My Twin Triplets
'Mary's heart was filled
with a generosity; people gravitated to her. Such a tragic, tragic passing,'
the Reverend cringed, shaking his head.
I swallowed a fresh round of tears, their
salt clumping at the back of my throat. From under my veil I look sideways at
my two living daughters, only distinguishable by the star-shaped scar near
Patrice's eye and Beth's heavy mascara. With their black hair and hazel eyes,
in every other way they were the same - just as I had looked at age thirteen.
It is the year 2063.
After the raging chemical fires of 2042 to 43 (when I had been a girl of
thirteen myself) the air was too polluted to procreate naturally, for a woman
to grow a child inside her in this harsh new world. Of the people who survived
the fires, after losing their loved ones to the raging heat, they were dealt a
second blow - babes born with such ghastly deformities they survived mere hours
post birth. Stories of women birthing nothing more than a gush of limbs put
procreation on hold for nearly a decade.
A copy.
It started with a chimpanzee, grown inside
an artificially created womb. The first human baby - completely formed in three
months instead of the customary nine - followed a year later.
For me, the decision had been an easy one.
I'd made it one night at dinner, looking across the table at my husband, Coal,
through a black eye. He could beat me and rape me, but I'd never let him
impregnate me, even if we breathed Garden-of-Eden air.
Triplets, I'd ordered. Each my own genetic twin, only born twenty years apart. I recalled the day I'd brought them home from the laboratory, the swaddled babes asleep in the pram.
Coal cast his eyes over them and placed a burly hand on Beth's chest. 'Who'd you 'ave to whore yourself out to, to afford these puppies?'
'No one,' I stammered, leaning over the pram, acutely aware of what that hand was capable of. 'It's all from my hospice money, Coal. You said that was okay, remember?'
I hated that quiver, that fear, in my voice. 'And I'll work extra to pay for their air. They won't cost you a cent -'
Coal was grinning, his eyes twinkling. He was only playing with me, this time.
And then a miracle happened. Coal began to ignore me, and the girls. The floggings stopped, as did the teeth-clenching intercourse. No more than a grunt I would get when he went off to dictate at the indoor farmers market. At home, if one of the triplets cried, he would growl in disdain at the disruption, but never once did he get off the couch to lay one on them, as he used to do me.
Life had been good, relatively speaking.
Triplets, I'd ordered. Each my own genetic twin, only born twenty years apart. I recalled the day I'd brought them home from the laboratory, the swaddled babes asleep in the pram.
Coal cast his eyes over them and placed a burly hand on Beth's chest. 'Who'd you 'ave to whore yourself out to, to afford these puppies?'
'No one,' I stammered, leaning over the pram, acutely aware of what that hand was capable of. 'It's all from my hospice money, Coal. You said that was okay, remember?'
I hated that quiver, that fear, in my voice. 'And I'll work extra to pay for their air. They won't cost you a cent -'
Coal was grinning, his eyes twinkling. He was only playing with me, this time.
And then a miracle happened. Coal began to ignore me, and the girls. The floggings stopped, as did the teeth-clenching intercourse. No more than a grunt I would get when he went off to dictate at the indoor farmers market. At home, if one of the triplets cried, he would growl in disdain at the disruption, but never once did he get off the couch to lay one on them, as he used to do me.
Life had been good, relatively speaking.
But now there was only
two.
The service ended. Mary's mourners petered out after some awkward exchanged hugs and kisses, and returned quickly to their homes.
There would be no wake. There was no room in the tiny, air-filtered studio.
And then it was just me, Beth and Patrice.
The service ended. Mary's mourners petered out after some awkward exchanged hugs and kisses, and returned quickly to their homes.
There would be no wake. There was no room in the tiny, air-filtered studio.
Cover photo courtesy of Markun K, entitled: ‘Sisters – prototype.’
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