The Ice Twins by S. K. Tremayne Page B

and the sudden engulfing loneliness, can combine to unbalance the mind of the surviving twin in rather extraordinary ways. If you look at the literature of bereaved twins, as I have done, there are many examples of this. When one twin dies, the other will take over their characteristics, becoming more like the twin that died. An American study found one twin whose brother died at the age of twelve; the surviving twin became so like his dead brother his parents were convinced the living twin had, as they put it, the ‘spirit of his dead brother within him’. In another example, a twin in her teens who lost her sister, took on that sister’s name, voluntarily, so she could’ – Kellaway half-turns, and looks at me – ‘stop being herself. That is the phrase she used, she wanted to stop being herself . She wanted to be her dead twin.’

    A pause.
    I have to reply, ‘So your conclusion is that Kirstie is Kirstie, but that,’ I am trying to speak as calmly as I can, ‘but she is pretending to be Lydia, or thinks she is Lydia, to get over the guilt, and her grief?’
    ‘It’s a very strong probability, in my mind. And it’s as far as I can go without a proper consultation.’
    ‘But what about the dog? What about Beany?’
    Kellaway walks back to his swivel chair, and sits himself down.
    ‘The dog is perplexing. Yes. To a certain extent. And you are of course right: dogs can differentiate by scent between identical twins, even if the best DNA tests cannot. Yet it is also known that bereft and surviving twins often make very close bonds with pets. The petreplaces the dead sibling. My guess, consequently, is that Kirstie and Beany the dog have formed this closer bond, and Beany is behaving in a different way in response to this fonder attachment.’

    The Glasgow rain is now falling on the window, quite heavily. And I am at a loss. I had come so close to believing that my darling Lydia was back, and yet it seems Kirstie lives. I imagined it all. The whole thing. And so did Kirstie? My heartbreak has intensified: pointlessly.
    ‘What do I do now, Doctor Kellaway? How do I deal with my daughter’s confusion? Her grief?’
    ‘Act as normal as possible. Continue as you are now.’
    ‘Should I tell my husband any of this?’
    ‘Up to you. It might be better to let it lie – but this, of course, is for you to decide.’
    ‘And then? What’s going to happen then?’
    ‘It’s difficult to say for sure. But my best guess is that this state of disturbance will pass, once Kirstie sees that you still regard her as Kirstie, still love her as Kirstie, don’t blame her for being Kirstie; she will become Kirstie, once more.’
    He makes this speech like a peroration. With an air of finality. My consultation is clearly over. Kellaway escorts me to the door, and hands me my raincoat, like a doorman at a classy hotel; then he says, much more conversationally:
    ‘Kirstie is enrolled at a new school?’
    ‘Yes. She starts next week. We wanted time to adjust. You know …’
    ‘That’s good. That’s good. School is an important part of normalization: after a few weeks there, she will, I hope, and believe, begin to make new friends, and this present confusion will pass.’ He offers me a wan but apparently sincere smile. ‘I know it must be cruel for you. Almost intolerable.’ He pauses for a moment, and his eyes meet mine. ‘How are you doing? You haven’t talked about yourself? You have been through an incredibly traumatic year.’

    ‘Me?’
    ‘Yes. You.’
    The question stumps me. I gaze at Kellaway’s face, his mild and professional smile.
    ‘I’m doing all right, I think. The move is a distraction, but I like it. I reckon it can work. I just want all this to be over.’
    He nods, once more. Pensive behind his spectacles.
    ‘Please do stay in touch. Good afternoon, Mrs Moorcroft.’
    And that is that. The door to his office shuts behind me, and I take the new steel-and-blond wood staircase to the main door,