Mom thinks out loud as we pull into our driveway, "Boy, I hope John went shopping. We need to stock up if all the stores run out of food and supplies." I know something inside of me aches when Mom says that. Maybe it's the way she says it, or what she says specifically, but my heart feels a deep pain.
I have no way of knowing, but at this moment, it feels like there is something really big missing from my life, and I can't place it. It seems distant, so I let it go. We go inside, and Mom starts dinner.
We eat without Dad like most nights. And like most nights, something feels missing. I enter the kitchen and smell "variety" as I had requested two nights before. Hot dogs.
"Would you mind slicing the buns?" asks Mom, opening a bag of Wonder-white buns.
"Yeah, no problem." I approach the knife block and select a bread knife, then cut six of them. Two for me, two for Mom, and two for Dad. I leave Dad's in the bag.
When the hot dogs are done cooking, Mom takes them out of the microwave and plates them, then sets them on the table. As I grab our plates, I ask, "Mom?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Was I bad or mischievous when I was little?"
"No, honey, you were very kind and well-behaved. Still are. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I just had a funny memory."
"What's that?" she asks. I think for a moment, trying to put the memory into words.
"I remember running away. Twice. Once when I was probably three or four. I had been very angry about something, but I forget what. I think the police found me. I was still very angry at you, and I wasn't allowed to be at home." It looks like Mom might tear up. "And then the second time I ran away, I was—" I think for a bit, "I was thirteen, and it was on my birthday. But I know I didn't run away on my birthday, I was here—they're all fuzzy memories. I don't really remember most of my past birthdays." Mom just listens. "Wait, that's so weird." I let out a short, amused, bewildered laugh. "Now that I think about it, I don't really remember anything from my childhood. Why is that?"
"Oh, I'm sure it's fine, honey," Mom says reassuringly. Her eyes are dry. So did I just imagine it? "That kind of thing happens to me if I have a very busy day. Things that aren't as important take a backseat, and it's difficult to recall those memories." I want to trust her, but something about the vibe she gives me doesn't match what she says. I ignore it for now, though. Maybe I'll ask Dad about it later.
We eat our hot dogs at the table, and when I finish, the door opens.
Dad pokes his head inside and says, "Hey champ! Wanna come outside and help me unload?"
"Unload?" I ask. I slip my shoes on and walk outside. Dad is smiling at me. Then I look around him at the back of his truck. There's a tarp strapped down over a mountain of stuff. "What's all that?" I ask. He unstraps the tarp and slides it off to reveal a literal truckload of supplies: Non-perishable food, other edible goodies, survival equipment, and anything else one might need to survive the apocalypse. "Nice," I say, completely forgetting about the conversation I had with Mom. I return inside and get Mom.
She walks out and puts a hand to her mouth, "I knew you would," she says, and runs up to embrace Dad. They kiss. Thankfully, it isn't nearly as intense as last night.
Mom and I help Dad unload the truck and put most of the stuff in our basement.
I unload the last of it and kick the tailgate closed. About to go inside, I see out of the corner of my eye a girl on the sidewalk across from our house. She's on her knees, crying, hands on her face. Something inside me—probably my heart—shatters, and I swallow the huge sob trying to burst its way out.
"You coming, son?" Dad asks from just inside the doorway.
"Yeah," I say without meeting his eyes. I set the stuff I'm carrying on the landing inside, and Dad walks off to the kitchen. I glance back toward the sidewalk, but she is gone. Thinking I have imagined it, I start to close the door.
"Macky!" a girl's voice cries out. I stop and step back outside. A beautifully sad but happy girl runs up and embraces me, squeezing tightly. A small, quiet part of me knows what is going on, and the rest has not a clue. At last, I can't hold in anything anymore. I sob into her shoulder, not knowing who she is or why I am sad. She's crying too.
Mom and Dad rush outside to see what's wrong, but all I can hear is the girl's grateful voice. "Macky—Macky," she weeps. "I found you—I found you. I love you so much—my sweet little brother."
