One

She has proven she won’t take

  our lives and turn them

  into a sensational story

  but hold them gently

  and mould her movie

  around the

  truth.

  And so Caroline is welcome—

  welcome to film us,

  our decision,

  and what

  might be

  the last few months of

  our lives.

  The Things I Tell Dr Murphy

  ‘You know,

  I’ve spent so

  long trying to convince everyone

  that I’m an individual,

  that Tippi’s my twin

  but not me,

  that I’ve never really thought about

  how it would be if

  we weren’t together,

  how

  losing her would be like

  lying in a pyre

  and waiting for the flames.

  She’s not a piece of me.

  She’s me entirely

  and without her

  there would be

  a gaping space

  in my chest,

  an expanding black hole

  that nothing

  else could

  fill.

  You know?

  Nothing else could fill that space.’

  Dr Murphy sits back in her chair.

  ‘Finally you’re opening up,’

  she says.

  Right.

  All these years

  she hadn’t been

  buying my bullshit at all.

  Catching Up

  Although it’s a Saturday

  and Hornbeacon is closed up,

  and although Mom is terrified of us leaving her sight,

  Grammie drives us to Montclair where

  Yasmeen and Jon meet us on the school’s front steps.

  Yasmeen is clutching a pile of papers,

  wearing a frown,

  and glowering at us.

  Her hair is no longer hot pink

  but dark denim blue,

  her bangs tickling her eyes.

  Jon stands behind her

  blinking against the sun,

  a silver gum wrapper stuck to his sneaker.

  Carefully they reach for us then hold on tight.

  ‘You losers have a lot to do,’ Yasmeen says.

  ‘I’m not sure how you’ll catch up before the semester ends.’

  She slams a heavy wad of papers

  against Tippi’s chest.

  ‘We won’t be back for a while.

  You think we’re going to spend our dying days

  working on the French conditional?’ Tippi asks,

  pitching the multicoloured papers into the air so they

  scatter like supersized confetti

  across the courtyard.

  ‘You’re so dramatic,’ Yasmeen says,

  and rolls her half-hidden eyes.

  ‘So what are you guys doing instead?

  Do you even have a bucket list?’

  Behind us Caroline clears her throat.

  ‘We’re filming,’ she warns.

  ‘Who cares?’ Tippi asks,

  and we hobble off to The Church.

  Bucket Lists

  Sitting on a log,

  Tippi and I write up our lists,

  shoulders curled away from each other,

  hands hiding our words.

  But I can’t think of much:

  1) Read Jane Eyre

  2) Watch the sun rise

  3) Climb a tree

  4) Kiss a boy—for real

  Tippi looks over my shoulder.

  ‘I’ve heard Jane Eyre’s a real bore,’

  she says,

  then hands me her list.

  This is what she has written:

  1) Stop being such a bitch

  ‘That’s gonna take some time,’

  I tell her.

  ‘And so is your number four,’ she says.

  Easy

  Yasmeen runs a jagged nail down my list.

  ‘Ugh,’ she says.

  ‘Couldn’t you have added something

  cool like

  running naked through the school hallways

  or getting whipped by pint-sized circus clowns?’

  ‘She’s done both those things already,’

  Tippi says,

  and I laugh very, very loudly,

  hoping Jon won’t look at my list

  and hoping he will.

  ‘You’ve never climbed a tree?’

  Yasmeen asks,

  then quickly says,

  ‘Jon, you gotta kiss Grace.’

  She slams my list into his hand

  like a court summons.

  ‘And lend her this stupid book.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to do anything,’ I mumble.

  Jon runs his eyes over the paper

  and puts out his cigarette.

  He bites his bottom lip.

  ‘I’ve an old copy of Jane Eyre you can keep.

  I’ll drive it over to your place,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, for the love of God, a kiss is just a kiss,’ Yasmeen says.

  But she is wrong:

  a kiss from Jon

  would mean

  Everything.

  Nightmare

  In the public library next to Church Square Park

  where Tippi and I go to borrow free movies,

  a girl with an iPhone

  huffs and sighs.

  ‘My phone’s lost its signal. I can’t connect to the Wi-Fi.

  What a nightmare,’

  she tells her friend,

  waving the phone around

  and hoping to catch a stray ray

  of connectivity in the air.

  Isn’t it funny what people worry about

  when their lives are going

  swimmingly?

