One

but it is ours and no one else’s for three days,

  so the bugs, peeling paint, and

  rusting pipes don’t really worry me very much at all.

  In Bed

  Tippi gets Yasmeen’s shoulder to lean on.

  I lie next to Jon.

  By candlelight he reads aloud from Ulysses,

  words with a melody,

  some unrecognisable gems glittering

  in the gloom.

  ‘Pain, that was not yet the pain of love,

  fretted his heart,’ he reads,

  then seeing that both Tippi’s and Yasmeen’s eyes are shut,

  stops and closes the book.

  I rest a hand on his hand.

  Hold his eyes with my eyes.

  ‘Please keep reading,’ I beg,

  and he does.

  Long into the night

  it is the two of us alone

  with Joyce’s voice between us.

  ‘You read beautifully,’ I tell him.

  ‘And tomorrow night it’s your turn,’

  he says.

  The book is closed with a gentle huff.

  The candle is blown out.

  Jon curls his body around mine

  so that his breath is on my cheek.

  ‘Good night,’ he whispers

  and within minutes is asleep

  beside me.

  To the Lighthouse

  Salty eyed and stiff from the cold,

  we wake in the dark and

  tiptoe downstairs in our socks

  to cook up a

  tower of pancakes

  which we eat with

  so much syrup

  my teeth ache.

  Fishermen in waders stand on rocks,

  the Atlantic Ocean enveloping them—

  sloshing at their edges like

  angry, fizzing soda.

  And as they leave,

  carrying buckets full of edible sea monsters,

  a light beam punctures the morning.

  The sky blushes, letting go of its darkness.

  The fringe of the horizon is pink.

  ‘Sunrise,’ Tippi says.

  ‘It makes me want to believe in God.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Yasmeen tells her.

  And no one else says another word

  until the sun is an orange orb

  and our asses are numb

  from sitting so long.

  Skinny-dipping

  Skinny-dipping isn’t on either of our bucket lists

  but Yasmeen says it’s on hers,

  so that’s what we’re doing.

  Not in the bitter sea

  where the surf is high and threatens to

  kidnap anyone silly enough to plunge into her,

  but in a neighbour’s pool.

  ‘It can be heated, so she keeps the water

  in it even in the winter,’

  Yasmeen tells us.

  ‘But she’s only here on weekends.

  We have all day.’

  We sneak up the side of the cedar-panelled house

  and unroll the pool’s plastic covering.

  Leaves float on the water

  like herbs in a clear soup.

  Even before Jon has used a net to clear the leaves,

  Yasmeen is in her purple bra and pink panties,

  toes testing the water.

  And then her underwear is off

  and she

  dives

  like an eagle

  into the deep end and comes up screeching

  and blue.

  Jon is next to take off his shirt and pants.

  I look away

  and only turn around when I hear his body

  dive-bombing the water

  and the profanities tumbling out of him

  like urgent prayers.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask Tippi.

  No one except our parents and the doctors have

  seen

  us undressed before,

  and I am terrified of

  how I must look to others,

  of how disgusted

  a person

  would be

  if he saw us

  stripped bare.

  ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask

  thinking suddenly of our health,

  of our hearts.

  Then I throw off my coat.

  Naked

  we plunge feet first into the pool

  and flail when the frost, like needles, meets our skin.

  Jon cheers and swims closer.

  ‘Refreshing, huh?’ he says.

  And just as we are about to get out,

  Yasmeen shouts and points to the house,

  where a face is plastered against the window,

  the mouth a perfect zero.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Yasmeen yells.

  Clumsily we climb from the pool,

  grabbing our clothes and covering ourselves

  with our coats as best we can

  before plodding across the lawn

  and

  down the street to home.

  ‘Her expression was priceless!’ Yasmeen squeals,

  pushing open the barn door.

  A mouse scurries under the oven

  and no one suggests we set a trap to kill it.

  We just open the refrigerator door

  and take out four bottles of beer.

  No More

  Mom sends a text.

  Are you having fun?

  She sends another.

  Are you alive?

  And another.

  I’m worried.

  And finally.

  I’m going to call the cops.

  So I text her back and warn her not to

  send any more messages.

  Number Four

  Jon and I are the last ones awake again.