I thought my heart had started fixing itself, but when she says "my sweet little brother," it smashes into a million different pieces. I can faintly hear both my parents crying as well.
After five painfully sweet minutes, we gather our emotions long enough to go inside. Dad busies himself with taking the supplies from the landing downstairs, and I join Mom—and I guess my sister—in the living room.
Mom is still crying softly and starts up again when she says, "Macky, I am so very sorry for not telling you the truth." I know when she uses my real name instead of "honey," that she is.
Mom sits down on the loveseat. I sit down on the couch, and my sister follows me. Dad comes upstairs and sits on the loveseat next to Mom, his eyes redder than I have ever seen them.
Then, my sister surprises me by exploding at our parents. "Why?! Why didn't you tell him?! It was so painful all my life knowing that he didn't know I existed! I'm connected to him, but he didn't even know!" she continues to sob next to me, her hip against mine.
"I will tell him," Dad says to Mom, seeming to have control of his emotions enough to speak properly. "Macky," he begins. "When you were born, you had a twin sister. Briana," he gestured to my sister next to me. By now, I'm not surprised to find out she is my twin.
Dad continues, "When you came out of the womb, we thought you were conjoined twins, but you were just holding each other very tight. It was difficult to separate the two of you without injuring you both." I don't notice it till now, but Briana and I are holding each other, as Dad has described. "It was evident that you were not normal twins. Every chance you got, both of you would be so close together, clinging to each other like it was the end of the world. For six years, you two tried to be together at all costs, but it was getting a little weird in the house. Something just didn't seem right about all of it, and it was becoming a problem. So, your mom and I tried giving you both amnesia therapy. And it worked for you, Macky," he pauses, "But Bree was too strong. Soon, she became very bitter and resented us because she couldn't be with you. And you didn't let her because you had no reason to. Your memory of your sister was very messed up, and you didn't know what to think of her. Finally, six-year-old Bree couldn't stand living with you and not being able to be close to you, and she ran away." Dad's voice breaks ever so slightly, and it doesn't look like he wants to continue. "When the police found her, they knew she was our child—"
"But I remember all of it!" I interrupt. "I remember not being able to be with my other half. I remember running away! This doesn't make any sense!"
"I was and still am stuck with our memories," I hear Bree's soft and beautiful voice next to me. "It's like I lived two different lives. That's why it killed me so much to know my brother was missing something and didn't know it. The knowledge and weight of two lives, and I couldn't do a thing about it. That was until I thought about running away from the care home for kids dealing with trauma." Dad looks at Bree, an anguished apology written across his face. He continues the story from where he left off.
"When she ran away from us, the police tried to bring Briana back, but she was really stubborn. They called us and asked what we wanted to do. And after days of agony, we decided to put her in a specialized care facility in hopes that it would help her."
"I'll take over from here," Bree says sharply. "I know the rest better than you." Her tone clearly doesn't hide the bitterness she still holds, and it doesn't seem like she wants to. "On my thirteenth birthday, I escaped that awful place and began searching, traveling across the whole province. Then one day, as I was close enough, I felt your presence in Winnipeg. And, I found you." Briana turns to me and smiles, tears still trickling down her cheeks.
Mom has composed herself by now and contributes to the conversation. "Macky, this seemed like the best solution at the time. We always wanted you to see each other again someday. Life was normal without—" She stops herself before finishing that sentence and tries again. "We were cowards. It was easier for your dad and I to move on without your sister. But that wasn't the right choice.
Macky, Briana, I know I can't express to you just how sorry I am, and I won't ask for your forgiveness." There is an awkward pause. "Briana, if it's not too much to ask, I'd like you to live with us again."
Briana takes a deep breath. "I'd be doing it for Macky. Not so you and Dad can feel better about yourselves. And you're right, you don't deserve it, but I'm not going to stoop to your level. So, Mom, Dad, I forgive you."