The Pump Twin
by
K. R. Sands
Voices above the
surface.
Eight
hours to remove
the parasite’s
internal organs
. . . amputate
. . .
Who’s speaking?
Talking about?
Nervous
system disorganized
. . . chaotic
. . .
Circles of pink
light. Spreading
fast.
No
paralysis in the
autosite . . .
Bitter. Smell?
Taste?
Four
hours to suture
. . .
Metal clangs.
Water runs. Where?
Earlier
separation . .
. much simpler
. . .
Murmuring, mumbling,
laughing.
Twelve
years old . .
. quite late .
. . psychological
adjustment . .
.
Tapping. Slapping?
Voice, very close:
“Daman.
Are you awake?
Can you wake up?
Your father is
here.”
No moving. Eyes
closed. Cold cocoon.
Sleep.
Later? Daddyji’s
voice: “Daman.
Daman. Wake up
now. Everything
went fine. It’s
all over. All
you have to do
now is rest and
recover.”
What does it mean?
Remembering. Today
is the operation.
Separation. Amputation.
Something.
But Kalki’s
still here. I
feel him, the
weight of him,
on my belly. He
can’t move
either, but he’s
here.
I hear a whisper.
It’s me:
“When will
it happen?”
Laughter. Daddyji’s
voice: “It’s
already happened.
It’s over.
It’s done.
You’re fine.”
Whisper: “But--Kalki?
I feel him.”
Daddyji’s
voice, harder
now: “No.
It’s gone.
You’re normal
now. Open your
eyes and look.”
White ceiling
pocked with little
holes.
A cold hand slides
under my neck,
lifts my head.
Blue walls, white
sheets, silver
metal things.
Daddyji. My body,
flat and bandaged.
I can’t
see Kalki, but
of course he’s
there. Where else
would he be?
*
We were born not
one or two, but
one and a half.
Born with “twin
reversed arterial
perfusion.”
Our one heart
was inside my
body, making me
the pump twin.
His tiny lower
torso and legs
protruded from
my abdomen, his
vestigial head
buried inside
me. You can still
see that ghostly
head on the X-rays.
His shoulders
and arms never
developed. When
people asked me
how it felt to
have someone else’s
head inside me,
I never knew how
to answer. What
does it feel like
for you not to
have a head inside
your torso? “Normal”?
There’s
your answer.
But Kalki wasn’t
dead--oh, no!
I could always
feel his life,
our heart pumping
blood through
his little body.
I felt his temperature
fluctuations,
his tiny toes
stretching and
flexing. He twitched
constantly, even
in his sleep.
You know how you
can use a ticking
clock to simulate
a mother’s
heart beat, to
reassure an infant
or a puppy? That’s
how his constant
tiny movements
were to me--reassuring,
comforting, like
rocking in a cradle.
He smelled like
life. Strange
to say, I suppose,
but the smell
of life is piss
and shit. (The
dead produce neither.)
He always wore
a diaper, of course--he
dribbled and dripped
constantly--but
his closeness
to my nose meant
that I always
smelled him. I
don’t remember
ever thinking
that he smelled
bad, I guess because
the smell was
always with me.
It was just Kalki’s
smell, my brother’s
smell. Later,
when I got older
and more interested
in our penises,
I noticed that
his sometimes
got hard. I tried
a few times to
make him come,
but that never
happened. His
smell was always
babyish, never
adolescent.
The doctors always
called him the
parasite. It annoyed
me that they didn’t
use his name.
After all, they
called me Daman,
not the autosite.
Mamaji used his
name and so did
I, but no one
else ever did.
*
Greg, my supervisor,
looks worried.
He shuffles through
the papers on
his desk. I know
he’s been
arguing with some
jackass in the
Human Resources
Office. Greg’s
a good guy, he’s
on my side, but
he’s wearing
out. He says,
“Now, Daman,
about this request
you filed with
HRO, this Request
for Reasonable
Accommodation.
Why do you need
this software?
What’s it
called again?
Yeah, this Dragon
Naturally Speaking
with PDF converter?
Christ, Daman,
it’s two
thousand dollars!”
I feel sorry for
him. It’s
been a bad year,
budgets tight
all around. He’s
had to cut back
a lot, no training
for anyone this
year, no conferences.
