First Born(3)

‘We didn’t sense it either, Moll.’

‘But you’re not twins. It’s totally different.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. Do you need help booking a flight?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I can do it.’

‘She looked so perfect.’ My father sniffs again but he does not cry.

‘But how? How did it happen? This cannot be.’

‘We don’t know yet, Moll. But the people here say she wasn’t in any pain at the end.’

Those two words shake me.

The.

End.



After we say goodbye I place my phone down on the bedside table and push my hands down into the mattress and ball my fists. I’m shaking, but I’m not crying.

Time passes. I feel numb. Detached.

When I get any news – good or bad – I tell my sister straight away. And she tells me her news too. That’s what we do. If I choose a paint colour for a wall or I find a new soup at my favourite café then I tell her. Every little thing I do, I tell her. This is the kind of thing I would tell her immediately. She is the other half of me.

Was the other half of me.

My God.

The world doesn’t feel right.

I walk through into my kitchenette and stare into the stainless steel sink. Her reflection stares back at me. I blink hard and take a pen and a piece of notepaper and sit down at the table.

My hand is shaking. I watch the pen, and the rollerball tip is waving around in the air. I put it down and pick it up again.

I write the word List. A well-known coping strategy. Order from chaos.

I write New York. I can’t bring myself to write Flight tickets.

She’s gone. She’s really gone.

Pack case. Usually this would take me a week or more.

How will Mum cope with this?

Passport.

How will I cope?

Money.

I will never see my sister again.

Tell boss.

I take my phone and Google ‘Katie Raven’ but I just get links to her Twitter and her Instagram and her Facebook. Then I find articles written by her for the Columbia Daily Spectator, and an article about her volunteering at the Morningside Heights Homeless Shelter. I search entries from the past twenty-four hours but find nothing.

I check her Instagram.

The last photo on the grid is from three days ago. Central Park, October sun washing over one side of her face, highlighting the scar in her eyebrow. She looks so relaxed. I start to tear up but I continue to focus on her face, her hair, her smile as the image distorts through a saline lens. I wipe my thumb over the wet phone screen and her face shrinks. I release my thumb and it grows again to fill the screen. What do I do now?

An hour later I feel different.

Composed, but also empty.

More alone than you could ever realistically imagine. I entered this life with my twin sister and part of me thought I’d leave with her as well. Now I’m here all alone. A singular half.

The best thing I can do right now is be practical. Get things done. Mum and Dad need my support. I’ll tick off the items on my list and then once that’s in order I can let myself feel the pain. I can give in to the grief.

I Google ‘safest airline in the world’ and start researching. I narrow my options to five airlines that fly daily from London to New York. I need to take this more seriously than ever before because if my parents lose me now then they will have lost everything.

I always felt she would outlive me. She was nicer. In many ways she was a better version of me. She deserved a long life.

My bank balance is low but I can manage. I don’t know the full picture but from what Mum tells me their financial situation is far worse than mine so I need to cover the costs of this nightmare trip on my own. Economy tickets with British Airways leaving at 15.50.

I have a framed picture of my sister by my lap, resting on its own breathable pillow.

My poor sister.

Up until we were seven years old, Mum dressed us both the same, although I think that was Dad’s idea. In the photo we have pigtails and matching outfits and matching shoes. Little KT’s socks look odd. One pulled high, the other down by her ankle. She did that on purpose. We used to go everywhere together. We even created an elaborate secret language, much to the chagrin of our parents.

It’s dark outside.

I receive the flight confirmation email in my inbox and then I make a mug of tea. I make it strong and add an extra teaspoon of sugar. Most people would have opened the gin but there is no gin. Never has been. Now, more than ever before, I need to make zero mistakes and I need to stay clear-headed and in control of the situation. There is no longer anyone to help me when I stumble.

After writing out my full itinerary and double-checking luggage restrictions I monitor the weather forecast. Multiple forecasts. Still nothing on the news.

I Google flight to New York checklist. I need something called an ESTA visa waiver or else I won’t be allowed into the United States. If I don’t get granted one I won’t be allowed to board my flight. I need to be with my parents. To talk to the police. I find the intimidating ESTA website. One question is ‘What will be your temporary address in the United States’ and I text Dad and he replies immediately: The Bedfordshire Midtown Hotel, West 44th Street. I enter that information and pay the fourteen dollars. I glance at KT’s face in the photo and rub my eyes.