  I Slip Away

  Shane has the flu

  and won’t risk coming anywhere near us,

  so when Caroline’s busy

  taking calls

  or arranging interviews,

  Paul’s the only one

  following us around.

  When I can,

  I become invisible.

  I put in my headphones

  and

  slip away.

  I try

  as hard as I can

  to give Tippi

  a little

  time with

  him.

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’

  she says.

  ‘But it’s not like you and Jon.

  It’s nothing.’

  ‘But it could be something,’

  I say.

  ‘Look at me, Grace,’ Tippi replies.

  ‘Do you think he’d ever

  be interested in a

  brunette?’

  She laughs.

  And so do I.

  A Replacement

  Aunty Anne brings Beau, our newest cousin,

  to visit.

  He is all drool and whimpers

  yet we fight over who gets to hold him,

  who changes his diaper and

  gives him his bottle.

  Aunty Anne yawns and says,

  ‘Everyone keeps asking when I’ll have the next one.

  But I’m so tired.’

  Mom titters and gives her sister a mild backrub.

  ‘It gets easier. They sleep through the night soon enough.’

  Aunty Anne closes her eyes.

  ‘My friend told me to have another child

  in case anything ever happened to Beau.

  I hate even having to imagine it.’

  Mom’s hands freeze.

  Baby Beau mewls, sensing our attention is elsewhere.

  ‘The pain of losing one child

  wouldn’t vanish just because you have another,’ Mom says.

  ‘You can’t make replacements.’

 
Film

  Caroline leaves the cameras in our bedroom

  every night

  so she doesn’t have to haul them

  back and forth from New York City

  every day.

  They sit on our desk and we don’t pay them any

  attention

  at all

  until

  I remember that the crew has been filming

  everyone.

  I slide a tiny green button sideways

  and watch.

  We watch.

  And we see

  Mom and Dad’s crinkled faces

  as Caroline softly asks,

  ‘Do you think Tippi and Grace

  should be separated?’

  Dad stares into his lap.

  ‘I want to keep them alive,’ Mom says.

  ‘No parent should bury a child,

  and definitely not two of them.

  But it’s up to them to decide.

  It’s up to them.’

  We watch

  Mom cry into the camera

  and beg Caroline to turn it off,

  and then we stare at each other

  thinking exactly the same thing.

  This isn’t just about us.

  No Run-throughs

  In English class we were encouraged to write

  drafts and make edits

  until our words were as clear

  as filtered water.

  In math we were warned to

  review our workings,

  ensure the figure at the end

  was correct.

  And in music we rehearsed

  songs a hundred times,

  trying out a glut of harmonies

  before Mr Hunt was satisfied.

  Yet when it matters,

  when it’s a life-and-death decision,

  like whether to slice ourselves

  apart or not,

  we’ve no way to perfect the path we’re taking

  and have only

  one choice

  and

  one chance

  to get it right.

  Obviously

  We meet Dr Derrick to give him our decision

  and he is silent for several moments,

  his face stone,

  none of the excitement we expected seeping through,

  no relishing the risks involved,

  and I wonder whether we’ve underestimated him.

  ‘I’ll get the planning under way,’ he says,

  ‘This is a big project and it won’t happen

  overnight.

  But we can’t wait too long, either.’

  He looks at me directly.

  ‘Obviously, we can’t wait too long.’

  The Call

  Yasmeen calls us after midnight.

  ‘You can relax.

  Jon and I have figured it all out.

  Winter break we’re going on a road trip.

  My uncle has a place in Montauk.

  It’s going to be awesome.’

  Tippi and I grin.

  ‘We’re in,’ we say together.

  Whether Mom Likes It or Not

  Mom is absolutely

  one hundred percent

  against letting us go anywhere near

  Long Island.

  ‘You think I’m going to let you roam around the country

  with your hearts about to screech to a stop at any moment,

  and without a drop of adult supervision?

  Do you know me at all?

  Do you?’

  Mom asks.

  She nips her lips shut.

  But Tippi’s lips are even thinner.

  ‘I know you’re worried. We’re sorry about that.

  But this isn’t a negotiation.

  We’re going whether you like it or not,’ Tippi says.

  ‘We’re going to Long Island with our friends

  and there’s not a shit-flicking thing anyone can say to stop us.’

