Page 44 of The Twins

When my ringtone sounds, I twitch. Mr. David never calls me at this hour, not ever. He respects me enough to only bother me during the day. He wants me to sleep at night and dream of him, our excruciating friendship.

I let it ring for some time until I grow restless. At last, I feel something. I drag myself out of bed, and I reluctantly pick up the phone. The response on the other end comes quickly, and I freeze at the words.

It’s my mother.

Mr. David tells me that she’s dead.

* * *

“She wanted you to have this,”Vegas says, handing me Mom’s favorite bracelet. It’s tasteful jewelry that my dad bought for her when she gave birth to us. She never took it off. The diamonds on the slim bracelet are embraced by a delicate line of gold.

Grasping it, I feel my mom’s warmth.

Two hours ago, we buried her, and now, we’re back home, doing nothing.

For once, Vegas doesn’t act like a baby brother. He’s the mature one today. At the funeral service, he shook all the hands and accepted our wishes and our future. His clothes appeared flawless, ironed, and smelling of lilies. My suit barely fit me because I grew out of it, and I didn’t have the energy to buy a new one.

Vegas didn’t cry while I crumbled like a broken boy.

It was embarrassing, considering that old friends of my parents were in attendance. Friends that can report back to my bosses and tell them how much of a pussy I am, how pathetic I look when I grieve.

How untrustworthy I am.

How weak.

What a terrible example of a man.

I’m so fucking weak that my brother didn’t think to tell me that Mom had grown sick earlier this month. She got admitted to intensive care, and nobody bothered to tell me a thing.

When she died of pneumonia, Mr. David was the one to tell me about it. Not that pneumonia was the sole reason for her death.

Mom loved Dad, and in a heartbreaking twist to their story, he died first, and she couldn’t bear to be alone. I don’t like country, although I grew up in a household that belted out the likes of Johnny Cash and his wife, June Carter Cash. Mom and Dad were die-hard fans.

Even my brother likes them, and he’s a shallow piece of shit.

I remember Mom and Dad dragging us to see Walk The Line in theaters when it came out after Johnny Cash died. Mom cried throughout the movie and on our way home afterward.

Guess what? Cash died a few months after his wife.

I replay that movie in my head often. It’s not what I would call my favorite entertainment, but I know that Mom and Dad had their troubles before we, their miracle babies, came along. We never witnessed those toxic troubles, but they were there. Just like Johnny and June had a rollercoaster of a romance.

This twisted reverse retelling of spouses dying after one another, presumably due to heartbreak…

More reasons to hear from my brother instead of Andre David.

Sure, he’s our neighbor. He used to be much more to me. Perhaps he still is… But I would have preferred to hear from my brother.

Who is Vegas, sitting here next to me on the sofa? I don’t recognize him.

I don’t hear Mr. David when he enters our home. Suddenly, he stands in front of us. Out of all the things that have changed, he remains the same.

Everything about him is perfect. He sat close to us at the service today, and I couldn’t bear to look at him. He makes me want to break out in tears, and he’s never wronged me.

He simply incorporates everything I wish I could be.

“We need to talk,” Mr. David says, and I glower at him. I’m jealous of him and what he is. I’m not jealous of the possible partners he’s had over the years, the men that he doesn’t talk about in my presence. The dates he’s been on. The kisses he’s shared. Other things that I don’t like to think about because they include his naked body, and I can’t handle my heart breaking some more today.

“Tomorrow,” Vegas responds, stretching over the sofa. He’s exhausted from today, from playing the role of the incomparable Remo. For one day, he steps into my shoes, and he dares to feel exhausted by it? What am I supposed to say after being me for twenty years?

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