  After we’ve read for an hour,

  he stares up at the ceiling and says,

  ‘I feel bad about what happened

  when you showed me the bucket list.’

  I pretend I don’t know what he means.

  ‘I finished Jane Eyre.

  And I love Mr Rochester.

  I think that’s what Tippi and I need.

  Blind men who’ve lost everything.’

  I try to laugh but

  nothing comes out.

  Jon sits up

  and lights a cigarette.

  ‘Grace …

  … the thing is …’

  I stop him.

  ‘I get it.

  I really get it.

  I know how I look

  and what that means for my life.’

  I touch the place where Tippi and I are joined,

  where the doctors plan to place tissue expanders

  that will make our bodies look

  like we are covered in molehills.

  ‘I can’t explain what I feel,’ he says.

  ‘I read all these books,

  so many words,

  but I don’t own any.

  I don’t know what’s happening

  inside me.

  I can’t get it out.’

  He crushes the cigarette into a dirty plate,

  puts a piece of gum into his mouth, and

  shuts off the light.

  He slides down next to me

  and rests his forehead against mine.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ he says,

  and cups my face in his hands.

  ‘Jon,’ I whisper,

  and

  then

  his mouth is on mine,

  his tongue that tastes of watermelon gum

  prying my lips open

  and we are kissing—breath heavy,

  and kissing—heart light,

  and kissing and kissing

  and all I can I do when he stops

  is inhale deeply

  and say,

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening inside me, either.’

  Wat
ermelon

  I wake up still tasting the watermelon

  from his mouth.

  After I’ve brushed my teeth the flavour fades so

  I ask Jon for a piece of gum

  and spend all day

  with the taste

  of his kiss

  in my mouth.

  Weirdo

  ‘He kissed me last night,’ I whisper to Tippi

  when we are alone.

  She looks at me sideways

  as though I’ve offered her a rotten tuna sandwich.

  ‘If Jon’s seriously interested in you,

  he’s a weirdo.

  You get that, right?’

  I look down at our shared legs.

  ‘I thought you were trying to be

  less of bitch,’ I say.

  She grins.

  ‘This is me trying.’

  Planning

  Yasmeen licks the tip of her pencil, finds a

  clean page

  in her notebook,

  and waits for Tippi and me to outline our funeral

  directions,

  individual plans and a joint one, too,

  just in case.

  Jon has gone to the store for snacks.

  He doesn’t want to hear any of this.

  Says he can’t.

  Yasmeen’s the only person who will

  listen

  and promise to carry out our wishes

  without accusing us of being

  morbid

  or crying her eyes out at the thought of us leaving.

  She’s the only person, like us, who’s

  been coping with dying since she was born.

  It doesn’t freak her out.

  Not too much

  anyway.

  ‘Music?’ Yasmeen asks, and without skipping a beat

  Tippi tells her,

  ‘A lot of Dolly Parton for me.

  “I Will Always Love You”

  is a good one.

  I like “Home”, too.’

  ‘Look, I love Dolly as much as the next person,

  but you really want her at your funeral?’

  Yasmeen asks.

  She uses her hands to outline Dolly’s

  curves in the air.

  ‘If people are thinking about Dolly’s tits,

  they won’t be

  thinking about mine,’ Tippi says.

  ‘And no hymns,’ I add. ‘I don’t want anything holy.

  God is not invited to our funeral.’

  Yasmeen nods and makes a note on the paper.

  ‘So something satanic? Not. A. Problem.’

  We stuff cashews into our mouths

  and Yasmeen goes on cheerfully.

  ‘Coffins. Joint or separate?’

  ‘Joint,’ we say together without having to confer

  because what else could make sense?

  ‘Unless one of us lives, in which case,

  separate would be the way to go,’ Tippi says,

  and laughs though with very little verve.

  And we continue.

  We fully plan the services and burials,

  and when we’re done

  Yasmeen scrolls through her phone until she finds a Dolly Parton track,

  and we all sing

  as Yasmeen dances

  around the kitchen,

  repeating the refrain from ‘Jolene’ again and again,

  like it’s the most cheerful song in the world.

  The Promise

  Despite Dr Derrick’s warnings,

  we sit on the beach at night

  smoking cigars and drinking

  miniature bottles of gin,

  a fire pit blazing

  in the sand.

  ‘I’m drunk,’ Tippi says,

  falling backwards,

  taking me with her.

