The morning after high school graduation, I woke to see my twin sister Phyllis packing to run away, for real this time. Her mop of chestnut curls bounced as she stuffed jewelry, baby china, and her life savings of 20 dollars between the clothes in her book bag. Phee paused and swung her head up to see me awake across the room. I didn’t say a word.
~
This, of course, had been a long time coming. Phee’s talked about running away since Eisenhower was sworn in. The first time, we were seven. Phee got in trouble at school for doing two things: fighting during recess and wearing shorts. She’d ripped her circle-skirt off to chase down Michael Brady from sixth grade after he’d spit on her. He’d called her names, too. As her older twin brother, I should’ve socked him in the mouth. But I stood far away, frozen, while Phee tackled Michael to the ground.
Mom glared at the detention slip like it was a one-way ticket to hell. Our kitchen shrank as her voice rose.
“Phyllis Anne Reader! That behavior is not ladylike,” Mom scolded.
After that, all I could remember was what my sister said.
“Ladies get spat on!” Phee cried, her blue eyes watering. “I couldn’t just sit there --But the teachers don’t stop anything! --why does it matter? --he already called me a dyke, no skirt will change it!”
Mom slapped her. “Never use that word again!”
She dragged Phee into the other room.
“Charlie, help!” She cried for me as I sat, staring at our math homework.
I couldn’t add or move or think with the sound of Mom’s spatula whipping through the air. Smacking against my twin’s bare back. My spine tingled and I winced, the only sign I had not actually been turned to stone.
With red eyes, Phee came back into the kitchen to finish her times tables. Then, she was sent straight to bed. As the sky began to turn purple, I knew Dad would come home soon.
Mom handed Dad his gin and tonic, I set the table and made myself silent, so he could relax after a long day of work. When Mom explained Phee’s absence at dinner, Dad cut in.
“Well, let’s hope your parenting mistakes stop here, dear.”
I tried to talk about baseball, about horses, about anything else, only for dad to leave the table early.
His voice slurred as he mumbled “—wearing shorts like some kind of pin-up, God help us.”
Mom trailed behind him. It was the first night no one tucked us in.
Phee stayed late for detention the next day. In what I assumed was a panic, Mom threw out Phee’s play-shorts, her overalls, and her only pair of lined winter slacks. That night, she sent her to bed without supper, again.
“Three Hail Mary’s, then straight to bed. It’s for your own good.”
Phee knelt next to her bed crying. That was the first night she’d mentioned running away. But what clothes could she even take? It’s hard to run away in a skirt.
~
I wondered how long I’d been watching Phee pack. I wondered how long she’d been packing before I woke.
The sight of her hollow cheeks prickled the skin on my full, rosy ones. The striped pajamas I used to wear years ago threatened to swallow her whole, each stripe weighing her down ten pounds. I hadn’t noticed how thin she’d gotten. Phee caught my eyes before scouring her closet and grabbing a single skirt.
~
For the next few years, Phee tried to do what Mom said. If she wore what Mom wanted during the day, there’d be less fighting at night. Dad would be pleasant when he’d come home --later than he used to --and only have one drink instead of four. Phee would sit with Dad on the couch, bows in her curly hair, while he did the crossword. Quiet days lulled into pleasant nights. But once the Lord’s prayer was said and the lights went out, Phee needed to run. I pretended not to know she’d sneak out the kitchen sink window at night. As her older twin brother, it was my job to keep it a secret. But secrets always get found out.
The summer before high school, Phee snuck in right as Dad got home late. She’d been so shocked, she knocked a vase into the sink, fell into the sink on top of it, and caught her skirt in the garbage disposal.
“Charlie, help!”
I bolted into the kitchen, but when I saw her, I froze. Like father, like son. Dad stood stark still as she tried to rip her skirt free. When the garbage disposal chewed away too much of the fabric, we saw blood from the glass shards streaming down her pantiless legs.
It was Mom who took action.
“What happened?”
Phee’s skin cracked as a belt buckle met her shoulder.
