The Girl in the Mirror(2)

One wall of the walk-in closet is lined with Summer’s dresses, a rainbow of silk and lace. I’m surprised that her drawers are still full of lingerie, even though she and Adam plan to be overseas for a year. The lingerie is typical Summer stuff, overrun with roses, demurely styled, more suited to a preteen girl than a married woman of twenty-three. There are loads of it; she surely wouldn’t notice if half of it disappeared—not that I would dream of stealing. I suppose she couldn’t fit all her clothes on the yacht.

The yacht. Bathsheba. This is the nub of the thing. This is why I feel as though Summer and I have swapped places. Because Summer’s on Bathsheba. And Bathsheba’s not mine, she never was mine, she never will be mine, but I feel that she ought to be. It feels as though Summer is sleeping in my bed, on my yacht.

Summer never loved Bathsheba, but now Bathsheba is her home. She and Adam have bought the yacht, bought her fair and square from Dad’s estate, and now Summer and Adam own her as much as they own the house that I’m standing in right now.

What do I own? A shrinking bank account, a wedding ring I don’t want anymore, a bunch of furniture I’ve left behind in New Zealand. A piano I’ll probably never play again. It was a cheap instrument, anyway. Summer and Adam have a better one.

I pick up a bra-and-knicker set that’s so innocent it’s almost porno. Yellow gingham, it reeks of boarding school: hockey sticks and cold baths. The bra is a double D, and I wear a D, but it looks like it’ll fit. I step into the panties. I want to see what Summer looks like in these.

As I’m fastening the bra, the phone rings in a distant part of the house. That’ll wake Annabeth. I suppose I will have to face up to her and her questions about why I’m here. I pretended to be too tired last night.

I barely have time to think before Annabeth bursts in on me.

“Here she is,” my mother says into the handset as she minces across the bedroom in a frumpy nightie, her blond hair looking frizzy and streaked with gray. My mother is at the age where she needs makeup and hair products to achieve the beauty she once woke up with; she’s not looking her best right now. “No, no, she was already awake. Love the gingham bra, Iris. Summer has one the same.” Her sleepy blue eyes peer at me myopically. She dangles the receiver in my face as though I won’t be able to see it unless it’s right under my nose.

I grab the phone and shoo Annabeth out of the room. “Close the door behind you!” I call.

Who could be phoning me? Who even knows I’m back in Australia, let alone in my sister’s house?

“Hello?” My voice is craven, as though I’ve been caught somewhere I shouldn’t be.

“Iris! Thank goodness you’re there.” It’s Summer. Her voice breaks into jagged sobs. “You have to help me. We’re in trouble. You’re the only one who can help.”

I can’t quite focus, because I’m wondering whether Annabeth’s comment about the bra gave the game away. Summer can be oddly territorial about her clothes. But my sister doesn’t seem to have heard. She’s saying something about Adam, something about how she needs me, Adam needs me. Adam wants her to say that it was his idea and he’s praying I’ll accept.

I gaze at a rack of Adam’s white business shirts. Each one holds Adam’s shape as though a row of invisible Adams is wearing them, here in the closet with me. The shirts are so big in the chest, so long in the sleeve. I hold one to my face. It smells of cloves. I can see Adam in this pristine white, his skin glowing darkly.

“The poor little man, his pee-pee is swollen and red, and there’s something seeping out. It’s horrific. The foreskin is so stretched. He’s crying all the time.”

What is she saying? I’m agog. We’re twins, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I’ve never heard Summer describe anyone’s penis before, let alone her husband’s. What the hell is wrong with him?

“The worst part is when he gets an erection. It’s excruciating. Babies do get erections, you know. It’s nothing sexual.”

Babies?

“Wait,” I say. “Are you talking about Tarquin?”

“Who else could I be talking about?”

Silence.

Tarquin. The other thing that Summer took over when Helen died, along with Helen’s house and Helen’s husband. The baby.

Summer is Tarquin’s mother now. Adam and Summer agreed that Tarquin deserved a normal family, so Tarquin calls Summer “Mummy.” Or at least he will if the kid ever learns to speak.

“Summer, I know baby boys get erections,” I say. “We have a younger brother, you know. I’ve seen these things.” Summer always assumes I know nothing about kids, explaining that they need a daily bath and a regular bedtime, or something equally fascinating, like I’m an idiot. The last thing I want to think about is Tarquin’s pee-pee, especially if it’s seeping.

“Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like this,” Summer says. “It’s becoming dangerous. The infection could spread. The doctors said he could lose his penis. He could die.” The word comes out with a sob. “He needs surgery. An emergency circumcision. They can’t fly him home. He’s having the surgery today, here in Phuket. We’re at the international hospital.”

Summer’s voice is fast and fluttery. She’s teetering on a tightrope between shouty hysteria and a flood of tears. Most of the time, Summer is the self-assured, gracious twin, while I’m nervous and gauche, but when the chips are down, I’m the one who keeps her head.