to want to trust her again, and she didn’t think I could ever understand what she was going through.
I can understand why she didn’t like me. We were twins, and yet she was the one that inherited all the mental and physical health issues. The only thing I have is bad eyesight.
I would resent me too if I were her.
9:03 PM
Not rooming together was a mutual decision. It would be less awkward for the roommates, and we’d get to live independently. We still wanted to be close enough to come over to each other’s apartments. She lived directly underneath me, and I’d often receive texts from her saying that her roommates were fed up with our noise.
I live in a noisy apartment, with five of my closest friends. None of us knew each other, yet we instantly bonded over our love of music, movies, and just having fun.
Her roommates were different. Sure, they were nice, but that was it. They were all a few years older than her, and had lost the excitement of being at college.
I told her she could come over whenever she wanted, but she didn’t want to be a burden. Whenever she did come over, my roommates were excited to see her. They always remarked about how funny she was, and how much they enjoyed her company. My twin didn’t believe me, or them, but I knew how much coming up to our apartment cheered her up.
It was always quiet in her apartment, all of her roommates spending most of their time outside of it. If they were in the apartment, they sat quietly secluded in their rooms.
That’s why no one noticed the stretcher.
10:35 PM
I was wearing my roommate's gloves the night I got the call. I had to answer the phone with my nose, because my too-big gloves didn’t work with the touch screen. My dad’s voice quavered on the other side as he told me what happened. I started to shake, and cry, from both the relief that she was alive and terror at what had happened. My sobs were loud, and my roommate held me. Contrary to what most books say, you can tell where the scream is coming from. It’s not a surprise when the pain you’re feeling escapes your lips. It’s all too familiar. My roommate rubs my back, and I fall to my knees. This is what the books get right.
11:48 PM
“I’m wearing llama socks.”
“What?” I ask, partly because I didn’t understand and partly to buy myself some more time. I close the door behind me.
“Llama socks,” she repeats, struggling to pull the sheets away from her feet. The nurse helps her.
Sure enough, she’s wearing llama socks. They look ridiculous paired with her hospital gown.
I take the seat next to the bed, clutching a piece of shredded tissue in my hand. The nurse leaves.
My twin glances towards the IV in her arm. Her curls are flattened, her face gray.
I can understand why people refer to this feeling with the phrase “elephant in the room”. No words that I could say will ever be big enough to address this.
The crisis counselor gave me a clipboard. The questions are for my sister, but she isn’t in the best position to use a pen right now. I glance through the questions and suck in a breath.
“Do you want me to just ask you the questions and write down the answers?”
She nods.
I pause before asking the next question. I shouldn’t be the one doing this.
“Why do you want to live?”
“Because I don’t want to die.”
I hadn’t expected her answer to be so immediate, so raw. The pen wobbles between my fingers as I write it down.
We continue the process, question and answer, question and answer, until we are done. The counselor isn’t back, so I set the clipboard on the floor.
“Come over here,” she asks, motioning towards the side of her bed.
I scoot my chair over, rather awkwardly, and set it next to her.
She holds her hand out, and I take it.
1:17 AM
“Get the trash can.”
I can sense the urgency in her voice, so I jump off of the couch.
She’s holding her mouth with her hands, her breath shallow and panicked.
The can that she’s pointing to has a revolving lid. No way that’s going to work. The only other trash can is a large brown one in the corner. I grab it, making it to her side just in time.
I try not to watch, but I can’t help it.
She’s throwing up charcoal, black all over her hands, mouth, and lips. It doesn’t smell.
My pinky finger is pinched between my knee and the can. It starts to fall asleep.
She pulls her head back, shaking with relief.
“Did you push the nurse button?” I ask, setting the bin down.
“Yes, while I was throwing up.” She holds her hands up to her face, inspecting the black liquid.
I wet a few paper towels and hand them to her. It’s not enough, so I grab a few more.
“Are you sure you pushed the button?”
She throws the paper towels into the same bin.
“I did. Maybe it’s not working.”
We sit in silence for a few more moments, but no one comes in.
“I’ll go get someone.”
I peek my head out the door. Two nurses are right down the hall, typing away at two computers.
“My sister threw up,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended to be. They hear, and stand up from their computers. I’m followed back into the room by two nurses who don’t seem at all alarmed. That gives me some comfort.
One of them hands her a smaller trash can. I don’t know where she got it, but I wish I had seen it earlier. The other hands her a long blue plastic bag, with a hard ring around the outside. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a fancy barf bag.
I stand by her side, unsure of what to do with myself. I watch the male nurse leave. The female one stays, and tells us about how she wanted to be a teacher.
She is soon gone, as well, and I dim the lights.
Neither of them changed the trash.
5:38 PM
We grab our coats and head to the door. My twin is laying on the couch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped tight around her. Her hospital bracelet still clings to her wrist.
“Do you want to come with?”
She shakes her head. “No, just send me a picture of the flavors and I’ll text you which one I want.”
Everyone is out the door but me.
“Ok, you can just venmo me when I get back.”
I’m out the door before she can respond.
We all pack into the car. It’s a tight fit, but luckily 7/11 isn’t that far away.
I took a picture of all of the flavors as soon as we got there. I texted it to her, pocketed my phone, and filled up my cup.
She still hadn’t responded over ten minutes later. Everyone had already paid for their drink. They were all waiting for me now, watching the hot dogs roll around in the heater.
“If you don’t answer within the next two minutes, I’m picking your flavor for you,” I text.
Two minutes go by, no answer.
I grab a cup and stand in front of the machine, wondering what flavor to pick.
Do I know her well enough to pick one she’ll like? There’s over 15 kinds, what if I pick the wrong one?
I fill the cup up with strawberry lemonade, hoping I made the right decision. I bring our cups up to the register, and pay for both of them.
My phone buzzes in between my legs on the ride home. I check it. It’s a text from my twin, saying she wants strawberry lemonade.
For some reason, I feel extremely proud of myself, and I smile, hard.
4:02 PM
My mom flew in from Chicago the next day. She and my twin packed up her room, putting everything into a few suitcases that they stuffed inside the tiny rental car.
I follow my twin out with the last box, full of her perfumes. I take my favorite one out, and spray it all over my clothes.
”Can you smell it?” I ask as my mom walks by.
“Yes, I can smell it. Smells good.”
I pick up the box again, careful as I walk down the stairs. When I get to the car, I slip it into the only space left in the back of the trunk. Somehow, it all fits perfectly.
I give my mom a long hug, promising to call her and give her updates on how I am doing.
My twin is already sitting in the passenger seat, arranging her backpack at her feet.
“Aren’t you going to hug your sister?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs.
“Of course, sorry.”
She climbs out with some difficulty, untangling her feet from the straps of her bag.
I wrap my arms around her, and we don’t say anything. The feeling of her close to me is still foreign, but now less uncomfortable. She pulls away, wiping tears from her eyes.
“See you next summer,” she says, stepping back into the car and pulling the door shut.
My mom gives me one last hug, then gets into the driver’s seat.
I back away as the car pulls out of the parking spot.
Before it is too late, I run back to the stairs, standing on the balcony that overlooks the parking lot.
As they pull out into the street, I wave goodbye.
The car honks twice, then turns right.
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