The Still Life

Archibald Canenbaum cried himself to sleep each and every evening. He said it was because he felt incomplete. This was a concept lost on most people who were of single births, but Archibald was different.

On October 11, 1964, he became the sole survivor of a set of twins. Early on in the pregnancy, Archibald's mother, Annabelle, had been told that the likelihood of mortality was high for both of the fetuses growing inside of her. The doctor told her the outlook was dismal.

Annabelle remembered the word dismal and for the rest of her life, when she heard it, she felt compelled to either ignore it or prove it wrong. It was a mean and restless word, designed only to inject pessimism into the hearts of those it was directed toward. Perhaps the doctor was only trying to quell her expectations. But it didn't matter. She was an expectant mother--of course she had fucking expectations.

When the screaming and the labor finally stopped, she asked that the spectators vacate the cheap seats and leave her to her children. Yes, children The nurse explained that Archibald's sister had no pulse and no breath and no sign of life at all. But Annabelle wanted to hold them both in her arms so they could be face to face, even if only this once. Archibald was her brother and she was his sister--pulse or no pulse--life or no life.

It was in that moment that Archibald stopped his first cry on this earth and intertwined his tiny hand in hers. Without so much as the opening of an eye, he clutched her lifeless fingers while a tear crawled slowly down his cheek as he fell fast asleep.

Now, years later, he would leave his right hand balanced on the nightstand next to his bed. It was cold and lifeless like her and there were stains on his pillow from night after night of tears.

One day she would come.

Alicia.

She would come back--and her small and perfect fingers would fit just so--in the palm of Archibald's storied hand.