That night, my parents went out. They don't go out very often. When they go out, they will send me next door and let me sit in Mrs. Rob's kitchen. The house next door is exactly the same as ours, but the layout is completely upside down. The reverse layout made me feel extremely dizzy, so when it was my parents' turn to go out at night, I insisted again that I was old enough and sensible enough to stay at home without anyone to take care of me. I don't hold out much hope, but this time my father agreed. Mother was also persuaded, and the only condition was that Mrs. Rob would come to our house at half past eight.
They left home at seven. I poured a glass of milk and sat on the sofa to celebrate. I feel very good. Margaret Lee has grown up and can stay at home alone without a nanny. After drinking milk, I suddenly felt bored. How to enjoy this freedom? I began to wander aimlessly, measuring my free Xinjiang territory: dining room, living room and downstairs bathroom. Everything is the same in peacetime. Somehow, I remembered what I was afraid of when I was a child. It has something to do with wolves and three pigs. I want to blow, blow, blow down your house! It can easily blow down my parents' house. A dark, airy room can't resist attacks at all; As long as the wolf looks at them, the fragile and elegant furniture will collapse into a pile of matchsticks. Yes, a wolf can blow down the whole house with a whistle, and the three of us will be its breakfast soon. I began to wish I was in a bookstore. I was never afraid of being in a bookstore. The wolf can blow if he wants: those books will make the wall twice as thick, and my father and I will be as safe as staying in a fortress.
I went upstairs to the bathroom to look in the mirror. See what I look like when I grow up. My head leans to the left first, and then to the right. I look at myself from all angles, hoping to see a different person. But I only see myself in the mirror.
My own room can't give me any hope. I know every inch of it and it knows me like the back of my hand; We are boring companions of each other. So I pushed open the door of the guest room. A wardrobe without any decoration on the surface, a dresser without a cover, seems to allow you to dress up here, but you know there is nothing in the wardrobe and drawers. Sheets and blankets wrapped tightly and flat are also annoying. The thin pillow looks lifeless. This room has always been called a guest room, but we have never entertained guests. This is where my mother sleeps.
I left the room with mixed feelings and stood on the stairs.
That's it. Bar mitzvah. Stay at home alone. I'm entering the ranks of older children, and tomorrow I can announce on the playground that I didn't go to find a nanny last night. I stay at home alone. Other girls will be dumbfounded. I have been waiting for this day for a long time, and now it has finally arrived, but I don't know how to deal with it. I expected that I would feel comfortable and adapt to this experience automatically, that is, I would see what I was destined to be for the first time. I had hoped that the world would shed its familiar childlike appearance, reveal its secrets to me and show its mature side. However, in a new independent country, I feel younger than ever. What is wrong with me? Can I find the secret of growing up?
I'm considering whether to go to Mrs. Rob's house. Oh, no. There is a better place. I climbed under my father's bed.
The space between the floor and the bedstead has shrunk since I hid there last time. A suitcase clung to my shoulder, and under the dark bed, it looked as gloomy as during the day. The box contains all our summer equipment: sunglasses, spare film, swimsuit that my mother never wore but never lost. There is a cardboard box on the other side of my body. I fumbled with my fingers to open the crumpled lid and put my hand in to look for it carefully. Twisted Christmas tree lights. The skirt of the angel who decorated the Christmas tree was covered with dust. Last time I stayed under this bed, I believed in Santa Claus. Now, I don't believe it anymore. Does this mean that I am a little old?
When I crawled out from under the bed, I took an old cookie jar. Half of the jar is exposed outside the lotus leaf of the bed hanging cloth. I remember this jar: it's always under the bed. Its cover is printed with Scottish cliffs and firs. I used to cover it so tightly that I couldn't open it. I casually tried to open the lid. My hand is bigger and stronger than before, and the lid is easily opened, which surprised me. The cookie jar contains my father's passport and various documents of different sizes. Forms, both printed and handwritten. Where there is a signature.
