Night and Day
Candy Thorpe was four years old when she noticed the two sisters who lived in the house next door looked nothing alike. Margaretta, the younger one, had brown hair and blue eyes, while her sister's hair was red and her eyes green. Margaretta looked like her mother; her sibling, Caterina, resembled her father.
"How come Phoebe looks just like me?" the inquisitive four-year-old asked her mother.
"Because the two of you aren't just sisters. You're twins," Sharon Thorpe answered.
Candy would later learn that not all sets of twins looked alike, though. She and Phoebe were identical twins. Their resemblance was so strong that sometimes even their parents had difficulty telling them apart.
Like many parents of twins, Sharon dressed her two daughters the same when they were babies. It was only when the girls entered school that their individual tastes in clothing began to emerge. Candy liked to wear dresses, the more colorful and frillier the better. Phoebe preferred jeans and T-shirts. It was not only their sense of style that distinguished one twin from the other. Their personalities were dissimilar, too. As a youngster, Candy liked to dress up and pretend she was a fashion model, whereas Phoebe preferred music to makeup and longed to be a guitar player in a rock band.
By the time the Thorpe sisters entered high school, they were, to use an old cliché, as different as night and day. Candy was the fashionista. Her appearance was always immaculate. Not only was her blond hair perfectly styled, but her nails were of uniform length and always polished. The clothes she wore accentuated her slender figure and complemented her beauty. It was not surprising, then, that she was one of the most popular students in school.
Phoebe, on the other hand, dyed her hair black and had it cut in a short, spikey style. She wore faded jeans, frayed at the hem, and T-shirts bearing images of her favorite rock groups. Like her sister, she had more than her share of suitors, but these young men were not the high school athletes and overachievers her more popular sibling attracted. Her friends were the loners, the outcasts and those who suffered from teenage angst.
Despite their differences, the sisters shared a close bond. Phoebe did not resent her seemingly perfect sister, nor did Candy look down upon her sibling's gothic appearance, bohemian ways and strange friends.
"We may be identical twins," the bright, bubbly, blond sister often declared, "but we're two different people. Phoebe is who she is, and I am who I am. And I, for one, hope we always remain best friends."
When the girls entered their senior year of high school, however, that prospect looked less likely. Candy, an A-student, received a scholarship to a top college where she planned on studying medicine. Her sister, who had the brains but not the ambition to excel in academics, managed somehow to get accepted at an art school. Although she would have preferred following her dreams of becoming a rock star, she decided it would be more practical to capitalize on her talent for drawing and pursue an art education.
"Maybe you can become a book illustrator or work for a greeting card company," Sharon suggested.
"Really, Mom?" Phoebe laughed. "Can you see me designing Hallmark cards?"
"What you should do is team up with a writer and do a graphic novel," her twin advised.
"That's not a bad idea. I'd love to create a character like Eric Draven or even a comic book series like The Walking Dead. Speaking of zombies, who's taking you to the prom?"
"Carter Hollins."
"It figures that as the head cheerleader, you'd go to the prom with the captain of the football team."
"And you? Who are you going with?"
"No one."
"You're going by yourself?"
"I'm not going at all."
"Are you kidding? This is your senior prom. It's a once-in-a-lifetime event. You can't miss out on it!"
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the sister who hates school."
"Please go. For me. Prom won't be the same without my other half."
"Sorry. No way."
Candy, however, was not going to take "no" for an answer. For more than two weeks, she pleaded with her sister. Eventually, she wore her twin's resistance down.
"Okay," Phoebe finally conceded. "I suppose I have to go. What's one Thorpe sister without the other?"
* * *
"I had that dream again last night," Phoebe told her therapist.
"That makes how many times this month?" Irving Ismay inquired.
"Six so far, and the month is only half over."
"And it's still the same? No variations at all?"
"Nope. I'm standing in a crowd of people watching Candy and Carter Hollins being crowned queen and king of the prom. One minute, my sister is all smiles and laughter; the next, she's lying dead on the stage, her face and blond hair red with blood."
"Seven other people died that night, including the shooter himself," the therapist reminded her. "Do you ever dream about any of them?"
"No. Just my sister."
"And your parents? Where do they fit into your nightmares?"
"They don't."
"You sound angry."
"I haven't spoken a word to my mother and father since they put me in this place."
"You mustn't be upset with them. Their one daughter was killed, and the other ... well, they acted in what they believed was your best interest."
"I fail to see how locking me away in a loony bin is in my best interest!" Phoebe exclaimed.
"You had a traumatic experience. Your twin sister was shot and killed in front of your eyes. You need to work through the trauma if you want to lead a normal, productive life."
"Who says I want to?"
"You told me that before that tragic night of the prom, your plans were to go to art school; yet in all the time you've been here, you haven't participated in any of the art programs this facility offers."