He even had to
lay off our legal
intern last week--our
first intern from
Harvard--and that
really stung.
She was great;
we were all sorry
to see her go.
But I give it
a shot in my brightest
talking-to-the-boss
voice: “Well,
it’ll help
me create contracts,
dictate briefs,
and so on. It
even does email.
Huge legal vocabulary
and . . . and
it also formats
legal citations.”
I’m running
out of bullshit,
but I push out
a few more buzz-words:
“Let’s
see . . . builds
templates . .
. um, transcribes
. . .”
Greg’s worry
lines deepen and
his mouth tightens,
so I stop talking.
He sighs. “Yeah,
I know all that.
You attached the
marketing blurb
to your request.”
He leans forward
and puts his forearms
on his desk, hands
clasped. “Daman,
we’ve got
to talk about
you, not the product.
Why do you--you
specifically--need
this thing? We’ve
got to have a
documented disability.
We need to prove
that you can’t
do your job under
the current conditions.”
I scoot my chair
back a little.
My face feels
warm. How do I
explain this?
“Well, it’s
just that I’m
having a hard
time getting close
enough to my computer
to use the keyboard.”
Greg raises his
eyebrows. “I
don’t understand.
We bought you
screen magnifier
software last
year. Have your
eyes gotten worse?”
“No,
no, that screen
magnifier is great.
It isn’t
that. It’s
not my . . . vision.”
“So
what is it then?”
Silence. He stares
at me. I know
I should make
eye contact, but
I’m looking
out the window.
Silence. He says,
“Daman,
I can’t
help you unless
you help me.”
I look back at
him, but my eyes
drop to his desk.
“Well, it’s
my . . . arms,
I guess. They
aren’t long
enough to reach
the keyboard when
I’m sitting.
I . . . uh, need
the voice-activated
software because
I can’t
reach the keyboard.”
His forehead softens.
“Oh, I get
it. Sounds like
tendonitis or
bursitis or something.
You know, there
are other solutions--cheaper
ones.” He
smiles. “You
could put your
laptop on top
of a filing cabinet
and stand up to
use it. Or we
could get you
a reclining desk
chair.”
“No
. . . no. The
chair’s
not the problem.”
I’m running
out of excuses.
He thinks for
a minute, then
says, “Can
you show me? Show
me on my computer.”
He stands up and
walks a few steps
away from his
desk.
Yeah, I can show
him, but I’m
starting to get
a dragging feeling,
like this won’t
work either. I
sit down at his
desk, face his
computer, and
adjust his chair
so I’m comfortable.
“But
you’re--what?--a
good twenty inches
away from the
desk! You can’t
get any closer?”
I look at his
computer screen.
There’s
nothing on it,
just a bouncing
tetrahedron, one
of those default
screen savers.
He’s a conscientious
guy; he wouldn’t
leave sensitive
documents up on
the screen during
an employee conference.
I say, “It’s
hard to explain,
Greg. I just can’t.
If I get any closer,
I feel claustrophobic--like
I’m suffocating.”
I stand up, and
we return to our
chairs. Greg looks
brighter. “A
phobia, you say?
Interesting. How
about a therapist?
We could probably
get a referral
today if we--“
Kalki kicks; I
interrupt. “No.
No therapist.
This isn’t
something I can
get rid of.”
Today, at least,
I’m sure.
As if I haven’t
already thought
about seeing a
therapist a million
times. As if a
million times
I haven’t
already cursed
Kalki for being
born. Daddyji,
for arranging
the separation--or
not arranging
it much earlier,
at our birth,
before I knew
Kalki. Mamaji,
for giving birth
to us, for teaching
me to love my
brother.
Myself, for not
being able to
live without him,
even years after
he’s gone.
Greg begins again,
reassuring me--never
say never, even
the worst cases,
blah, blah.
I interrupt again:
“Greg, no.
I can’t
get rid of it.”
Silence. “No
therapist. I just
can’t.”
We stare at each
other for a minute.
My face feels
really hot now.
His face clenches,
like a fist. I
hate to do this
to him. I hate
to do this to
myself. But Kalki
. . . .
Greg’s eyes
close for a second,
then open. His
mouth tightens.
