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Sunday, Jul 12, 2009
We shared the same placenta, but everything else about Samantha and me was different. Or was it?
Apr 23, 2004 | I've been a human specimen going on twenty years now, ever since my sister and I were twelve, when my parents enrolled us in California State University's Twin Study. Every four years the two of us, along with several hundred other pairs of identical twins from California, meet in the same depressing chain hotel in Fresno to be tested, prodded, and poked. "YOU ARE SPECIAL!!!" begins the notice for every one of these meetings. Whoopee. I'm special. Not because of anything I've done, no, of course not. I'm special because I'm genetically identical to another person, a person I haven't seen in four years, since the last meeting of the California Twin Study.
Shall I enumerate the many hates associated with this event? First, I hate the hotel. In particular, I can't stand the central atrium; it gives me a bad eighties feeling -- of wine bars, terrycloth sweatbands, neon flamingos. It reminds me of that horrible era (between the first and second meeting) when Samantha and I were in our early teens and it was first becoming clear that we were not the same. Of course, we were identical genetically; what's more, we shared a placenta; but inside, in our brains, souls, and hearts, we weren't the same. This became apparent slowly, even though I knew what Samantha was going to say before she said it, and I knew which boys she'd like before she met them, and we always got up at the same time in the night to pee, among other uncanny similarities. Second, I hate the rooms, with their big, smoked glass windows overlooking the swimming pool. The glass heats up in the sun and then ticks all night as it cools. I hate the bar, tucked in a dark hole under the escalator, smelling of smoke, though smoking is forbidden in California bars. That's third. Fourth, I hate Fresno, a sad, crumbling town, surrounded on all sides by endless rows of crops, like an island in a vegetable sea. I hate the twin researchers, who for the most part are cheerful and kind, dorky in the way of tenured academics -- ten years behind in fashion -- and who do not have dark doubles, I'm sure of it. But most of all, what are we on, six? Yes, I hate seeing Samantha, my twin sister, once every four years.
"Then don't go." This advice comes from Ivan, my new husband. "If you dread seeing your sister, don't torture yourself. Stay home."
"That's a good idea," I reply with conviction, though I've already bought our plane tickets and reserved a suite in the horrible hotel. "What about the money?"
"They can shove it," says Ivan. He's older than me by fifteen years, solid and rich from practicing contract law all day long in a high-rise building. Every morning he shaves his mostly bald head so that it's totally bald. I find him handsome, in a sinister way. Of course it's true that he may not be the most benevolent person in the world. But he's kind to me. And there is much to be said for a man like Ivan, a man who can make me feel very safe even while driving very fast.
"What about science?"
"Fuck science." Ivan sits on the bed and puts on his shoes. A well-dressed man, a successful man, maybe even a little ruthless. I try not to think about that too much, but I come across the evidence. A nasty, anonymous letter in the mailbox. A stone through the front window. And then there's his son, Jason, from his previous marriage, who stays over with us one weekend a month. He is, as far as I can tell, a complete monster. But maybe this has nothing to do with Ivan. Thirteen is never a good age.
"I already bought us plane tickets," I confess.
"Okay, if that's what you really want," says Ivan, putting his jacket on, then coming closer and putting his arm around me. "We'll go together." I follow him down the stairs. In the hall he picks up his briefcase, kisses me on the forehead, and sails out the front door. I stand in the doorway in my bathrobe, waving like a nineteen-fifties housewife. "Call Lana," he yells back, "and let her know the details."
This is the moment I love, right after Ivan leaves for work. I love our big house with the old hardwood floors that gleam like honey in the sunlight. I love the eight thousand dollar couch in the living room, with its thick down cushions and velvet upholstery. I love the mesquite wood table in the hall where we pile our mail. I love having it all to myself and knowing that nothing, nothing can ruin our life. Our safe, comfortable, happy life. Later in the day, I call Lana, Ivan's secretary, and tell her about the trip to Fresno. Lana keeps Ivan's schedule, business and social, and has since before we met.
"He has Jason that weekend," she says.
"Shit."
"So go by yourself."
"I don't want to go by myself," I say. And then, to my surprise, I say, "I want him to meet my sister. Can't Jason switch weekends?"
"Jason cannot switch weekends."
"Are you sure?"
"Honey," Lana lowers her voice, "you should see the divorce agreement. It's like a phone book."
"Oh," I say. I can well imagine. I have, after all, seen my prenuptial. "Then what should we do?"
"Give me your flight number," replies Lana, "I'll get Jason a ticket too."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
YOU ARE SPECIAL!!!
OVER THE TWENTY-YEAR LIFESPAN OF THE CALIFORNIA TWIN STUDY, WE'VE GATHERED VITAL INFORMATION THAT HAS BEEN OF GREAT BENEFIT TO THE FIELDS OF SCIENCE, SOCIAL SCIENCE, AND MEDICINE. SOME OF THE DATA WE'VE COLLECTED FROM OUR PARTICIPANTS HAS BEEN USEFUL IN OUR UNDERSTANDING OF:
WE ARE DELIGHTED BY YOUR CONTINUING PARTICIPATION IN THE CALIFORNIA TWIN STUDY AND LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AT OUR NEXT MEETING.
The following weekend will be dizygotic, fraternal twins, the control group. Our weekend is monozygotic, identical twins, the freaks. Already the hotel lobby is filled with pairs of people in their thirties who look either somewhat or exactly alike. Sometimes it's the same face on different bodies -- one twin is fatter than the other, or one twin has taken up body building. Often it's the same face with different hair color, hair length, facial hair, hair anything. One twin is an Elvis impersonator -- need I say more? Then there are the twins who look exactly the same. It's strange to see them milling around the lobby, talking in pairs or greeting each other with bear hugs. Like most people, I'm not used to seeing identical adults. They all look gigantic. Twinning is something that one encounters in children or babies, little girls with matching dresses, adorable boys with matching caps; adult twins seem aberrant, even to me. Yet here we are. Some of us even move the same way, or use the same gestures. Our brains are wired up the same. It's a trick of genetics, a dirty trick.
I go to the registration desk at the far end of the god-awful atrium and pick up my name tag. It says MZ: AMANDA 173. That's me, Monozygotic Amanda.
"Has MZ Samantha 173 picked up her tag yet?"
The clerk tells me that she has not. It's perpetually up in the air, of course, whether Samantha will even show up for these weekends. But she always has. She generally needs the money.
Jason and Ivan are on the lobby couches, ignoring each other. "This place sucks," Jason says. Indeed, the hotel remains as noxious as ever, though they've painted the exterior pink since my last visit.
"Maybe you'll like the swimming pool!" I smile brightly.
Jason smiles back. "Gee whiz, Mom, maybe I will!"
"Don't call her Mom," Ivan says.
"Why not? I thought you'd be happy if I called her Mom."
"Enough. Just quit it."
Ivan is in a suit. Ivan is always in a suit. Jason is in baggy shorts that seem to be swallowing his beanpole frame -- all knees and elbows. He carries his belongings in a paper bag with the name of a health food store on it. In this sad detail I see a thumbnail sketch of his mother, a harried, distracted, slightly overweight woman Ivan ditched around the time he met me. Jason is also carrying a skateboard and a headset CD player turned up so loud that I can hear it once the elevator doors close. If I'm not mistaken, there's a woman screaming the words "fuck the pain away" into his ears.