"So? Maybe I changed my mind about a career as an illustrator."
"Have you?"
"I don't know what I want to do. It's hard to think about the future when one is tormented by the past."
"And that's why you're here. You need to come to terms with what happened on that night if you want to move on with your life."
"I have come to terms with it. My sister died, and I didn't."
"Do you blame yourself?"
"No," the patient emphatically insisted. "Why should I? I wasn't the one who brought a gun to the school and opened fire on all those people."
"That's true. Yet you keep having those dreams over and over again."
"As you said, I saw my twin killed in front of me. I never studied psychology, but I think it's only natural that my mind would relive that event in my nightmares."
The therapist stared into his patient's eyes. If only he had a key to unlock the horrors that lie behind them and get to the truth, he would free her forever from the recurring dreams that tormented her.
* * *
Phoebe rarely looked into the mirror because she hated what she saw there. Since being admitted to a private psychiatric institution, she was unable to color her hair. After almost a decade of haircuts, the black was completely gone, leaving behind her natural blond.
"I look more like my sister every day," she moaned despondently. "How does Ismay expect me to ever get better if I'm not allowed to be myself?"
Even the nondescript clothing she wore robbed her of her identity.
After eating breakfast in the communal dining room, she walked down the hall to the therapist's office. Rather than sitting behind his desk as was his usual habit, Irving sat on the sofa. He held a guitar in his hand and played an old Beatles tune that Phoebe recognized as "Norwegian Wood."
"You know this song?" he asked.
"Yeah. My father is a Beatles fan. One of his favorite albums is Rubber Soul."
"Your parents told me you took guitar lessons as a child. Would you play something for me?" Irving requested, offering the Fender acoustic guitar to her.
"I don't play anymore."
"No? Why not? Your mother said you liked music more than art."
"That was years ago," the patient protested. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm no longer a teenager. In another three years, I'll turn thirty."
"Yes. You've been here almost ten years already."
"Has it been that long? My goodness, how time flies when you’re having fun!" she cried, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Surely you don't want to be here another ten years?"
"Does that mean you're going to let me go home?"
"I'm afraid I can't do that. You tried twice to kill yourself. If I release you, you might try a third time."
"And if I did, what difference would it make? It's not as though I'm leading a useful life. On the contrary, my continued existence is nothing but a financial drain on my parents."
"It is exactly that attitude that keeps you here," Ismay pointed out. "Why aren't you willing to cooperate? Don't you want to lead a normal life?"
"I thought you people frowned on the use of the word normal," the disturbed woman laughed.
"Why must you play these games?" Irving sighed with frustration. "You ought to be out in the world. You could have a career, a family of your own or both."
"What makes you think I want those things?"
"You'd rather stay here?"
"No. I wouldn't," she reluctantly admitted.
"Then cooperate. Tell me about prom night."
"Must we go through it all again? I told both you and Dr. Van Cleef about it so many times already."
"And you're going to keep on telling me until I get the complete story out of you."
For the next twenty minutes, Phoebe described the events of the fateful May evening. She had told it many times over the past decade, and her account never varied. Every detail was the same. It was as though she were reading from a script.
"I went to the prom alone. Candy attended with her date, Carter Hollins, the captain of the football team. She wore a white gown, and her hair was up in an elaborate arrangement of curls. She was stunning, but I didn't look too bad either—if I do say so myself. My mother took me to a vintage clothing store, and I got a black satin and lace dress. Everyone always said my sister and I were as different as night and day. That evening, we each looked our respective parts. My sister was like a sunny afternoon, and I was like a moonless, starless night."
Irving patiently listened to Phoebe's description of the decorations in the high school gym, the food that was served and the music the band played. What he was most eager to hear, however, was her report of the angry student who entered the gym and shot twelve people before turning the gun on himself.
"The principal announced the king and queen, and Carter Hollins and Candy went up on stage," the surviving sister continued. "She was so beautiful! They put the crown on her head and handed her a bouquet of roses. She was so happy that she cried tears of joy. I must admit there were tears in my eyes, too. You see, as different as we were, we loved each other."
The patient sobbed, and Irving pushed the box of tissues he kept on his desk in her direction. She wiped away her tears, blew her nose and continued her story.
"I never saw the gunman enter the gym. I was staring up at my sister, and she was looking down at me. I heard the shot over the song that was being played. At the same moment, Candy's head seemed to explode. There was panic in the room. There were more shots. Carter fell down beside my sister. People were screaming and running for the exits, but I didn't move. I stood there in shock, looking at my sister's body. I wanted to go to her, but my legs wouldn't respond."
Phoebe spoke for ten more minutes, but the therapist was not satisfied.
"Your story still hasn't changed," he observed.