There’s
a long pause before
he says, very
evenly, “Well,
Daman. I’m
sorry. I don’t
think we can help
you.”
*
Mamaji was a devout
Hindu. She wanted
Kalki and me to
have the appropriate
ceremonies, but
there were problems.
During the Jatakarma,
when new babies
are welcomed into
the world, Daddyji
was supposed to
drop ghee and
honey onto our
tongues. Then
he was supposed
to pierce our
earlobes--so we’d
have good memories--and
whisper the names
of God into our
ears. But Kalki
had neither tongue
nor ears, so Daddyji
was stymied. Also
embarrassed, and
he hated that.
But the ritual
worked for me.
I have a good
memory. I remember
Kalki all the
time.
During the Namakarana,
the naming ceremony,
Daddyji named
me Daman, “the
controller,”
because I was
the pump twin.
Kalki’s
name, “destroyer
of sins,”
was Mamaji’s
choice.
Maybe Daddyji
should have thought
more about the
meaning of Kalki’s
name before deciding
on the operation.
Daddyji saw these
traditional ceremonies
as a waste of
time and money.
He didn’t
see Kalki as a
person. Kalki
was just an ugly
thing sticking
out of me, an
excrescence like
a wart or a mole.
After we were
born, Daddyji
never made love
to Mamaji again--no
more children.
He just worked
harder than ever,
staying away from
home as much as
possible. Kalki
and I were left
to the care of
Mamaji and the
private tutors
that came to our
house to spare
us the ordeal
of going to school
and being taunted
by the other boys.
But Mamaji’s
guru said that
God doesn’t
make mistakes.
So Mamaji bathed
and clothed Kalki
until I got old
enough to care
for him. She trimmed
his tiny toenails.
She put warm socks
on his little
feet in cold weather.
She never knew
that he didn’t
like wearing socks--he’d
kick and kick
until I secretly
removed them,
then he’d
settle down again.
She made me promise
that I’d
always treat him
like a brother,
not like a wart.
When Mamaji died
during our tenth
year, Daddyji
made some changes.
He was determined
that we would
not continue to
shame him.
Many conjoined
twins come from
India and Italy,
places that begin
with I. Isn’t
that strange?
Look at it: I
is the most solitary
letter in the
alphabet, so different
from H. If Kalki
and I had been
born conjoined
but equal, like
Chang and Eng,
we would have
been an H. But
we were born a
Y. And now I’m
just an I.
Just I. But it
always feels like
we.
Anyway, some of
those other conjoined
twins earned big
money by exhibiting
themselves. There
were even some
fakes, usually
Anglo actors in
makeup who attached
rubber “twins”
to their bodies.
Daddyji has always
had a healthy
respect for money,
but not money
earned that way.
He’s an
educated man.
He didn’t
want ignorant
fools throwing
rocks at Kalki
and me or (perhaps,
in his mind, even
worse) praying
to us because
they thought we
were a manifestation
of Vishnu. He
had been outraged
by the persistent
approaches of
an “entertainment
entrepreneur”
who wanted to
buy us to display
in a circus.
That was the last
straw. His sons
in a freak show!
So he sent us
to live with our
aunt in Boston.
But he didn’t
intend for Kalki
to stay long.
He didn’t
want a pariah
or a god or a
monstrosity for
a son; he wanted
an engineer or
a lawyer or a
professor. One
normal son, not
two abnormal ones.
I did try to keep
my promise to
Mamaji. But Daddyji
was stronger.
He was our father,
after all. I still
wonder if there
was any way I
could have prevented
the separation.
We were only twelve.
Kalki and I do
the best we can
with what we have
left.
But every night,
before sleep,
we rewrite the
past. We win the
argument with
Daddyji. Or kill
him. Or run away
from home. Sometimes
we go with the
freak-show guy.
Sometimes we go
to Tibet, become
monks. Or to the
beach at Orissa,
hide out in the
ruined Gopalpur
temple. Make occasional
appearances as
Vishnu.
I protect Kalki.
We stay together.
*
At first, Mona
was okay with
the bedroom rules.
Maybe they seemed
weird enough to
be interesting,
or maybe she thought
they were exotic,
like my dark body
next to her light
one.
