Wedding of the Two-Headed Woman by Alice Mattison

Fractious.
    There followed a debate by the parents, the doctor, and the director of the managed-care plan—David, nodding rapidly, as was his habit in any role though not when he wasn’t acting. “The parents’ insurance does not cover cutting off extra heads,” he said.
    â€œI love both heads!” Chantal screamed.
    â€œHow can you leave these parents with this monster?” said Denise, who always seemed to play the doctor, no matter how much we meant to trade roles around.
    â€œNo child is a monster,” said Jonah, who was not in the scene and was seated cross-legged on his mat at the edge of the open area where we worked, his big knees sticking up. It didn’t matter; the managed-care company was adamant.
    Later, Jonah played the minister again, and as the mother I found myself giving him a species of confession, explaining how hard it was to love my husband and our peculiar baby, how my husband was afraid of me now, as if I was a witch. Jonah encouraged me to pray.
    â€œHe’s ashamed to be seen pushing the carriage,” I said.
    â€œBecause of her deformity?”
    â€œPeople will think it’s his fault.”
    â€œTheaDora may be a punishment for all our sins,” the minister said.
    â€œShe’s a sweet baby, Reverend. Both heads laugh. Thea is starting to talk. Dora has three teeth.” Getting into the car after the rehearsal that night, I had a momentary feeling of panic: I’d left my baby behind.
    The following week, when we moved ten years forward in the life of this family, different combinations of the three girls tried playing TheaDora. Muriel had made a red calico dress with two necklines, and we had two girls at a time try it on, quickly discovering that it hung correctly only when the girls were more or less the same height. Justine and Mo, then, became TheaDora, while Cindy, who was smaller, was their friend. We all laughed the first time our wide little girl, with Mo’s confident black face and Justine’s sly fair one sticking out of the great big dress, moved toward us, a dark brown left arm and a light-skinned right arm slapping the air as they tried to balance, while four sneakers stepped on one another. The girls stumbled and fell in a tangle but soon were rehearsing out in the corridor, coached by Ellen, while the rest of us reworked baby scenes. Intertwining their hidden arms and counting softly, they were able to walk. By the following week, Muriel had added a flounce to the dress. Their feet concealed, Mo and Justine became a two-headed girl. I watched Muriel watch them, first critically, then with a look of astonishment and pride. Cindy, who commented on everything while twisting or sucking on strands of thin, brown hair, played with TheaDora, teased her, argued with her. “You’re not my friend. I don’t want a friend with two heads. ”
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    P ekko thought he might buy a pickup truck from a dealer in Watertown, and on a Saturday late that month I drove him there. Beside me on the front seat of my car, he talked in a slow, steady voice about what he could do with a pickup. At such times we might talk on and on, back and forth, making obvious remarks like a real married couple. Arthur barked too often in the backseat, and Pekko told him to be quiet. The stretch of Route 63 that was our destination was ugly, nothing but car dealerships. While Pekko examined the truck he’d seen advertised, I walked Arthur along the edge of the road. The day was sunny and warm, and we’d seen tulips in every yard. Arthur yanked on the leash, and I yanked back.
    â€œDid you know that the first act of the first New Haven government was a trial for murder?” I said when we drove off again together, since Pekko hadn’t bought the pickup. I suppose I wanted to give him details about my work, too: an even exchange. I’d read this fact in Gordon’s office. Then I interrupted myself. “Let’s take Arthur