For me, I look at whatever I see. I always do. I leafed through those documents gently. Parents' marriage certificate. Their birth certificates. My own birth certificate-yellow paper covered with red seal and my father's signature. I folded it carefully and put it together with other forms I have read, and then I began to read the next form. It is exactly the same as my birth certificate. I feel confused. Why do I have two birth certificates?
Then I saw the difference. Same father, same mother, same date of birth, same place of birth, but different names.
What happened to me at that moment? The original thinking collapsed in an instant, and my brain reorganized an unusual idea like a kaleidoscope.
I have a twin sister.
I ignored the confused thoughts in my mind and curiously unfolded another piece of paper.
Death certificate.
My twin sister died.
Now I know what makes me defective.
Although I am at a loss for this discovery, I am not surprised. Because I always have a feeling. I feel something around me-this feeling is too familiar to say. The air on my right side is always a little strange. There seems to be light and shadow. Something special can make an empty space tremble. This is my pale illusion.
Press your hands tightly on your right side, keep your head down, and your nose almost touches your shoulders. This is the old posture. Whenever I feel pain, confusion and reluctance, I can't help posing this posture. I am so familiar with it that I never thought about it before. Now my discovery reveals its importance. I'm looking for my twin sister. She should be there. Next to me.
When I found those two pages, when the truth came out and everything was calm again, I thought, exactly. Lost. Sadness. Loneliness. There is always a feeling that separates me from others-it accompanies me-in my life, I found two birth certificates, and I understand what that feeling is. My sister.
After a long time, I heard the door of the kitchen downstairs open. Although my calf was numb, I ran to the stairs, and Mrs. Rob appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Is everything all right, Margaret?
be
Do you have everything you need?
be
Ok, if you need anything, just come to my house.
All right.
Your mom and dad, they will be back soon.
Mrs. Rob has left.
I put the file back in the cookie jar, put the jar under the bed, closed the door and left the bedroom. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I was shocked to feel my eyes locked tightly by another pair of eyes. My face stung under her gaze. I can feel the bones under my skin.
Later, my parents walked up the steps at the door.
I opened the door and my father gave me a hug at the stairs.
Well done. He said that you can get high marks in all aspects.
Mother looks pale and tired. Going out always gives her a headache.
Yes, she said, good girl.
Baby, how are you doing at home alone?
It's good.
I knew it. He said. Then, he opened his arms, gave me a happy hug and kissed my forehead. It's time for bed. Don't read for too long.
I won't watch it for long.
Later, I heard my parents preparing for bed: my father opened the medicine cabinet, found out my mother's pills and poured a glass of water. As usual, he said, you will feel better after a good night's sleep. Then, the door of the guest room closed. After a while, the bed in the other room creaked and I heard my father turn off the light.
I know about twins. A cell that should have become a human has become two identical people for some inexplicable reason.
I am one of the twins.
My twin sister died.
How does this matter affect me?
I hid under the blanket and pressed my hand against the silver-pink crescent scar on my body. This is my sister's shadow. Like a muscle archaeologist, I carefully explore its ancient history on my own. I am as cold as a corpse.
I left the shop with a letter in my hand and went upstairs to my apartment. Every time you reach the height of three books, the stairs will be narrower. As I walked, I turned off the light behind me and began to prepare to write a polite rejection letter. I can tell Miss Winter that I am not the biographer she is looking for. I'm not interested in contemporary literature. I haven't read any books written by Miss Winter. I feel very comfortable in the library and archives. I have never interviewed any living writer in my life. I feel more comfortable dealing with dead people. Frankly speaking, living makes me nervous.
There may be no need to write this last sentence in the letter.
I don't want to bother cooking. Just have a cup of cocoa.
I looked out of the window when the milk was heated. At night, the face reflected in the window glass is so dim that you can see the dark night sky through it. We are facing each other through the cold glass. If you see us, you will understand that without this glass, nothing can really distinguish us.