Under Shifting Glass by Nicky Singer Page A

sadness of “For Rob” and the other happier thing; I want to make them fit, find their harmonies. But the harder I try, the more the music resists me. The song says,
Do not summon me now, Jess, you do not know who I am
. So I go quiet and patient again, start listening, whisper back to the song:
I’ll wait
.
    I’ll wait as long as it takes
.
    â€œOh, good girl, Jess,” Gran bustles through the front door with a bag of groceries in each hand. “I meant to tell you to get on with your practice.”
    Practice.
    I get up and shut the lid of the piano.

37
    In the evening, Mom calls. Her voice from the hospital sounds stretched thin.
    â€œAre you all right, Jess?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    Si must have told my mother about her strange daughter and the singing flask. Can that conversation really have only been last night? It seems like a million years ago.
    â€œI know it must be difficult for you . . .”
    â€œIt’s fine, Mom. I’m fine.”
    â€œSure?”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œYou know I love you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd Si loves you, too.”
    Do I know that?
    â€œHe really does.”
    I say nothing.
    â€œI’m sorry I can’t come home,” says Mom. “Not yet, anyway.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’m fine. How are the babies?”
    She lets out a little sigh. “We had some results today. Some of the tests came back.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThey share a liver, Jess. Separate hearts, but only one liver.” She pauses. “Do you know what that means?”
    â€œYes,” I say. Because Si has told me. The more organs the twins share, the more difficult any separation is. “Why can’t they stay together?” I burst out then. “Why can’t they?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Mom says. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
    And then, very softly, she begins to cry.

38
    Si has barely been home since I informed him he was not my parent, and when he does finally appear, he goes straight into the garage and gets out Roger the Wreck’s dolly.
    â€œI have to fix the timing chain,” he announces.
    It’s the timing chain that drives the camshaft that, in turn, opens the valves that let the fuel mixture in and the exhaust out. I know this because, for nearly a year, Si’s been talking about the function and importance of a timing chain and how this particular one could break at any time on account of The Rattle.
    â€œHear that rattle, Jess?”
    Actually, no. Mainly because this boneshaker of a car makes so many bangs and clatters and rattles that distinguishing The Rattle from any number of other rattles is beyond me.
    â€œIt’s a very distinctive sound,” says Si. “Like a bike chain slopping.”
    And the faster the car goes, the louder the rattle.
    Apparently.
    Anyway, here we are on Good Friday, and Si is all cover-alled up with his tools laid out beside him.
    â€œI have to fix it today,” says Si.
    For a whole year he hasn’t fixed it.
    Why now?
    And then I have a totally nonscientific, nonrational thought about the timing chain. Maybe that’s why it’s called a timing chain, because the timing is crucial. Si has to fix the chain today, otherwise . . . otherwise . . .
    Otherwise what?
    The monsters will get us.
    Have you ever played the Sidewalk Crack Game? Zoe and I used to play it all the time.
If we step on a single crack in the sidewalk on the way to the park, the monsters will get us
. At five, Zoe and I knew every crack between the culde-sac and the swings. We never stepped on a single one, and that’s how we kept safe.
    I decide the broken timing chain is a crack. If we can mend it today, Si and I, then the monsters won’t come. They won’t get me, and more importantly, they won’t get the twins.
    â€œDo you need some help?” I ask Si.
    He stands quite still