It should be said up front that Maria and I preferred “physically indistinguishable” than the more commonly used phrase “identical” when describing ourselves as twins. True, we were once one cell which divided into two complete and separate embryos, thus becoming identical fetuses and finally, us, but that does not necessarily mean that my sister and I were the same person. Far from it, in fact. “Identical” is just the scientific and genetic description of us. In actuality, our identicalness was only skin deep. I am aware of those experiments done on twins, where a set of identical twins are separated at birth and sent to opposite ends of the country, but manage to grow up, marry, live their lives out and die similarly -- but that is not how Maria and I were. Our personalities were completely different.

Maria had been the dominant one from the instant she came into the world. Our parents would jokingly say that she had fought me in our mother’s womb so she’d be born five minutes earlier by Cesarean section than I would. I defended myself each time by pointing out it was only because of her positioning that she was born first. Unfortunately, my cries were unheard, so I soon ceased my justifications and forced a laugh when it was required.
For her sick pleasure and our humiliation, Mother loved dressing us in matching outfits up until the third grade. Each year, when our school pictures where featured prominently in identical frames above the fireplace, our parents would send their guests over to the mantelpiece to see if they could distinguish between the two of us. Fortunately for our sakes, Maria finally complained so much that she was unique enough to have her own sense of fashion. Being slightly older than me, she wore our parents down to buy her new clothes, and I suddenly gained a duplicate of everything I already had. When I asked Mother if I could pick out something new to wear, she scolded me.

“We simply do not have the money to buy a new wardrobe for the both of you, Angela,” she said.

I should mention that my mother and father never played favorites. It was just the matter of who was able to approach our parents first. And the majority of the time, it was her. I was better at some things than my sister was. I received straight A’s practically every school year, whereas she struggled with studying and absorbing the materials. My sister was intelligent; there was no doubt about that. Her abilities were just taking a bit longer to develop, while I learned mostly everything with great ease. I, in turn, was the one lacking the social skills that Maria had naturally. I usually remained at home curled up with a good book, while she’d spend the night downtown with several friends.

Maria and I shared a bedroom up until our last summer before high school began. Although a thick strip of duct tape separated the room equally, it was clearly not required. Our halves differed so much that it was simple to see whose side belonged to whom. Maria’s floor was littered with clothes; mine, completely bare and impeccable. She’d have Glamour and Vogue strewn on her nightstand where I’d have a copy of Jane Eyre on mine. As we grew up, these differences began to try our patience. I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my advanced schoolwork with Maria gossiping on the telephone only a few feet away from me. By the time August started, I had had enough.

I proposed to my parents that if I did all the work in cleaning and preparing, then could I move into the attic so I could have privacy for my high school career. Surprised by this, they consented to my suggestion and I spent the remaining few weeks of the summer redecorating the attic space, organizing and packing my belongings and hauling them up the narrow staircase.

Maria was uncharacteristically quiet during this time of change. Whenever I would enter our bedroom, she’d slip on a pair of headphones and bury her face into a magazine. At the dinner table, the only conversing we did was to pass the salad bowl. I had not the heart to strike up a conversation when she was so moody with my decision, so I continued about my business and remained awkwardly silent as well.

* * *

It was the last night I was to sleep in our bedroom before I moved my bed up to the attic when Maria finally spoke to me.

“What made you want to move?” she asked softly.

Our room was dark, so I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but I knew by the tone of her voice that she was hurt. I answered her question the best way I knew how; with honesty.

“We’re completely different people. I don’t think you or I could handle sharing a room together when we start up high school.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“It’s not like I’m moving to Tibet. It’s just the attic.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’ll miss this. You and me. I’m sorry. I took things for granted because I thought that you’d always be there for me like I’d be there for you.”

It was one of the most thoughtful things my sister had ever spoken to me. We had never truly participated in deep discussions like this one. Usually, it would be just a casual conversation concerning a television show or someone we knew at school, but when she spoke those words to me, it felt perfectly ordinary.

“Did you forget that we were once one cell?” I mentioned. “That means, at least for a small amount of time, you and I were the same person. So think of it that way. We are one person spread out in two separate bodies.”

“I know, Angie,” she said, a slight hint of mock irritation on her voice. “I did the whole twin study too.”

“So you should also think that you are me and I am you,” I added.

Another lull in the conversation overtook us. Perhaps it had been a bit late in the night for us to start such an intense talk. I heard Maria inhale and sigh.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said finally. “Good night.”

“Good night,” I replied. I rolled over in bed and closed my eyes, but I did not sleep that night. “So you should also think that you are me and I am you.” Even now, I still think of it late at night when insomnia strikes.

How was I to know that I would soon live by those words?

* * *

After that discussion, a pact was made between my sister and me. No matter how much our differences moved us apart in high school, we’d make a special effort to have bonding time for us. It was difficult at some times; Maria was on the varsity soccer team as well as the track team, and my position as Vice President of the Associated Student Body took up most of my schedule and we had little time to see each other outside of classes.

But late at night, when I was still up working on some sort of science homework, I’d hear my door creak open and Maria would collapse upon my bed, dressed in her school colors warm-ups and tell me about her day. She’d casually throw out names of her friends, assuming that I knew them as distinctly as she did, and I would politely smile, nod and reply at the appropriate times. Then she would ask me about my day and I’d talk about how the Student Body was having difficulties coming up with a theme for a dance or how someone ignited their lab station while working on a chemistry project. Even if she wasn’t all that concerned with the subject matter of the chat, she still showed interest in whatever I spoke about.

