Maternal Twins

Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels

by David Margolin

Mother loved the idea of having twins. She called them Billy and Jimmy.

When people asked her if the twins were identical or fraternal, her standard answer was carefully constructed and cryptic, “Two people are never identical—even if they have the same set of chromosomes.”

She never took them out of the house at the same time; she said that it was too dangerous. “What if one of them is seriously injured? It would kill me.” In fact, the three of them were almost a closed loop. Mother home schooled the twins. Other children, handpicked by mother-- via interviews with their parents, the child, and their siblings-- were allowed to visit. At any given time, only one of the twins could have a friend over.

Choosing the twins’ clothing gave Mother great joy.

On some days she laid out identical clothing.

On other days she put out inverse outfits—Billy’s shirt matched Jimmy’s pants and Jimmy’s shirt matched Billy’s pants.

Less commonly she chose clothes for them that were completely unalike, proclaiming, “It’s important for them to have separate identities,” and they did.

Billy was quiet, unassuming, fearful, and laconic.

Jimmy was outgoing, funny, and a fast talker.

Mother doted on Billy and was strict with Jimmy.

As much as their personalities differed, they had one trait in common. Neither of them ever paid attention to the other; each of them behaved as if the other one didn’t exist.

Billy’s most frequent visitor was Kenny. They played more sedate and cerebral board games such as The Game of Life.

Jimmy’s most frequent visitor was George. They played more active games such as Pictionary and Foosball. George’s father was a successful criminal prosecution attorney. Like his father, George was intuitive and aggressively inquisitive, to the point of being invasive.

During one of George’s visits, Mother received a call. She had to leave the house quickly to assist a relative who was being seen in the emergency room. For the first time, George and Jimmy were alone. George immediately started snooping around the house. He found a photo album in Mother’s study.

“Hey Jimmy, I see lots of pictures of you with your mom. I see lots of pictures of Billy with your mom. Why aren’t you and Billy together in any of the pictures?”

Jimmy froze; it was a simple question, why couldn’t he answer it? Jimmy studied the photo album carefully. Up until then he had always seen the pictures of himself and his brother as two separate people--he was Jimmy and Billy was Billy—just as different as typical siblings. Now the distinction was blurred. His pictures and Billy’s pictures looked the same to him—invoking the same sense of selfness, the knowledge that he was looking at himself, not at a twin.

His throat tightened, he teared up, and thoughts began racing through his head: Why aren’t we in any pictures together? Am I Jimmy? Am I Billy? Am I both? I wish Mother were here to set me straight. I always know who I am by the way that she treats me. He felt like his brain had fallen through a trapdoor, like he had been living in a pitch-black room all of his life and someone had switched on blindingly bright lights. Jimmy’s mental state was too chaotic to continue playing, so George called his mom to pick him up.

After George was gone, Jimmy was desperate to regain his separate identity. For the first time in his life, he reached out to Billy, frantically shouting, “Billy, Billy, help!” No one came. Billy couldn’t come. He was too busy being Jimmy.

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David enjoys writing comedy as in “Table Manners” (R U Joking?), nostalgia as in “Teabags” (Memoir Magazine), and grim fare as in Brain Raid” and “Lost and Found—and Lost” (Freedom Fiction Journal). He lives in Portland Oregon with his invaluable editor, J.J. Margolin, and posts on https://davidmargolin.substack.com