"You wanted me to tell you what happened that night, and I have—repeatedly. Candy and I went to the prom. She was voted prom queen, and shortly after she was crowned, she was gunned down in front of me. What more do you want me to say?"
"That's not exactly what happened, and somewhere in your mind, you know what did."
The patient was sincerely perplexed by Irving Ismay's refusal to accept her account.
"If you think I shot my sister, you're crazier than I am!" she screamed and ran from his office.
* * *
"I didn't kill my sister," Phoebe screamed, frantically pacing her empty room like a caged animal in a zoo. "I loved her! Why must that idiot therapist continue torturing me with his ridiculous questions and unfounded suspicions?"
As she passed by her dresser for the umpteenth time, she caught her reflection in the mirror. As always, the face she saw saddened her.
"It's her hair, not mine."
Candy died at seventeen, but the reflection in the mirror was an indication of how she would have looked had she lived to be twenty-seven. As Phoebe continued to gaze at the image she saw there, the blond hair began to darken. The transition was slow at first but then progressed more rapidly.
"Now it's beginning to look more like me," she said, remembering the ebony locks she had when she was a teenager. "But I haven't colored my hair in almost a decade."
Her confusion soon gave way to an irrational fear. She wanted to turn away from the mirror but was unable to do so. As was the case on the tragic prom night, she could not move. Only this time, she was not transfixed by the sight of her dead twin but rather by her own reflection. The nondescript pants and shirt the patient wore morphed into a black satin and lace dress.
"That's me on prom night!"
She attempted to turn away or at least close her eyes, but some unknown force compelled her to keep looking. A loud sound suddenly startled her. Had someone slammed a door or dropped a heavy object?
"What's going on?" she whimpered as the reflection in the mirror changed again. "Are my eyes playing tricks on me?"
The blood was not nearly as noticeable against dark hair and a black dress as it had been against blond tresses and a white gown, but the deep red stood out against the pale complexion.
The breakthrough that Irving Ismay and his predecessor, Dr. Van Cleef, had long hoped for came at last. Years of therapy finally paid off. The patient's false memories crumbled, and the truth emerged. She ran out of her room, down the hall and into the therapist's office.
* * *
"It was my fault!" the hysterical young woman confessed, interrupting the therapist's telephone call.
"I'll have to call you back," Irving told his wife and hung up the phone.
"My sister's death was all my fault."
"Did you shoot your sister?" he asked, although he had known all along what had happened at the prom that night.
"No. I didn't shoot her, but I was the reason she was there. She didn't even want to attend the prom, but I kept badgering her until she agreed to go."
"You couldn't possibly have known what would happen!"
"I was up on stage, looking down at her in the audience. There were tears of joy in her eyes, and she was smiling up at me. Then ...."
"Go on. Tell me what happened. I know it's painful, but you can do it," the therapist coaxed.
"The shots rang out, and she was hit. I saw her crumble to the floor. Her body was nearly trampled by the other students who were trying to get out of the gym. Carter, who was standing at my side, was hit, but I gave no thought to my own safety. All I cared about was my sister. She was obviously dead, and it was my fault."
"You've been blaming yourself all these years, but you're not responsible."
"I am!"
"No, Candy, you're not. Since that dreadful night, you've convinced yourself that you are Phoebe and that she is still alive. But she's the one who died, not you."
"I wish it had been me," Candy uttered softly. "That's why I tried to kill myself."
"And when that didn't work, you tried to bring her back by becoming her. But it was all a delusion. Your sister died on prom night, ten years ago."
"What's going to happen now?" the patient asked.
"I'm going to phone your parents and tell them they've got their daughter back at last."
* * *
Sharon Thorpe fussed with the place setting at the dining room table. Preston, her husband, suggested she sit down and remain calm.
"But this is Candy's first trip back home for Thanksgiving since she took that new job in Chicago two years ago," the anxious mother explained.
"That's no reason to be so nervous. You talk to her on the phone once a month and send emails and texts to each other all the time."
"I know that, but ...."
Sharon was unable to put her fear into words. Preston had no difficulty doing so.
"You're afraid she might still be dealing with lingering issues about Phoebe's death. Honey, Dr. Ismay assured us that all that is in the past."
"You're right. I know I'm just being foolish."
A car pulled into the driveway, and Sharon made one last adjustment to the holiday table. The front door opened, and both parents went to the living room to greet their surviving daughter.
"Hi, Mom. Dad."
Sharon grabbed onto her husband's arm to steady herself. Candy's blond hair was now black and cut short in a style reminiscent of her dead sister's. Dressed in torn, faded jeans and a Metallica T-shirt, she carried a suitcase in her hand and had a guitar slung over her shoulder.
"What's up with you two?" their daughter laughed. "You both look like you've seen a ghost!"
When his obedience school held its prom, Salem sound out invitations to more than a dozen female cats.