But after a while
she started to
complain. “Too
many don’ts,
Daman. Don’t
touch my stomach!
Don’t unbutton
my shirt!
It’s always
got to be doggie
style--I get tired
of that! You never
spoon me or hold
me close. You’ve
told me a million
times that your
scar doesn’t
hurt, so what’s
the deal?”
She knows I had
major abdominal
surgery as a child.
(I tell everyone
it was Crohn’s.)
So I trot out
the old “You
know I don’t
want you to see
my huge ugly scar.
I’m really
self-conscious
about it in bed.”
But it’s
not working this
time. Her voice
is impatient,
not sympathetic.
“Daman,
I love you. I
don’t give
a shit about your
scar. Everybody
has scars. I hate
tippy-toeing around
it in bed, always
having to avoid
it. I hate the
way it keeps coming
between us.”
I laugh at the
literalness of
her objection,
and, after a moment,
she laughs with
me.
She leans in to
kiss me, leaving
the usual space
between our bodies,
and says, “Okay,
okay. How about
something simpler:
we’ll do
it in the dark.
We’ll leave
the lights off.
I’ll keep
my eyes closed.
I’ll wear
a blindfold. We’ll
buy a whole wardrobe
of blindfolds
for me to wear
in bed. How does
that sound, me
in a blindfold
and nothing else?
You get to pick
a different one
each night: the
fluffy black marabou
blindfold, the
red leather blindfold
with Xs over the
eyes, the black
lace blindfold,
the metallic blue
satin blindfold
with the fringe,
the -.”
Her eyes are closed;
she’s pretending
to be blindfolded.
Kalki relaxes,
I relax. I kiss
her; she relaxes.
I love kissing
her. I haven’t
ever felt this
close to anyone
else—except
Kalki, of course.
I’ve never
told anyone about
Kalki. But Mona
and I are planning
to get married.
Shouldn’t
she know?
I try to anticipate
her possible reactions
to the knowledge,
try to anticipate
how each response
might affect us.
What if she got
interested in
him, wanted to
know more, welcomed
him to the family,
treated him like
a brother? Or
like another husband?
What if she just
blew him off,
thinking (like
Daddyji) that
he was a wart?
Or if she laughed
at his fantasies--his
and mine--of running
away together?
I don’t
like any of the
possible reactions
I can imagine
her having. I
need to think
carefully about
exposing him.
*
Now I’m
annoyed. She’s
changing the rules
after the game’s
begun. She’s
known from the
beginning that
I don’t
drive, that I’m
not going to drive.
One of our reasons
for staying in
Boston instead
of moving to the
suburbs was the
public transportation
system. Anyway,
a lot of people
don’t drive
here. Parking
spaces are rare
and hugely expensive.
Driving during
rush hour is hair-raising
and blood-pressure-raising.
Auto insurance
premiums are sky-high.
Auto theft is
a recreational
sport in East
Boston and plenty
of other places.
So I’m definitely
not alone in not
driving.
Mona and I discussed
all this before
we got married,
and she was fine
with it. When
we wanted to get
out of town on
a weekend, she
drove. She liked
having her own
car, didn’t
mind maintaining
and garaging it.
But now: “Daman,
I’ll need
you to drive me
to the doctor
during the last
trimester. I probably
won’t be
able to get my
big belly behind
the wheel. And
of course you’ll
drive me to the
hospital for the
birth.”
“No,
I won’t.
We’ll call
a taxi. Plenty
of pregnant women
get to the hospital
that way. I’ve
even heard of
women who drove
themselves to
the hospital while
they were in labor.”
She stares at
me like I’m
crazy. Then she
shakes her head
like she’s
shaking my words
out of it. Her
face and voice
get hard (like
Daddyji’s).
“Daman,
please try to
focus on the big
picture, not on
a specific example.
There will be
errands that need
to be done by
car, not by subway
or bus. When I’ve
got the baby,
I won’t
be able to do
them.”
“So
we’ll hire
a nanny with a
car. It won’t
be a big deal;
I can get some
referrals today
from Jack. He
and Melissa have
used driving nannies
for all their
kids.”
“Daman,
stop it! You keep
offering solutions
to every problem
except the one
I’m talking
about. You have
to learn to drive!”
