A Stranger To Me

FUNERAL

The funeral was over, but even as people began to leave, I couldn't bring myself to follow.

I'd heard it said many times before that twins, and even triplets, had a special connection that went beyond understanding, one that started at the moment of conception, and lasted until death. But that was a lie. Peter and I never had that sort of bond. It was like he was a stranger to me. We were as different as one could be from the other. From my earliest memory, possibly my very first memory, he was always in trouble and had caused a lot of problems for my parents.

We didn't even look alike. While my hair was wavy and auburn in color, his was an odd combination of blonde, copper, and brown. His eyes were green and mine were a hazel blend of green and brown. Even our ridiculous names hadn't bonded us together. My mom had once told me that, as a girl, she'd always favored the tongue-twister Peter Piper (Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers), and decided to name us accordingly, only spelling mine differently, so she could sing it to us and it would be her own private joke.

Then, when Peter and I turned twelve, he was sent away to Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, to live at the group home; a place for kids who were 'dark' which meant in adult-language, problem kids, the rebellious kind, not easily redirected by authority.

That was Peter – always with his middle finger up at society.

Home life became even more tense than before. My parents didn't seem to get along anymore; my mom was preoccupied and moody, while my dad would excuse himself immediately after he finished his dinner, heading to his library where he stayed, behind a closed door, for the rest of the night. I knew he was sleeping in there because my parents' bedroom was directly across the hallway from mine, and the creaking sound the door made when it opened and closed didn't happen after my mom had gone to bed.

I hated it. I always felt out of place. I wanted to be away from them, away from home, but not in the same way Peter was. After he'd gone, the tension between my parents was almost unbearable, as if whatever cloud he'd been living under had stayed and was hanging over their heads. Then one night, I was awakened by their yelling. I'd looked at the clock – it was late. I remembered thinking I wanted to tell them to go to bed and start over fresh with their argument the next morning. I had a big science test the next day, one that counted for a large percentage of my grade, and because my grade was slipping, I needed every point I could get.

From downstairs, I could hear the front door close with a bang. I got up and descended the stairwell as quietly as I could, but only halfway so I wouldn't be seen.

My mom was standing in the middle of the living room, her body tense under her thin, pink robe, and her hands balled into fists at her side. I could hear my dad's car start and watched the beam from the headlights move across the semi-darkened room as he pulled out of the driveway and drove away.

Quietly, I turned and stole back up the stairs to my bedroom. I slipped between my sheets and closed my eyes, hoping to fall right off to sleep. Instead, I lay there, listening.

My parents had never argued much, but in the months before Peter was sent away, that changed – the yelling was constant and the tension was always thick. Only after he was gone, the stress began to lessen and life became much easier.

Then one night, a phone call came during dinnertime. My father got up to answer it, but I became worried when his expression went from relaxed to serious. Later, when they thought I wasn't listening, I heard my parents discussing it – Peter was up to his old tricks again, but worse; he'd tried to assault a nurse. Afterwards, he ran away, but was easily caught when he'd attempted to jump a fence, but fell instead next to a large dumpster, making enough noise so that he was easily found.