hell?”
“You dreamed that you burned down a house the other night?”
“Yes,” Leslie says. Ted keeps his eyes locked on mine.
“And I assume that you dreamed this after getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?”
“I don’t know,” Leslie says.
“But you get up a lot in the middle of the night?”
“Yes,” Leslie says.
Their chairs are on rollers, and I start to move the chairs. One turns clockwise and the other counter-clockwise as the men move the mirrors, keeping them in front of Ted and Leslie.
“That’s when you communicate, primarily. You catch each other up in the bathroom. I hate to tell you this, but there was a follow-up to the story about the arson of your childhood home. The woman who lived there had two cats. Only one of them got out. They found the other cat a couple of days later in the attic. Asphyxiated.”
“Nonsense,” Ted says.
“And my friends over at the police department tell me that they’ve collected footage from a security camera up the street. They have a man matching your description fleeing the scene just minutes before the fire was spotted by a neighbor.”
“It wasn’t me,” Leslie says. “I was asleep.”
“I believe you,” I say. We’ve got the chairs nearly turned around now, and I position myself behind Leslie so I can wheel him the rest of the way. I’m looking over his shoulder when the chairs finally face each other. We’re looking at Ted with the circle on his forehead, sitting next to the mirror that reflects back Leslie’s unmarked face next to mine.
“I was talking to him,” I say in Leslie’s ear, pointing to Ted.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Leslie says.
“Have you ever tried to read something by starlight?” I ask Leslie. “It’s really difficult because the center part of your retina, the fovea, is terrible at low-light vision. You have to turn your gaze about twelve degrees to get around your blind spot. You have a blind spot for your brother. Try looking in that mirror.”
I see his gaze shift over to the mirror and settle there for several seconds. He’s not seeing it.
“I drew a circle on your brother’s head.”
After a few more seconds, I see Leslie’s eyes start to bounce back and forth, and in the mirror I watch Leslie’s lips part as his jaw slackens. When he looks at the mirror, his peripheral vision finally sees what his brain blocks out—the image of his twin brother.
“Who are you?”
Leslie can see him now, but Ted still doesn’t understand what’s happening. As far as Ted is concerned, the question came from his own lips.
“Hey,” Leslie struggles against the straps holding him to the chair. “Let me out of these straps. Hey!”
I reach down and peel back the velcro from one of the straps. Leslie uses his freed hand to finish the job and he’s up and out of the chair. My men gather close, just in case.
“Hey! Look at me,” Leslie says. He grips his brother by his shoulders.
Ted looks forward at nothing. His personality is on hold, since his brother is in action.
“Hey!” Leslie says. His hand flies out and strikes Ted twice before I can grab his arms. “Who are you?”
“That’s Ted,” I say.
“I’m Ted. Me.”
“You’re Leslie.”
“Leslie died. I’m Ted.”
“You guys made up that story about Leslie dying. You’ve been sharing the Ted persona ever since.”
“That’s impossible,” Leslie says. “He died eleven years ago.”
“Leslie never had cancer,” I say. “I asked your cousins in Shippensburg. They had nothing but nice things to say about you both, but I could hear the concern in their voices.”
“Impossible,” Leslie repeats. He slumps backwards and his hands help land him back in the chair.
I watch as the animus—the Ted personality—shifts from Leslie back over to Ted.
“Impossible,” Ted says. Leslie has gone limp and the grief slides from Leslie’s face over to Ted’s as he picks up the rant. “This whole
“You dreamed that you burned down a house the other night?”
“Yes,” Leslie says. Ted keeps his eyes locked on mine.
“And I assume that you dreamed this after getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?”
“I don’t know,” Leslie says.
“But you get up a lot in the middle of the night?”
“Yes,” Leslie says.
Their chairs are on rollers, and I start to move the chairs. One turns clockwise and the other counter-clockwise as the men move the mirrors, keeping them in front of Ted and Leslie.
“That’s when you communicate, primarily. You catch each other up in the bathroom. I hate to tell you this, but there was a follow-up to the story about the arson of your childhood home. The woman who lived there had two cats. Only one of them got out. They found the other cat a couple of days later in the attic. Asphyxiated.”
“Nonsense,” Ted says.
“And my friends over at the police department tell me that they’ve collected footage from a security camera up the street. They have a man matching your description fleeing the scene just minutes before the fire was spotted by a neighbor.”
“It wasn’t me,” Leslie says. “I was asleep.”
“I believe you,” I say. We’ve got the chairs nearly turned around now, and I position myself behind Leslie so I can wheel him the rest of the way. I’m looking over his shoulder when the chairs finally face each other. We’re looking at Ted with the circle on his forehead, sitting next to the mirror that reflects back Leslie’s unmarked face next to mine.
“I was talking to him,” I say in Leslie’s ear, pointing to Ted.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Leslie says.
“Have you ever tried to read something by starlight?” I ask Leslie. “It’s really difficult because the center part of your retina, the fovea, is terrible at low-light vision. You have to turn your gaze about twelve degrees to get around your blind spot. You have a blind spot for your brother. Try looking in that mirror.”
I see his gaze shift over to the mirror and settle there for several seconds. He’s not seeing it.
“I drew a circle on your brother’s head.”
After a few more seconds, I see Leslie’s eyes start to bounce back and forth, and in the mirror I watch Leslie’s lips part as his jaw slackens. When he looks at the mirror, his peripheral vision finally sees what his brain blocks out—the image of his twin brother.
“Who are you?”
Leslie can see him now, but Ted still doesn’t understand what’s happening. As far as Ted is concerned, the question came from his own lips.
“Hey,” Leslie struggles against the straps holding him to the chair. “Let me out of these straps. Hey!”
I reach down and peel back the velcro from one of the straps. Leslie uses his freed hand to finish the job and he’s up and out of the chair. My men gather close, just in case.
“Hey! Look at me,” Leslie says. He grips his brother by his shoulders.
Ted looks forward at nothing. His personality is on hold, since his brother is in action.
“Hey!” Leslie says. His hand flies out and strikes Ted twice before I can grab his arms. “Who are you?”
“That’s Ted,” I say.
“I’m Ted. Me.”
“You’re Leslie.”
“Leslie died. I’m Ted.”
“You guys made up that story about Leslie dying. You’ve been sharing the Ted persona ever since.”
“That’s impossible,” Leslie says. “He died eleven years ago.”
“Leslie never had cancer,” I say. “I asked your cousins in Shippensburg. They had nothing but nice things to say about you both, but I could hear the concern in their voices.”
“Impossible,” Leslie repeats. He slumps backwards and his hands help land him back in the chair.
I watch as the animus—the Ted personality—shifts from Leslie back over to Ted.
“Impossible,” Ted says. Leslie has gone limp and the grief slides from Leslie’s face over to Ted’s as he picks up the rant. “This whole
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