Kalki stiffens,
his toes curling
with apprehension.
He hates being
compressed; the
steering wheel
would make him
feel like a prisoner.
I say, “I’ve
got to go. We’ll
talk about this
later.”
“Right.
As usual.”
The sarcasm is
automatic, not
heartfelt. She
looks tired and
distracted. I
don’t kiss
her good-bye,
but she doesn’t
look like she
misses it.
I don’t
either.
*
“Daman,
would you please
take him for a
minute? I need
to duck into this
restroom.”
I take Jason,
bending his legs
up in front of
him so they don’t
hang down onto
my stomach. He’s
ten months old
now. He’s
not really heavy
for his age--only
about twenty pounds--but
he’s definitely
going to be tall.
Already he’s
over thirty inches
long and growing
fast. I wish we’d
brought the stroller
inside the mall
with us, but Mona
said we’d
just be a few
minutes.
At first, I couldn’t
get enough of
holding Jason.
It was like Kalki
had returned to
me. His tiny toes
spreading out
like a fan. The
constant motion,
twitching and
fluttering, even
in sleep. The
smell of his dirty
diapers--it was
almost like being
boys again together,
back home, with
Mamaji still there.
Mona was amazed
that I never complained
about diaper-changing,
that I was happy
to do it all.
The feeding was
a different matter--Kalki
hadn’t needed
that. But as soon
as Mona finished
feeding Jason,
I wanted him back.
It came to an
end one night
when I was changing
Jason on our bed.
I was exploring
his little body,
comparing him
to Kalki, comparing
his diaper smells
to Kalki’s.
I didn’t
know Mona had
come into the
room and was watching
us until she said,
“Uh . .
. Daman, what
are you doing?”
I jumped when
she spoke, and
my answer was
louder than it
should have been.
“Nothing!
Just changing
him!” I
fastened the diaper
roughly, startling
Jason and making
him cry. She picked
him up off the
bed and gave me
a strange look.
I don’t
know what she
thought I had
been doing. She
didn’t say
anything, just
stared at me for
a minute before
taking the baby
away.
Since that time,
she’s always
been the one to
change him.
And now that he’s
older, he doesn’t
want me to keep
him close all
the time. He doesn’t
like me to keep
his legs bent.
He wants to dangle
them, to stretch
them out.
But I don’t
want his feet
kicking my stomach.
That’s Kalki’s
space.
I won’t
be able to hold
him much longer.
I’ll need
to make sure that
we always have
the stroller with
us.
Jason is really
squirming now.
I sit down on
one of the wooden
benches that surround
the palm trees
inside the mall
and set him on
my thighs. He
stands up and
lunges to embrace
my neck with his
arms, pushing
one foot hard
into my solar
plexus. I feel
Kalki gasp with
pain and quickly
thrust Jason away,
holding him at
arm’s length
on my knees. When
Mona returns,
he’s crying.
Again, she says
nothing as she
takes him from
me.
She and I talk
less and less
these days.
*
As far back as
I can remember,
I thought I could
understand Kalki.
I had this idea
that when he straightened
his left knee
and stretched
apart his left
toes like opening
a fan, it meant
he was cold and
wanted to be covered
up. And when he
straightened his
right knee and
stretched out
his right toes,
he was too hot
and wanted to
be uncovered.
Whether I was
reading his signals
correctly--whether
these were really
signals at all--I
responded as I
thought he wished,
covering or uncovering
him. Then his
body would relax,
and his legs calm
down. I remember
wondering if he
would get too
hot when the cats
slept in bed with
us during our
first winter in
Boston.
As boys in India,
we had known only
feral street cats,
teeming with scabs
and fleas, who
spent their lives
scrounging for
a bare subsistence--fighting
to the death over
the rotting fish
eyes discarded
in the city’s
household garbage,
accompanying their
rape-matings with
blood-curdling
yowls, and spitting
ferociously at
any human who
dared to approach
them. So when
Bua Shanti, our
father’s
sister in Boston,
introduced us
to her indoor
tribe of cats
and kittens, we
were initially
fearful and even
a little disgusted.
Many of our neighbors
in Bangalore had
seen cats as vermin,
no better than
rats. But these
well-cared-for
animals were so
different from
the feral cats
we had known that
we soon lost our
fear.