“I’m sorry! --I was at the school track with Barbara! --’cause we wanted to run —but Barbs finally got the curse —she bled through her panties --it’s true, I swear to God—” she winced again as the belt took a piece of her with it. “I gave her mine so her mom wouldn’t have a cow about the blood --we threw them in the dumpster --I’m really sorry.”
Mom stood up and began to walk to the phone.
“--No, wait! Don’t call Mrs. Wilson! Barbs made me promise not to tell!” Mom swung sideways and hit Phee across the face. That’s when she looked up at me and mouthed the word help.
To me, Mom said calmly. “Go to bed, unless you’d like to join your sister.” My twin cried for me again as I turned around and walked up the stairs.
We pretended to sleep, to pray, to do anything but listen, as Mom and Dad fought until sunrise about what to do with their daughter. Dad said Phee was a “disturbing invert” and needed to be sent away. That it was Mom’s fault. That she should have taught her better. Mom said girls need their fathers home at night, to see what a healthy family looks like. He said he was working. She said if Dad spent half the nights he stayed out late actually working, Phee and I would have been in a better school. Then, silence.
After an eternity, Dad scoffed; finding his legs again, he staggered out of the house to clear his head. He didn’t come home until the next night. Soon after that, he stopped coming home altogether.
That summer, Phee was on house arrest while Mom worked as a secretary. I earned four bucks every morning at the bookstore and came home to find Phee had made my lunch. Just like Mom instructed her to. I’d tell her about life on the other side. I’d tell her Mom would forgive… whatever happened… sooner or later. Her curls sticking to her sweat-slicked forehead, she listened patiently, said nothing. Temperance, hardened by months of facing Mom’s wrath.
At night as we both prayed, I’d hear her say things I didn’t understand. I'd hear her say she was broken, that if she was gone, Dad would be here. That Mom would be happy. That she wanted to run away. I should’ve offered to help her fit in at school, so people wouldn’t talk as much. Or to talk to mom. Or begged her not to leave me behind. All I could do was kneel next to her twin bed and hug her.
The weekend before high school started, Phee was allowed to go outside with me. I took her to the track for a run and saw her face light up like it hadn’t all summer.
Before Phee took off, I opened my backpack and pulled out the shoebox. Inside was a pair of New Balance Trackster shoes. For Runners. It was all I could do for my baby sister. Phee’s curls seemed to lift off her smiling face as she slipped on her new shoes. They barely left her feet for the following four years.
~
She wore them this morning. You could hardly call the shoes white anymore. I rubbed my face as Phee worked in silence, steeling herself against any doubts or regrets. Set that same shoebox on her bed and changed into a pair of pants I’d outgrown in high school.
~
Starting freshman year, I wound up a utility player on the baseball team. All year, I shared in a spotlight while Phee survived in the shadows. The only time we had together was our morning jog. Matching Tracksters, our heavy breathing took the place of spoken words. Even with baseball, Phee was always faster.
We’d go our separate ways the moment we left the track. Rumors spiraled; people called her names. People said she snuck around with girls after school. That our home was broken because of her perversion. Even though I did stand up for her at first, for our family, by senior year the student body’s words had worn me down.
Phee traded her Bible for Plath, but she still prayed sometimes, asking to be fixed. I didn’t realize it was about the rumors at school, because I didn’t really think they were true.
Then I walked into our room to see my baby sister in bed with Barbara Wilson. She jumped to cover herself, while Barbs rose from under the sheets and casually waved hello. I screamed, shut the door, and ran downstairs to confront something I might have already known but hadn’t believed. Phee was a dyke.
Barbs took her sweet time packing up before she saw herself out. And I found myself at the kitchen table, terrified to talk to Phee. Terrified I’d see the girl who people said would make out with other queers under the bleachers, that would stare up skirts during duck and cover drills, who shared a bed with Barbara Wilson. I sat paralyzed at the thought that I wouldn’t see my twin. But there she was, in one of my old shirts, hair a mess, next to me at the kitchen table. Our eyes turned to our hands as we sat in silence.