High school finished quickly. My parents had already spoken to both Maria and me about our college preparations, that it was going to be difficult to send us to the schools of our choices due to financial problems. Maria was set on attending a local community college, but I was then met with figuring out how I was going to support myself. My college councilor suggested financial aid or scholarships, that with my outstanding grades and involvement with the school, I’d have few problems attending a four-year college of my choice.

* * *

It was a July night, clear and starry, when Maria went to see a late-night movie with some friends. Since many of them were leaving the state for college in the fall, Maria made it her duty to see them as much as possible before they were gone. She had invited me to join them, but I declined, simply because I did not want to pay the outrageous price for the movie ticket. Instead, I chose to read a book I had had great difficulty finishing.

I was sitting in the television room when the call came at a little after midnight. My mother and father had gone to bed early, so I raced to answer the phone before they’d wake up. I asked if she (thinking it was Maria) was crazy to be calling at such a late hour.

But it was not Maria. Instead, I heard a deep masculine voice asking if my parents were available. It was by the inflection of his voice that I knew something was not right and I roused my mother to hand her the phone. I watched her facial expressions, shadowed gravely and lit only by the hallway light I had left on. They changed into a contorted look and her eyes, growing misty, stared straight ahead and focused on nothing. My father, having been woken, asked what was wrong and she handed the phone to him, covering her mouth with her hand. My father listened to the man on the other end before he too became very pale. He softly thanked him and hung up the receiver.

“What’s wrong?”

* * *

We left the house five minutes later, heading for the county hospital. My parents were absolutely silent the entire ride as I sat in the back, staring out at the black countryside and trying to ignore the thoughts racing throughout my head. They had not told me what had happened and I wasn’t sure if they actually knew. I couldn’t help but formulate possible scenarios in my imagination. Why was Maria in the hospital? What was she doing? How hurt was she? But I would not bring myself to ask the one question I wanted to ask the most.

I don’t recall much what occurred at St. Mary’s once we had arrived. I felt sick myself, and I mindlessly followed my parents to the receptionist’s desk. I remember that the walls were a sickly white, reminding me how sterilized and energy-zapping these places could be. Even the fluorescent lights decorating the hallway drained all visitors of their normal glow.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t the lights at all. It could have been due to the hospital’s eerie environment itself.

Someone escorted my family into a private waiting room where we could wait for Maria’s doctor, but I do not remember how long we had to wait.

I remember my mother asking many questions, but I do not remember if anyone answered them.

I remember a doctor entering the room and shutting the door behind her, but I do not remember the expression on her face.

I remember she had vivid red hair, but I do not remember her saying that Maria succumbed to her injuries.

I remember my mother collapsing into my father’s arms crying, but I do not remember if I cried myself.

* * *

By the time we had left the hospital, we heard the story of what happened from the police officer who had called the house. We soon discovered that the accident had been just that – an accident. The movie my sister was planning on seeing had sold out, so she and her friends decided to head back to one of their houses and watch bad movies on the television instead. They were walking across Edwards Street, a long straight passage that led into residential area, when a Mr. Linus Feldman, who had fallen asleep at the wheel, ran the red light and drove his Suburban into the group. Maria did not move away fast enough and was struck.

She was unconscious when the paramedics arrived and never awoke.

Both of Maria’s friends, Edgar and Lynn, got scratches when they jumped out of the way.

Mr. Linus Feldman received a cut to his forehead and required stitches.

The book I had been reading was never finished.

* * *

After that night, the rest of the summer flashed by. I wasn’t in denial about my sister’s death. I knew she was gone, but I would not allow myself to remember things the way they exactly happened.

Maria’s funeral, I remember, was touching. My mother gave the eulogy and I’m sure that it was beautiful, but I had let my mind wander throughout the entire service. Afterwards, many people gave me their sympathies about my sister, saying that it must have been so difficult for me to lose a twin. How do you answer something like that? I only nodded my head as a reply. I only truly recall Edgar squeezing me in a tight hug. He didn’t have to say anything, but I could see it in his wet eyes: I’m sorry.

I do remember, however, that I did not cry during Maria’s funeral either.

Why wouldn’t I let myself go? Why wouldn’t I join everyone else in their grief? I had every right to. Maria was my twin, my other half. I didn’t understand until she was gone how much she was a part of me.

And it made wonder if a part of me had died with her on that operating table.

* * *

So here I am now, moving into my college dorm room by myself. My parents helped me carry my boxes but had to leave earlier this morning to head back home. I have stuff scattered everywhere, clothes half unpacked and thrown upon the exposed mattress. Having trouble deciding what I’m going to start working on first, I head to the vanity sink and splash my face with cold water.

Maria looks back at me in the mirror as I wipe my face off with a hand towel. A smile spreads upon her face as her eyes glance behind me and sweep across the room.

Every day, you’re turning more and more into me, she says. Look at how messy you’ve become!

“Please,” I reply. “I’ll never be that bad.”

No, but you’re getting there. She looks over at the bare mattress on the other side of the room. Where’s your roommate?

“Don’t know. I’m betting she’ll be here any minute.” I pick up the photocopied flyer advertising a party that I had left on the counter. I see that Maria also holds it in her hand.

So are we going to this?

“I haven’t decided yet. Probably.”

Maria lets out a mock sniffle. My little girl is all grown up.

“Shut up.”

A loud creak interrupts our conversation. My eyes tear away from Maria’s face to see an attractive blonde girl struggling with a suitcase. When my sight returns to the mirror, I see only my reflection.

“Hi!” the girl says breathlessly. “I thought I only had one roommate.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I heard you talking to someone.” She drops the bag.

“Oh, yeah. That was nothing. Need any help?”

“Yes! Thank you!” She thrusts out her hand. “I’m Sarah.”

I grasp her hand in mine and give it a firm shake. “I’m Maria.”