by Jacqueline Butler
It’s finally happening. I can hardly believe that Tim agreed to come with me today. “Shut up, Alan,” his voice reverberates through my skull. Sometimes I forget that Alan can talk, despite the fact that we’re identical twins and stick together. Oh, and that we have a weird form of telepathic communication. The doctors can’t figure it out. Ever since I lost my eyesight when we were four, due to an incident involving a baseball bat, runaway poodle and a block of knives, Alan rarely speaks. They say he feels guilty for chasing our puppy through the kitchen because she had the wiffle ball. And as a wise woman once taught me “guilt breeds anxiety.” Being selectively mute doesn’t mean he stops projecting his thoughts into my head of course. Because just what I need to hear this morning is that my clothes don’t match, it’s raining today and his Cubs won the World Series. As usual, I’m the one telling him to be quiet. In my head obviously. I may be blind but I’m not deaf and it sure would look funny if I yelled at Silent Alan to keep his opinions to himself.
Today is special, I can feel it. Twenty years ago, two gorgeous babies were born. Until I was three my right big toe nail was always painted turquoise (for Tim, naturally) and Alan’s was army green, because no one could tell us apart. We’re past that stage thank goodness. Even though, losing your eyesight and your twin losing his speech is a hefty fine to pay for people to note that hey, those Adams’ boys are actually two different people.
“Ready, little bro?” Alan asks me. “Little?” I reply. “Remember that I have a half-inch more than you.” “Not that you can tell,” he shoots back. I love that kid. Nobody else pokes fun at my sightlessness. You gotta be really comfortable with someone to insult them. “There’s more where it comes from, Timmy.” Whoops! Didn’t mean to click send. “Coming,” I sigh.
We’re off to Grand Central. Even though we live in Manhattan and I take public transit all the time, it’s not often that I’ll go explore a new subway station or area for the first time by myself. Think of that nervous feeling you get when you’re alone and trying to meet a friend somewhere. You look up the route ahead of time, check the signs, ask a transit employee where to go, turn on Waze or Google Maps – in Manhattan, a city built on a grid, it’s disorienting to not know where you are. Being blind doesn’t make it any easier. I try to memorize places I’ve been. Grand Central is so huge though that even a sighted person could get lost. Trust me. Alan has zero sense of direction.
For a long time, I’ve wanted to go upstairs from the subways below to experience the Terminal in all its glory. Alan’s agreed to take me. “You owe me big time, bro,” he whines in my head. “Stop being so anti-social. It’s our birthday!” I roll my eyes at him. Yeah, you can do that, even if you are blind. He thinks he’s doing me a favor, but I have a secret plan. So secret I won’t even allow myself to think it until after it’s over.
I’ve heard of the famous whispering gallery downstairs, near the oyster bar. Pretty much, you stand in opposite corners and due to the shape of the ceiling, if you face the wall, the other person can hear you loud and clear. My ears are sharp, but I am a skeptic. “Alan, let’s go.” I pull on his arm and we head toward the Oyster Bar on the lower level. A fishy smell wafts toward us. “Hey, Alan, that’s why they call it the Grand Central Market. It’s a fish market!” He lets go of my arm and pats me on the head. “Yes, Timmy. There is a picture of a fish above the doorway.” Wow, okay. I’m not stupid. Just a little slow at processing sometimes. But – we’re almost at the whispering gallery!
“Alan,” I instruct. “Go stand in the corner, face to the wall.” “Yes, teacher,” he responds sarcastically. This weather must really be getting to him. No sunshine today. I slowly cross to the opposite corner. “Alan, can you hear me?” No response. I guess it’s too good to be true. Being an incurable optimist, I try again: “Alan?” “Tim, did you say something?” Yes!!!! It works! Then I realize, I have only spoken in my head. Last try: “Alan, I need you to talk into the wall. Just one word, slow and clear, okay?” Again, no answer. “Alan?” I ask telepathically. “Gggnnn mphhhh arrggg errr” is what I’m hearing. This is very strange behavior, even for a pair of mute/blind identical twins who can communicate in their minds. “Alan, please? It will be a birthday present.” I’m begging him with everything I have. I was looking forward to bringing Alan here for so long. Even if my eyes can’t heal, his voice can. If only he would try. All of a sudden, I hear a faint whisper: “I’m trying, Tim.”
