Finding Ira

She was the blue twin, and I was the pink.
That’s the way it always was, before.
Even now, I can’t help but notice her casket, made of biodegradable wood and finished in dark blue. Later today, the casket will be in the ground, and however much of the wood will be in however many bacteria, and before long the coffin itself will be gone, and Ira will be dead in a way she wasn’t before.
I see you from the other side of the room. You’re still crying, but I don’t mind. I was the first to cry for her; this is a lucid dream after a very stressful day. But to you, everything’s different; today is as real as every other day, her death as real now as it was before.
The room has quieted down; there are no more happy stories turned sad, there is no more audible prayer. There is no conversation of any kind, and I can only observe as each pair of eyes turns to the casket, and each mind to a single thought:
Where has Ira disappeared to?

For fourteen years, there would be no birthdays.  Two births, three pregnancies, and eleven anniversaries; but still, in all this time, there were no birthdays for you and no birthdays for me. Today, I will quietly change from twenty-six to twenty-seven, no commemoration necessary.
“Hey, babe.” I feel you pressing against my back. I smile, and do not resist as you wrap your right arm around my chest and your left around my stomach.  “How’s she doing today?” I keep smiling. You’ve always been good at making me smile.
“Where’d the ‘she’ come from?” I say. “It’s been less than two months, love.”
“Hey,” you say, “it has to happen eventually.” We have two sons. One is in his crib and the other is at daycare. Right now, we are alone.
“No, it doesn’t,” I say. “This is the last time.” I turn to face you. You loosen your grip but don’t let go.
“Oh, is it?” You’re teasing. I don’t think either of us is ready for number four. I don’t plan to be ready, ever.
“Yup.” You hug me to your chest; the eye contact is broken.
“I got you a present.”
“What?” This takes me very much off guard. “Ray—“
“I know, I know,” you say. “No presents, no cake. No calling it a birthday. But please, just… trust me for a minute.” I say nothing; this seems to be the right response.
You pull a thin black from one of the cupboards. “Sorry it’s not wrapped,” you say. “I wasn’t sure how, considering the shape.” The surface of the binder is plain, empty; it is very new, even if the content isn’t. “Open it up.” I do.
“Oh, Ray…” You do not respond. I study each page carefully—thirteen in all—then start over.
Thirteen pages of photographs, all of me, and of my sister.
The first photograph is from kindergarten, before we began to dye our hair; we were each our natural blonde. In the photograph, one of us has short hair and one has long, but I can’t remember who was who.
“I thought it would be okay,” he said. “I mean, it’s kindof a present for both of you.” I am crying. I look at you.  I want to kiss you. We kiss.
“I love you so much, Ray.”
“I love you, Iris.”
“Where,” I say, “where did you even find these?” I don’t remember seeing any of these photos before; I wonder if anyone’s seen it since Ira’s funeral.
“Your parents were fond of photo albums,” you say.
“I’m aware.”
“I found some when we visited them last year.”
“My parents gave them to you?” I say. “That seems unlike them.” You smile, but say nothing. “Wait,” I smile, “you stole them?” Your face says yes; I’m laughing. But, hey, it’s not the worst thing that’s been done in my parents’ house.
“I can’t get away with anything.”
“Not when you just hand over the evidence,” I sigh in mock exasperation. “What do I always tell you? Always, always, always destroy the evidence, love.”
Eye contact. Me, kissing you. You, kissing me back.
“This still isn’t a birthday.”
“No,” you say. “I guess it isn’t.”
“I’m just twenty-seven now.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I guess you are.”
We have run out of filler. Silence overtakes words. Our bodies overtake our minds, until they are the same, and we overtake each other, until there is nothing else.

Two months later. Today is the twenty-seventh anniversary of your birth. I’m wearing makeup, which is reasonably rare for me, and an old red dress which could easily pass for new. You walk into the bedroom.
“Why the dress?” you say. “You going somewhere?”
Before answering, I cross the room and kiss you, leaving behind a fair amount of freshly-applied lipstick, even though I know you hate that. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”
You smile, puzzled, probably wondering when you’ll get a chance to wipe off the lipstick. “I thought we had given up on birthdays.”
“Oh,” I say, “is today your birthday? I was under the impression that we didn’t have those anymore.” You smile. Nothing is said for another minute.
“It’s okay, Ray, really,” I say. “I never asked you to give it up, too. You were just that perfect.” A kiss, longer this time. “Get dressed, okay? I want this to be a fun night.”
So you do, and it is, and here we are now, under the covers of the bed we made together. My left hand is stroking your chest; you are lying on your back, and your right arm is gently wrapped around my body. I am just a little taller, but by curling up a bit I can be held.
You just needed someone to hold; I just needed someone to hold me.
We are tired; we are silent. I adjust my position so that my head is on your chest, my ear close to your heart. We are silent, except for you and for your heartbeat.
“It’s such a shame, Ray,” I say. “All these relationships that start off happy, and disintegrate. Divorce, impurity… isn’t it sad?” You are silent, but I can feel you smiling. “I’ve been happy with you for nearly fifteen years; as of this moment, everything is perfect. It wouldn’t be fair for me to ask another blissful second.” I adjust my position again; I am lying on top of you, chest to chest, face down, my eyes meeting yours even in the darkness.
“I love you.”
“I love you.” First me, then you. I close in for a final kiss.
Our eyes are closed. In a moment, I sense yours jerk open. Next, your mouth. You begin to scream.
“Shhhh,” I scold, gently. I pull the scissors out gently, careful not to get any mess on the carpet. They are large, and quite old-fashioned; more like two knives that have been bound together. I think my mother used it for fabrics. “Hush, love. The kiddies are home.” But you do not stop screaming. I ram the scissors back in their place, and the pain silences you.
“I know it’s sad, Ray. I really do. But, look at it this way; if things go on, who knows how they might end? This way, our love gets to go on forever; isn’t it beautiful?” You grasp desperately for the scissors in my hand; I brush you away easily, and create a new wound, similar to the first—straight into your abdomen. The screaming is explosive; this cannot go on much longer. I kiss your bleeding mouth a final time. “Do not oppose me, Ray. It’s too late for that.
“I still remember the photo album, Ray,” I continue. “How long have you known, Ray? How long have you hidden it from me?” You are spitting out blood. I decide to humor you; after all, this is your night. I lean in close, lay one hand gently across your undamaged chest, and put my mouth against your ear.
“She was the blue twin, and I was the pink.”
A wave of recognition hits you almost immediately; I see the panic in your eyes, the increased intensity of your screaming. All at once, it ends; I place the knife to the side, and I wrap you in the mattress cover.
It’s not hard to make people disappear.
Did you know this was going to happen, I feel you asking me. I don’t know, Ray. I really don’t. I open the grate.
Did I think it would fall apart this quickly? Definitely not. I go to work with the scissors.
Do I still love you? Absolutely. I look for the matches.
Did you have me figured out? I light the match. That’s something I have to believe, for now.
I can’t pretend this is how I wanted it to end, Ray, but I can’t pretend that I’m surprised. Of all the houses we looked at, I can’t remember any others having a nice, traditional fireplace like ours, or a drainage lake at such a short distance.
It seems I’ll never be able to keep people from running away.