Conjoined To Death

Chapter 3: Or Was It Three?

When Mom died, it felt as if I had died with her. But that couldn’t be possible, because Hope will die and Hardy will either die instantly from losing both kidneys or eventually from carrying around two dead bodies.

Hope and Hardy, my siblings. My soulmates.

When they fell asleep, Mom used to pat my head. Which was a massive effort considering I’m in the middle. She told me about how her day went by. About how she missed our father, and how he treasured us so much.

Her day-story changes every night, but there is one thing she used to say that never changed.

One thing only was repeated over and over again every night.

“Take care of your siblings,” a slap. “Make them good, and as well-behaved as possible,” another slap. “Remember that clearly, if you die, they die too,” the final blow.

I was connected to Mom in every aspect possible. Too connected to notice that she never told me to take care of myself. That she never gave me a chance to talk about my day.

And yet even back then, her words still stung.

She didn’t care about me as much as she cared about what was within me.

The majority of the heart and the kidney.

Hardy carries less than 20% of our kidney. He was born without the other one. I had both of them. Hope’s portion of our heart is so small that it was a miracle the heart still provided for her. If they die, my chance of survival is almost 100%, and double their chance of survival combined if I die.

It’s like I have a tumor disguised in human form.

Nevertheless, growing up I was told to be the responsible one. To always keep an eye on my siblings. And to never do anything harmful to myself.

I was the one who was always locked in a cage and forced to see the two birds fly in the field.

And I was told to hate the surgery. Without an explanation for me. I won’t die if I do the surgery, my siblings will. And yet I’m the one responsible for restricting them from the suicide chain. And the last thing Mom used to say every night before going to sleep was to never do the surgery, or she’ll disown us.

I always thought that was a joke. Until her will was handed to me.

By god, that joke didn’t age well.

My mother specifically asked for only me to be handed the will. And to never reveal anything other than how her properties should be divided. And how we should not do the surgery or she’ll disown us.

Except I didn’t tell my siblings about the last condition. Until Hardy uncovered that. She was dead already, doing something like this will make them loathe her forever. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair to do that to her even after all the pain she put us through. Because there’s always an explanation.

Not an excuse, but an explanation.

An explanation was written between the lines of her 18-page will.

I had a conjoined twin. And I survived the surgery, but she didn’t.

And suddenly, all the pens found their buttons. All the puzzle pieces fit so perfectly that they looked like a painting. All the threads started to merge in one big portrait, unfolding the cryptic image distinctly. Everything, everywhere, started to make sense. All the memories, fights, late-night cries, shouting and screaming, and cursing and yelling for an explanation of why should she govern what we do make so much sense now.

She doesn’t know our pain; she shouldn’t judge us. Hope used to say.

Oh, to her displeasure, our mom knew exactly our pain. She knew exactly our story. Because she had been through all of its chapters before. She knows how this will end.

Despite reaching the explanation we’ve always wanted; Mom was clear in her will when she stated that neither Hope nor Hardy ever lays hands on this valuable information. And that she’d rather them hate her than know this. Which was very confusing.

It was the only piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.
The only thread that wasn’t in its place.
The only pen without a button.

Until Hardy did lay a hand on it. It’s two out of three, Hope is the only one left in the dark. I wanted to pull her out of it. I wanted her to know. But even without our mother’s will, a part of me was very hesitant to tell her. If I did, then we’ll do the surgery. And then the possibility of us dying will show up.

Just like how mom’s twin died.

The possibility of my siblings dying haunted me anytime I thought about it.

Hope is a lot like me, Joy, in case you haven’t noticed. She’s stubborn like me. She doesn’t like being ordered around. She loves to create a noise and be heard. She likes standing up against me. And I do too because it reminds me of just how indistinguishable we are. I used to fight with my mother. I used to despise my twin sister. I used to hope that I’ll die soon so that I won’t have to bear a lifetime with this body. I got what I wanted in the end, but at what cost, Joy? My sister was the heavy price paid so I can live. Fifteen years, I only had fifteen years to live with her. Before that jinxed July night came and took her away from me. Drinking, partying, sneaking, and skipping classes were all ways of coping with the fact that I’m an only child. Or became an only child. Joy, I don’t want you to die. I don’t want Hope to make the same mistake, but I can’t risk her knowing all of this. There is a possibility she’ll still want the surgery after all of this. She won’t care if I disown you. She won’t care if my surgery didn’t go well. She’ll argue that it might end up differently for the three of you. I wish she could learn comfortably what I had learned by digging my fingers in a rock. But she’s my daughter after all, and I know she won’t learn until she experiences it, and that’s the only situation I wish to never see you three in, dead.