Vertigo

A few years ago I spent the summer in Kentucky with my great-grandmother and great-aunt (they really aren't that great, but I don't care about that now). For a month I was stuck in a small town with two old women. I came up with ways to cope: I played guitar until my fingers blistered, then I watched Comedy Central, of which Aunt Pat didn't approve. I flipped through the boring magazines lying around the house, with articles about quilting and half pages where recipes had been torn out, and was not inspired by any of their old-lady literature.

One Tuesday, I woke up before noon, determined to walk to the video store (which couldn't have been much more than a mile away). I counted my steps on the way there. After 6963, I bought a Coke from a vending machine and started making my way around the store, squinting at the worn boxes. When I got to the comedy section, I bumped into a girl who could have been my identical twin, and who obviously disapproved of the way I was dressed in my bother's baseball shirt, faded jeans, and birkenstocks. I raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. She was clearly one of those girls who tries to look like her friends, then accuses them of copying her style. She was wearing designer jeans, a shirt that seemed to be more label then actual shirt, and mirror sunglasses. "Hi," I said, relieved that I'd found my double and she looked nothing like me.

After I rented "Vertigo," I never saw her again, but the experience of meeting another person who could have been me wasn't a singular one.

Last year someone told me that I had a twin whose name was Sunshine and who lived in Mauldin. "What's she like?" I asked. "Kind of strange," was the answer.

Maybe this was my real double, I thought. This one wouldn't have a football star boyfriend. She would probably have her own style. Or maybe she dresses like me too. Poor Sunshine would be disappointed that she's not the only like her/me. I hoped for her sake as well as mine that she didn't really look like me-- that she had a birthmark or some other deformity that would make her better than the too-normal girl from the video store.

When I met Sunshine, she tried to be strange. I could tell that she was as uncomfortable with the idea of an identical stranger as I was. I couldn't decide if I should embrace her or hate her. In the end, I had no choice. She ignored be because she wanted to be the only one.

If I had a true double, she would have to look nothing like me. She wouldn't have to worry that I was stealing her image, if she even had one. She would put maple syrup on her scrambled eggs the same way I do, even if her eyes happened to be violet instead of green like mine.

One morning I woke up and named her Jane. She now lived with me. She was someone to talk to when I missed Jenny, who left when I was eight, like any sensible invisible friend would. In my mind, Jane was never my twin. She was some other part of me who did strange things I would never do. When I couldn't explain my actions, I wondered if I had done something that Jane would do, but not me.

I wondered if I should try to explain Jane to my parents or my friends. For a week and a half, she was my excuse to leave the house ("Bye, I'm going to Jane's house again."), but then I got worried that someone would think I was schizophrenic, which would have been interesting, but not worth the trouble. I eventually stopped talking to her, and she went away, joining all the friends who faded out of existence when I hit puberty.