Kalki especially
liked it when
some of the kittens
slept in our bed
during the cold
nights of that
first winter in
Boston. They burrowed
under the blankets
to nestle against
us, and he rubbed
his little feet
on their dry,
woolly fur. He
never kicked or
showed any impatience
with them. I know
he couldn’t
hear them purring
and chirping,
but he always
seemed to relax
into sleep when
they made these
quiet noises.
His favorite kittens
were Bali and
Punit, who were
often in our bed.
They licked each
other (sometimes
pretty roughly),
wrestled, kicked
against each other’s
bellies, and bit
each other on
the back of the
neck. When they
got tired, they
slept, curled
up together in
a ball with their
heads, tails,
and feet tucked
inside.
At the time, I
thought I was
afraid that the
kittens’
tiny thorn-like
claws might hurt
Kalki. But maybe
I was just jealous
of his attention
to them. The following
spring, when Kalki
and I were twelve
years old, I began
shutting the cats
and kittens out
of our room at
night. I don’t
know if Kalki
missed them.
That first year
in Boston, Daddyji
had arranged for
us to settle in
with our aunt,
then have the
surgery and recover
from it before
beginning school
in our new life--or,
rather, in my
new life. He wanted
me to have a fresh
start.
But I was lonely.
Daddyji would
continue to live
in India (although
he promised to
be with us for
the operation).
I would probably
never see my tutors
or Mamaji’s
guru again. And
Mamaji was dead.
All I had left
was my brother.
I didn’t
really understand
what was coming.
Daddyji had explained
the surgery to
me, of course,
and I nodded my
agreement, as
he expected.
But how could
I imagine life
without Kalki?
If you can feel,
smell, and love
someone, how is
it possible for
that person not
to exist?
*
Of course, Daddyji
doesn’t
understand my
self-imposed isolation.
For a long time,
his letters, calls,
emails, and videos
have been full
of urgent paternal
advice on doing
my duty, living
up to my responsibilities,
and so on. He
hasn’t been
harsh or judgmental--well,
no more than usual.
I think he really
has tried to understand
why I’ve
given up on my
family and career.
But his urgency
is lessening.
When I made my
usual Sunday call
yesterday, his
second wife spoke
to me for a few
minutes before
putting him on
the phone. “Daman,
you know your
father would never
complain about
his health.”
(Right; he’d
see that as a
sign of weakness.)
“But he’s
having some real
problems now with
his high blood
pressure and diabetes.”
(Ironic--he always
joked that his
big belly was
a sign of prosperity.)
“I know
you were counting
on us flying out
to see you this
year as usual,
but I suspect
his traveling
days are over.
You know you have
a standing invitation
to visit us any
time, for any
length of time.
And if you wanted
to return to India
to live”
(she means now
that my career
and marriage have
failed) “our
house is quite
big enough to
give you all the
privacy and space
you need. Would
you consider coming
to us? If not
to live, then
to visit? Soon?
It might be the
last time you
see him, Daman.”
My voice sounds
sympathetic, reassuring.
“Of course,
Radha. I understand
completely. I’ll
see what I can
arrange.”
She knows perfectly
well this isn’t
going to happen,
although she’ll
never understand
why. Airplane
travel is agonizing
for Kalki, just
like car travel.
The travel time
from Boston to
Bangalore by air
would be over
twenty hours.
And once we were
there, we’d
have to endure
the same daily
irritation of
making excuses
for what others
perceive as our--my
eccentric behavior.
Kalki and I are
happy at home.
Her voice is subdued.
“Okay, Daman.
Here’s your
father now.”
His voice sounds
old, with an irritating
whiny undertone
that it didn’t
used to have.
“Daman,
I heard what she
told you, and
it’s all
bullshit! I plan
to be around forever.”
He laughs, then
coughs. “But
if it takes a
big lie to get
you out here,
all right: I’m
on the way out.
That’s what
they think, Radha
and your brothers.”
(Half-brothers--I
have only one
real brother.)
“They all
think I’m
going to die soon,
but at least I
won’t die
alone, like you.”
I smile. That’s
not going to happen.
©
2010 by K. R.
Sands
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