  Road Trip

  Mom keeps checking the internet,

  refreshing the pages

  over and over

  for news of

  bad weather or

  traffic accidents on Long Island,

  anything that might

  prevent us from going.

  She pokes around in her purse every few minutes and pulls out things

  like Kleenex and cough candies

  that ‘might come in handy on the trip.’

  She paces the floor.

  She checks her watch.

  She refreshes the internet again.

  Dad is visiting for the weekend.

  He is making risotto,

  guarding the pot and incessantly stirring.

  ‘Try to stop worrying,’ he tells Mom,

  and behind his back she rolls her eyes

  as if to say,

  What would you know?

  Apparently he hasn’t taken a drink in ten days,

  says he’s been going to recovery meetings,

  and while Tippi and I don’t hold our breaths,

  we see how Mom is revelling a little in his normality,

  grinning at jokes and delighting in his overcooked dinners.

  ‘I actually think it’s very unfair to keep Caroline from going, too,’

  Mom says.

  ‘A deal’s a deal.

  What kind of film will it be without footage of the trip?’

  Caroline is leafing through an old photo album,

  picking out the pictures to take away and scan.

  ‘It works for me actually,’ she says.

  ‘Paul’s taking a few days off

  to see his brother in Boston,

  and poor Shane’s still sick with

  the flu.’

  ‘Cool,’

  I say

  trying not to feel resentful

  of Shane

  or the millions of other people

  whose hearts don’t die

  because they get a little virus.

  A car horn honks

  and Dad drags our bag out to the curb where Jon

  throws it into the trunk of the car.

  We strap ourselves into the back seat

  and wave to Mom who has taken

  our places by the bay window,

  where I’m sure she’ll stand until we return.

  Dad goes back inside.

  Jon jumps into the driver’s seat and looks at us in

  the rearview mirror. ‘Did you bring booze?’ he asks.

  I delve into our duffle bag and Jon leans over the seat to

  look at the bounty of beers and wine and vodka

  we’ve pinched from Dad’s dormant stash

  in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re the best,’ he says. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’

  Pit Shop

  We’ve only driven for an hour when Yasmeen

  announces she’s hungry,

  that she wants Burger King

  or something equally disgusting

  to help her stay awake while we drive the measly three hours east.

  Jon pulls over at a service station

  and Yasmeen jumps out.

  Jon turns up the radio and grabs a beer bottle

  from our bag,

  twisting it open.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Yasmeen asks.

  ‘Couldn’t you just murder a burger?’

  Tippi opens her door and starts to pull on me.

  But I don’t want to go anywhere.

  I want to sit in the car with Jon,

  sharing a beer I shouldn’t be drinking

  and listening to the radio.

  ‘Come on,’ Tippi says. ‘Burgers.’

  I hold my body rigid.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Tippi asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘So come on,’ she repeats.

  ‘You too, Jon.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I’m good with
beer and rock music.

  Be sure to pick up some Cokes for the vodka

  after you’ve eaten your delicious

  Brazilian rainforest beef.’

  Yasmeen gives him the finger

  and takes Tippi’s hand.

  ‘Don’t drink more than one of those,’ she tells Jon,

  and suddenly my body is

  out of the car and in the lot,

  waiting for a table,

  eating fries,

  and paying the check.

  I go through all the motions of

  being in the restaurant

  with Tippi and Yasmeen

  while all the time

  my mind is on Jon—

  the back of his head,

  the lines of his neck,

  his smell,

  his voice.

  His everything.

  The Barn

  The library is piled high with old copies of art magazines

  and books so yellowed and dry they look like they’d

  crack down the middle if you tried to read them.

  The bathroom has no light and mould creeps from the corners

  of the shower and across the walls.

  The kitchen is dappled in tiny brown mouse droppings

  and dead beetles.

  Upstairs

  Yasmeen and Jon

  rearrange the furniture,

  drag a double bed with

  a sunken mattress into the biggest of the rooms so that

  two beds

  are pushed up together

  against the wall making a massive one

  for four.

  The cobwebby window is wiped clean with the cuff

  of Yasmeen’s coat.

  Jon sweeps the floor.

  I plug in a heater and we all stand around it,

  red-nosed,

  hands in our armpits.

  This is not like the other holiday homes

  we saw as we drove through the Hamptons,

  milk-white mansions with colonnades and crystal blue fountains,