  We stare at the sickle moon,

  our heads spinning,

  and without thinking much about it

  I say, ‘Do you promise to live

  without me, if I don’t make it?’

  The sea stops roaring.

  The fire puts a finger to its fizzing lips.

  ‘I promise to marry Jon,’ Tippi says,

  giggling,

  tickling my side with her fingers.

  ‘Seriously,’ I say.

  Tippi pulls me to sitting and takes another slug of gin.

  ‘I promise, if you do.’

  ‘I do,’ I say,

  and kiss her.

  Last Night

  ‘I have a confession,’ Jon says

  to the darkness.

  I make my hands into fists

  and ready myself for the worst.

  ‘I have no idea what James Joyce

  is rambling on about,’ he admits.

  I uncurl.

  ‘Me neither,’ I say.

  ‘But I love it anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Isn’t it funny how something

  so abstract can still speak to us?’

  He takes my hand and does not let go

  until morning.

  The Return

  Pointe shoes hang from their ribbons on the coatrack.

  Thick leg warmers are balled up by the radiator.

  ‘Anyone home?’ I call out.

  ‘Dragon?’

  She skips from the bathroom

  and throws two slim arms around us.

  ‘I missed you,’ she says.

  ‘I bought you Russian nesting dolls. They were cheap.

  And I got a new boyfriend. His name is Peter.

  He’s a Muscovite.’

  ‘I’m so sorry we dragged you back,’

  I say.

  Dragon shakes her head.

  ‘Russia’s freezing and Peter wanted to get into my panties.

  Better to come home.

  Besides, it isn’t every day your

  conjoined sisters separate.

  I wanted to be here when …’

  She runs away and comes back with the nesting dolls.

  I pull the first doll apart and then the second.

  Layer on layer she is the same:

  a perfect circular red blush, little coal eyes,

  and delving into

  smaller versions

  reveals no more.

  ‘You’re looking for the symbolism, aren’t you?’

  Dragon says.

  She grabs the dolls and

  stuffs them back into each other.

  ‘They’re about motherhood.

  They aren’t about you.’

  Tippi snickers.

  ‘And there was Grace thinking that

  everything was about us.’

  Christmas

  We hang lights on the apple tree in our yard.

  We eat too much turkey and stuffing.

  We buy gifts.

  It is Christmas

  after all,

  and at the end of the day

  we’re no

  different

  from any other family.

  New Skin

  Dr Derrick introduces someone new:

  Dr Forrester, an expert in his field.

  He is the one who slides skin expanders

  —small balloons filled with saline—

  under our skin to stretch it out

  so we will have enough to cover the

  wounds of separation

  when the time comes.

  We are awake for the procedure,

  under a local anesthetic,

  blinking against bright lights and

  watching the nurses and doctors

  hovering above us,

  noses and mouths hidden behind green surgical masks.

  Hours later

  Tippi groans and I clutch the bedsheets

  to stop myself from screaming out.

  ‘We need Vicodin,’ Tippi mutters,

  pressing the call bell.

  My body throbs and burns.

  A
nd these skin expanders are just the start.

  ‘Soon it’s going to look like you’re covered in

  colossal tumours,’

  Dr Forrester tells us the next morning,

  the corners of his mouth crusted in dried white spittle.

  ‘But it will only be for a short time.

  And you can go home while they work their magic.’

  Without asking our permission, he presses his hands against

  the incisions

  —our bellies, backs, and sides—

  and it is plain to me

  that we no longer

  own our bodies:

  we have entrusted them to these men and women

  who will inflate us and

  shape us and

  slice us apart

  and never stop to ask,

  Are you sure?

  Jon

  I know

  he doesn’t mean to shudder as

  he touches the bump on

  my side where the tissue expanders are growing.

  But

  he does shudder,

  he can’t help it, and for the first time I realise that

  he is not perfect.

  And

  I hate him for it.

  A Waste

  We wait for our skin to grow

  and the doctors to be ready.

  All we can really do

  is wait

  and read

  and watch TV

  and comply

  with the nurse

  who visits every day

  to check we aren’t overdoing it.

  And I get to thinking

  that all this waiting,

  just waiting,

  is a great big waste of

  the last moments

  of our lives.

  Folding

  One way or the other,

  we soon won’t