I have never looked into my sister's eyes. I have never bathed alone. I have
never stood in the grass at night and raised my arms to a beguiling moon. I've
never used an airplane bathroom. Or worn a hat. Or been kissed like that. I've
never driven a car. Or slept through the night. Never a private talk. Or solo
walk. I've never climbed a tree. Or faded into a crowd. So many things I've
never done, but oh, how I've been loved. And, if such things were to be, I'd
live a thousand lives as me, to be loved so exponentially.
My sister, Ruby, and I, by mishap or miracle, having intended to divide from
a single fertilized egg, remained joined instead, by a spot the size of a bread
plate on the sides of our twin heads. We're known to the world medical community
as the oldest surviving craniopagus twins (we are twenty-nine years old) and to
millions around the globe, those whose interest in people like us is more than
just passing, as conjoined craniopagus twins Rose and Ruby Darlen of Baldoon
County. We've been called many things: freaks, horrors, monsters, devils,
witches, retards, wonders, marvels. To most, we're a curiosity. In small-town Leaford,
where we live and work, we're just "The Girls."
Raise your right hand. Press the base of your palm to the lobe of your right
ear. Cover your ear and fan out your fingers—that's where my sister and I are
affixed, our faces not quite side by side, our skulls fused together in a
circular pattern running up the temple and curving around the frontal lobe. If
you glance at us, you might think we're two women embracing, leaning against the
other tête-à-tête, the way sisters do.
Ruby and I are identical twins and would be identical looking, having high
foreheads like our mother and wide, full mouths, except that Ruby's face is
arranged quite nicely (in fact, Ruby is very beautiful), whereas my features are
misshapen and frankly grotesque. My right eye slants steeply toward the place my
right ear would have been if my sister's head had not grown there instead. My
nose is longer than Ruby's, one nostril wider than the other, pulled to the
right of my brown slanted eye. My lower jaw shifts to the left, slurring my
speech and giving a husky quality to my voice. Patches of eczema rouge my
cheeks, while Ruby's complexion is fair and flawless. Our scalps marry in the
middle of our conjoined heads, but my frizzy hair has a glint of auburn, while
my sister is a swingy brunette. Ruby has a deep cleft in her chin, which people
find endearing.
I'm five feet five inches tall. When we were born, my limbs were symmetrical,
in proportion to my body. Presently, my right leg is a full three inches shorter
than my left, my spine compressed, my right hip cocked, and all because I have
carried my sister like an infant since I was a baby myself, Ruby's tiny thighs
astride my hip, my arm supporting her posterior, her arm forever around my neck.
Ruby is my sister. And strangely, undeniably, my child.
There is some discomfort in our conjoinment. Ruby and I experience mild to
severe neck, jaw, and shoulder pain, for which we take physiotherapy three times
a week. The strain on my body is constant, as I bear Ruby's weight, as I tote
Ruby on my hip, as I struggle to turn Ruby over in our bed or perch on my stool
beside the toilet for what seems like hours. (Ruby has a multitude of bowel and
urinary tract problems.) We are challenged, certainly, and uncomfortable,
sometimes, but neither Ruby nor I would describe our conjoinment as painful.
It's difficult to explain our locomotion as conjoined twins or how it
developed from birth using grunts and gestures and what I suppose must be
telepathy. There are days when, like a normal person, we're clumsy and
uncoordinated. We have less natural symbiosis when one of us (usually Ruby) is
sick, but mostly our dance is a smooth one. We hate doing things in unison, such
as answering yes or no at the same time. We never finish each other's sentences.
We can't shake our heads at once or nod (and wouldn't if we could—see above). We
have an unspoken, even unconscious, system of checks and balances to determine
who'll lead the way at any given moment. There is conflict. There is compromise.
Stranger than fiction, blending tragedy and farce, How to Create the Perfect Wife is an engrossing tale of the radicalism, and deep contradictions, at the heart of the Enlightenment.
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Loved this book. Magical, quirky, enchanting I could go on. All books do not have to be literary fiction, sometimes it is just so comforting to read...
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