No One Knows Us Here(28)



Last night, after Sam left, I huddled under my covers and watched their videos on my laptop, studying them. There they were, on a hillside, the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. In another, they sawed away on strange, body-less instruments in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Four videos altogether. In every one of them, Sam faded into the background, his hair falling over his face. It was his identical twin brother, T. J., who was the leader, the star, staring directly into the camera, stomping his feet, raising his violin bow into the air. He looked just like Sam, but harder. Wilder.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.” I waited in case Sam wanted to stop me, but he didn’t. His body was relaxed beside mine, his breath steady and slow now, his hand caressing my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your brother,” I said.

“So am I.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I know.” But then he told me anyway. He told me about growing up in a narrow Queen Anne house, right in the Mission District in San Francisco. Outside grew a giant cork oak tree that Sam and T. J. used to spend hours playing in. They could climb out their bedroom window straight into the tree’s branches. Sam’s first memory was falling out of the tree. He was three or four and landed on the sidewalk, broke his arm. Spent the rest of the summer in a cast. He remembered the feeling of it, how it itched. The white, shriveled skin underneath the plaster.

“Years later I find out it never happened,” he said. “I never broke my arm. I never even fell out of that tree.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam looked up at the ceiling, and I studied his face in profile. His long, straight nose. “It came up one year. I must have been fifteen, sixteen years old. I was talking about it, about breaking my arm, and my mom goes, ‘That wasn’t you. That was your brother.’”

I’d heard that before, I said. Twins, they have that connection.

“So when I found him—he was in the bathtub, his face underwater—”

I brushed my hands over his face as if to wipe away his tears, although he wasn’t crying. “I know. I know.” I’d read about T. J.’s addiction problem, their last concert in Sweden, the overdose. I kissed Sam so he wouldn’t have to tell me all his sad stories, and he kissed me back, and then we had sex again, slower this time. When we were done, the rain had stopped and it was quiet in the room.



We stayed in bed until dark.

We lay on our sides, facing each other, our foreheads touching, murmuring stupid things, things only the two of us thought were funny, things only the two of us would understand. We agreed we were starving, that we needed to get up, to nourish ourselves. We discussed ordering a pizza and dismissed the idea as impractical. Someone would have to buzz the pizza guy in. Someone would have to open the door. It all seemed like too much effort, just for a bit of sustenance.

We needed to go to the store for provisions, stock up for days or weeks or months. We could prepare like we were alpine backpackers or astronauts. We could eat out of foil packets of freeze-dried food. We could drink Tang.

We made the difficult decision to venture out, to tear our bodies apart, to climb out from the warmth of the bed, to pull our clothes back on. It was a terrible feeling, to pull chilled, rumpled clothes onto warm skin.

In the elevator, we kissed. We stepped out of the building and onto the sidewalk, holding hands. And right then, I froze. I dropped his hand and shoved mine into my coat pockets. I looked up and down the street. It was still raining, but just a little bit. More like very aggressive mist than actual raindrops. The street was empty. Not one car was coming in either direction. I exhaled.

What was I thinking, waltzing out of my apartment building, my neighbor’s hand in mine? He’d been in a band—a “classically trained alt-rock ensemble.” He could have fans, paparazzi. Autograph hounds. They would take our picture. I’d show up on the gossip pages of the newspaper, and then it would all be over for me.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked me.

“Nothing.” I looked over at him. His eyes were narrowed in concern. “I felt paranoid all of a sudden. Like I was being watched.” I laughed, to show him that I knew I was being nonsensical. “Have you ever felt like that?”

“No.”

I looked around again, up and down the street. I inspected the outside of our building. When I determined that it was safe, I linked my arm through his. I could explain that better than hand-holding, if it came to that. “Let’s go,” I said. “Stock up on provisions and never leave the apartment again.”

In Fred Meyer, we wound our way through the kitchen goods aisle, and Sam picked up a four-quart stockpot. My housewarming present, he told me, so we could make pasta sometime. It was just Revere Ware, nothing fancy like we sold at La Cuisine. We carried it around the store, filling it with lettuce and garlic bulbs and a lemon and wedges of cheese.

We ate doughnuts straight from the case and wrote the item numbers down so we could pay for them later. This made me feel self-righteous, for a brief moment. See, I told myself. This proves that I am a good person. An honest person who wouldn’t even steal a doughnut.

I forgot about Leo. I forgot about the Glasseyes. We were in the checkout line when our eyes met, mine and Sam’s, and a tiny jolt of electricity buzzed through me. Sam was smiling, and his eyes were shooting sparks, and for a moment I let myself think it was all because of me, that I’d awakened him somehow, given him a reason to feel alive. I knew I should stop this line of thinking because, god! How narcissistic could I possibly get? But it seemed true. After all, he did the same for me. I’d never felt the way I felt right then, standing in the checkout line at Fred Meyer, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I let him. I couldn’t help myself.

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