After maybe an eternity, I said stupidly,“—do you think you’ll get a second date?”
Phee looked right at me and chuckled. She laughed till she cried, and she cried and laughed some more till she was empty of everything for just a moment. All I saw was my sister.
And then Mom walked through the front door, shrieked, clutched her literal pearls and slammed the door shut. “Phyllis, why on earth are you in men’s clothes in front of a window?! A neighbor might see!”
Mom’s full time work made our tiny house feel empty. And because Phee and Mom were almost never around each other, I realized Mom had never once screamed at me. It’s not like I was an angel. I listened to Elvis, I didn’t get crew cuts. But Phee was always in trouble. And for seven years, she tried with all her might to be what Mom needed. Mom’s needs didn’t matter to her tonight.
“Cause I had company over. --no, but I can tell you her name. --oh, don’t act surprised. You knew. -- don’t bring Dad into this. --you know how sorry I’ve been. --if that’s how you feel, just let me leave then! --no? Then I’m going to bed. See you for breakfast.”
Phee actually slept that night. No prayers, no running. But Barbs got caught sneaking into her house. Her little sister, Karen, told the whole school that Barbs and Phee were dykes in love. Mom called Phee’s behavior sick at first. Phee claimed she couldn’t go to school each day for feeling “too gay,” and said it “might be catching.” But when Mom suggested sending Phee to a mental hospital, like Barbara’s mom planned to, Phee was practically scared straight.
For the rest of senior year, Phee kept her grades up and her head down. A cold war crept over our home. Honestly, I was thankful for the silence. I applied to college, focused on baseball season. It didn’t occur to me that in a few months, I’d go to school and she’d be stuck with mom until she married, which seemed unlikely, given her situation. She was trapped. With literally nowhere to go, Phee stopped trying to run away.
Then came last night. After we walked the stage, Mom brought a man to our tiny graduation party, who requested to take Phee with him for the summer. He said he could fix her. I stood witness to Phee and Mom’s last and quietest fight in the kitchen.
“Dr. Carter’s here to help you, Phyllis,” Mom cooed as she set out Swedish meatballs. Guests mingled mindlessly around us. “You can learn to be normal with his help.”
Phee plastered on a pleasant, desperate smile. With her relaxed hair and painted lips, I didn’t recognize my twin. “I’ve done what you want, Mom. Nothing’s happened since. I don’t think I need to go.”
“Sweetheart,” Mom leaned in, smoothing out her dress. “I’m looking out for you. This man’s job is to teach you to have healthy thoughts. All I’ve ever wanted to do is save you. Now, you’ll be fixed.”
Phee’s voice was steel. “If God made me broken, then let me be broken.”
Mom smiled. “You can talk more with Dr. Carter about that when he picks you up tomorrow.”
Phee's steel resolve faltered, and fear flickered in both sets of our identical blue eyes. I took a step toward her, this time I'd help. But she smiled and brushed me off. She didn't need my help. She’d be gone before sunrise.
~
As the sky began to glow purple, Phee knelt by her twin bed. I joined her. On top of the withered shoebox was an acceptance letter to Mount Hoyloke. I didn’t even know she’d applied. She handed me the box. Our identical blue eyes met and I felt my throat close as tears rolled down my face. She was really leaving. And she had somewhere to go. I opened the box to find my old Tracksters. On the insole, a Massachusetts address written in marker. So I could visit my baby sister. Phee hugged me as tight as she could. I shook as I hugged her back. Before the sun had fully woken up, Phee had already run away. For real this time.
There were so many moments I thought Phee needed her older twin brother to stand up for her. It wasn’t until she was long gone that I realized the stronger of us had left. Curls just like hers stuck to my sopping face as the gentle pink sky yielded to daylight. I laced up the shoes and hid the box under the bed. And before Mom could look for either of her twin babies, I raced out the front door, unsure of where to run.
Beautiful…