Ephemeral

Ch2. The Chardonnay

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CHARLIE

Hiding my identity proved to be quite difficult. Donned with silk pajamas and sleeping robes, my fingers nimbly scrolled through my phone to log out my accounts and to hide all my photos - to bury the existence of a Charlotte Goldman in this room. Even the small act of flinging my piano sheets and books in a corner was taxing. I was set to do this tomorrow but Yoren might come again in my room and look for me. 

Why was I in this situation again? I went back to that day when I was busy placing my newly-bought books in my shelf.  It was just a humid Monday in my room at Berlin when a loud ring followed by the name 'Joey' came flashing on the screen of my laptop. 

Having an identical twin has its own ups and downs ; Ups include an instant best friend, make-up artist and a mirror image which helps in taking notes what expressions were appalling when pasted on my face. Downside of it was, of course, the undisclosed eight deadly sin of humans - compare and contrast.

Being heiress twins did not give us the privilege to skip being compared from our crooked teeth down to the chipped nails on our feet. Nonetheless, we were lucky to be over that horrendous stage of our childhood when Joey was brought to New York to reside in our grand manor while I stayed in a hospital in Berlin, curled up in its exclusive VIP floor which they now called "Charlie's chamber". 

We grew miles apart - she became the face of Goldman, living under the spotlight and flashes of camera while I spent most of my life covered on white sheets under surgical lightheads, hooked to multiple IV stands. While she was pricked with fine embroidery needles, I was pricked with large-bore syringe needles. While she placed her fingers on sketchpad to draw colorful croquis, I placed mine over the black and white keys of piano to draw beautiful music. 

Distance made us grow into polar opposites but the fact that we shared a womb for nine months weighed so much more. Call it twin-telepathy or 'twin-tuition' but the moment I saw her display picture at my laptop - I knew something was wrong. 

Her famous glamour shot taken in L.A. was very far to the face which popped on my screen after accepting her video call. No hint of mascara, eyeliner, concealer, blush, lip gloss - everything she usually applies at the crack of the dawn. Just weary eyes, pale lips and a roughly three inches gauze on her left cheek. 

Everyone knows how Joey was obsessed with her aesthetics. She had millions of treatments on her body and whatever ugly details she thought were on her face (like there were any) - she compensated it with her expertise in doing make-ups. But now, she was crying in front of me, hysterical and incomprehensible. I was only able to gather the words 'accident, stitches, laser and hideous scar'. She then uttered something absurd to solve her problem making my concern short-lived and go totally down the drain. 

"No is no, Joey. I can't go to your place and pretend to be you! " I exclaimed, as I snatched a thick pile of documents from the bedside table. After months of blood tests and surveillance exams, I was finally cleared to travel out of Berlin by next month and join the academic year in a music school in UK. But my sister for twenty-four years was now asking me to fly to New York and pose as her - as a distinguished fashion designer  - when I didn't even know that there were 19 shades of blue.

"Oh c'mon, Charlie! This will be gone for six weeks - my surgeon told me so," she was saying as if those words would blunt the blow coming onto my way. "Two months tops! I'll call in sick so you could stay home. I just need you there so we wouldn't raise suspicions."

I frowned while tying my long hair sloppily. "Easy for you to say. What if there's an emergency-"

"You're overthinking. And if that happens, you can call me anytime. I'll be in the shadows, Cha, you know that."