(Originally published in The Dread Machine.)
The doctors call it bad blood, but you know you’ve stumbled on something bigger. And so you find yourself in front of a steakhouse, lips parched, juices releasing, anticipating aged steak, the best Malbec, a full stomach, and a reckoning.
The steakhouse is in a strip-mall. You have to cross the railroad tracks to reach it. Hold your breath while you drive by the graveyard. You pass the lonely gas station with the old fashioned pump. Then the pipe-fitter, the plumbing supply shop, and the reseller of dishwasher parts. You go round to the back, and you park amongst Porsches. You walk into the steakhouse, and you don’t think about your brother.
He was born a minute before you. He was one hair taller. You were one hair rounder. Your head fit the curve between his chin and his neck when you slept, four legs entwined. You still remember lying skyward in that crib, head resting in your brother’s nape, looking up at grasping fingers. You don’t know if they were your hands or his.
You shared a dorm room in university. He had the bed on the left. You had the bed on the right. You both studied engineering—him civil, you electrical. He married a month before you. Your wife got pregnant sooner. His little girl was born premature. Yours was one week late. When your parents had the accident, he got the land and the house.
You know that electrical engineers make good money, but you find out the hard way, the price of an education isn’t cheap. You assume an electrical engineer who graduates with honors and gets hired by a top firm can afford a house. You expect your twin to share his inheritance. You’re wrong on all counts.
Your brother gets a job at the same firm. You’re both promoted the same week. Your wives are again expecting. Your brother spends his salary on hockey classes for his kids. He hires a designer and remodels his kitchen. Your kids play hockey too. You’re proud of your nephews’ trophies. You’re truly blessed you all get along. Though you can only manage a DIY remodel.
You stay up nights, building cupboard contraptions. You see perfection in your mind, you just need the right fastener and hinge. You blow two credit cards at the hardware store. You build a special nook for the cookbooks and trinkets. Your wife doesn’t like it. You refinance your house.
Your brother gets a promotion and year-end bonus. You can’t make your loan payments. Your brother landscapes the front and back yard. Your wife leaves you. When you and your brother go to the steakhouse, your brother, discreetly, gets the bill. He pays for your kids’ hockey classes. And when you get a warning at work, your brother vouches for you.
They find the bad blood on a check-up. They call it an “incidental” discovery. The doctor says it’s a fluke, that everyone has their oddities. It’s probably nothing—but you should come back next month. One month later, the doctor frowns at your tests. He checks more boxes on the form, and sends you back to the lab.
One night, when your brother is paying for your dinner, you ask if he’s ever had odd blood. He says no, and you start to understand—between the two of you, the world isn’t fair.
By the time of the diagnosis, you’re dealing with a different doctor. The first one avoids you—when you see him at the clinic, he makes a micro-grimace and says he’s late for an appointment. Your new doctor gives you pamphlet after pamphlet. You don’t have enough hands to hold them. You do a lot of nodding. When he asks if you have an appetite, something in your gut awakens, and walking back to your car, you realize you’ve just birthed a new hunger.
You stand in front of your perfect landscaped house. You say out loud, “This is the definition of curb appeal.” The definition of curb appeal looks back at you. Your brother steps outside and waves. You stare, and wonder if the hand is yours. Then you remember, the house is your brother’s.
When you tell your brother about the bad blood, his face shifts. If you weren’t twins, you’d miss it. He doesn’t have to speak. You’re twins, you know his heart. You feel his empathy, his sadness, and under that, relief.
Later, you’re in your basement, your cupboards are almost done, the hinge contraption is finally sorted, and you’ve almost saved enough to buy knobs. You think of your brother, and you’re back, nestled in the crook of his neck, staring at grasping hands.
You go back to the house in the dark, and you fumble under landscaped bushes and new windows. You climb in through a screen, and endure the alarm system, screaming. Your brother waits, wordless—you know each other.
You expect it to be easy to cut out his heart, but you’re out of breath before you know it, grip straining, marveling at the layers. You’ve never seen so many hues of tissue. You hold his heart in your hand and you cut it in half.
Your brother doesn’t speak, when you put his half-heart in your chest. You slice into your own chest, and give him half of yours. Your two half-hearts beat, good blood mixes with bad, and things feel fairer, already.
Now, you walk into the steakhouse, and you’re not thinking about your twin, but he’s already seated and waiting. You can’t remember if he’s a civil or electrical engineer. You’re not sure, if he has a brand-new kitchen, or knob-less, DIY cupboards, held together by a contraption.
You reach out with all your hands. Your white shirts are both crimson. They’re dripping all over the place settings. For a moment, you both hesitate. You don’t have a clue whose hands are whose. You call to the waiter for aged steak and the best Malbec. You’re on the cusp of embracing, or strangling each other. But you’ll eat your two steaks, first.
When you’re done, the waiter will stand back, respectful, while you grapple. He knows that, no matter how this grotesquerie ends, one of your credit cards is good.
