The soft scurrying noise of the rodents and the warmth of the room envelop me. While I know intellectually that this is a torture chamber, being faced with their lives brings me comfort for some reason. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I am not the only one in pain. I sink back into the couch, watching these little creatures busy in their work. Sleeping curled in corners. Chewing wood shavings. Clutching water bottles. Pressing paws to cage wall, sniffing at the air that has been disturbed by my presence.
Will appears from behind a door with a glass of water. He sits down next to me and offers me the drink.
“Grace, has the train stopped?”
I listen carefully. “Yes.” I turn away, embarrassed that he has heard my confusion. My confession. “I feel so stupid. It was probably just a piece of equipment.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. We all have those moments of dislocation.”
I take a sip of water. The coolness slips down my throat and clarity begins to emerge again. Will leans forward and places his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.
“Remember when I said I wanted to tell you about my life?”
I nod and focus on steadying the glass of water in my hands.
“I have, or I should say, I had, a twin sister. She was my best friend.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Thanks.” He looks at me. “You know, we were so alike we even both surfed goofy.” He notes my expression. “That just means we surfed with our right foot forward.”
I force myself to smile.
“She was my better self. In all ways. Older, smarter, stronger, nicer, funnier, more popular. Although . . .” He frowns. “I contend that I was the better-looking twin.”
“I bet that was debatable,” I note.
“Hey, I had to claim something.”
We both smile, and the moment of lightness feels so good we sit in silence and let it linger between us.
“You must miss her,” I finally say.
“All the time.”
“How long has it been since you lost her?”
“She died four years ago. She had schizophrenia.”
I turn to stare at the animals; their noises seem louder. Will stands up and checks on one of the rats in the bottom row, who is making strange echoing squeaks.
“Was she in a hospital at the end?”
Will shakes his head and returns to the couch. “No, she was home with me and my parents. She was getting better. The medication was working. It felt like a miracle. I was so happy to have her back. It was almost like the way it had always been between us. I thought . . .” Will looks down at his hands. “I thought she was getting better. But then a few weeks later—”
The slight screeching sound of an exercise wheel turning and turning and turning fills the room.
“My dad has this sword collection. And . . . she got into the room.”
I reach out and place my hand on Will’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me if this is hard.”
“No, I need to talk about it. Otherwise, her death would have been pointless. Her life . . . can still help others. That’s what I believe.”
I nod and take my hand away from his arm.
“I found her with the sword and I tried to take it away from her.” Will holds out his palms. “That’s how I got these scars. But I got the sword away from her.”
I reach out and gently trace the edges with my finger. It must have been so painful, but he had not let go of the blade. My vision blurs as I think about how hard those who love us must work to save us.
“It didn’t do any good, though. Because in the end, she still found a way to end her life a few days later.” Will takes my hand in both of his, the rough ridges of his scars pressing into my skin. “You know what I want more than anything? I want answers. Why her and not me? What this sickness means. It makes no sense. Even a car accident I can understand. But to see someone lose their mind piece by piece, moment by moment. Why?”
“Why not?” I ask. “Are we supposed to be invincible? Isn’t there always a price to be paid? We pillage our environment and we suffer natural disasters. The rich use the poor and we have riots. It’s history, Will. Our human history. We have fucked-up diseases that pass on from generation to generation, repeating one too many genes or being completely absent on some random chromosome. It’s not why, but when.”
Will shakes his head. “No, I refuse to accept that. She was robbed of her life because of a disease that we can control. We are not invincible, but we can evolve.”
I slip my hand from his and stare into his eyes. I tell him a truth. “I’m glad my mother disappeared.”
Will exhales loudly.
“I’m glad because she scared me. I have lived a life free from that fear ever since. And I think . . .” I shake my head. “No, I know she was doing that for me. Dad never wanted to believe she was sane when she left that day. He thought it was her schizophrenia that made her leave us . . . him. That it wasn’t her choice, which was why he had to find her. But how do you tell someone that you can’t truly find a crazy person? I was the only one home with her the day she left.”
The memory of that day, how she fell to her knees and pulled me so close, her nose sinking into my hair,
