Read A Spare Life for Free Online

Srebra and I snacked on the last of the peanuts and quietly counted down to midnight. Then we quickly turned toward each other as much as we could and exchanged fleeting air kisses, murmuring, “Happy New Year.” Right after that, a movie began in which Demi Moore had both a male and female lover. They were emitting shrieks and lying on top of each other. The women were touching each other’s breasts, and when Demi Moore was with her husband, he put his hands over her hips, grasping as much of them as he could. She was moaning with pleasure. My heart was pounding like crazy. I felt an excitement between my legs. Srebra must have felt it too, because she kept gulping down her saliva. Suddenly, the door to our parents’ room opened. Our father stood in the doorway. He stepped into the dining room, turned off the TV, and said sharply, “Go to bed. That’s not a movie for children.” Srebra and I went and lay down. Usually we slept on our backs with our hands alongside our bodies and our legs stretched away from each other’s. That New Year’s Eve we lay on our stomachs, with our faces in the pillows. I was on her side of the bed, she on mine. We moved our bodies as far from each other as possible without causing pain in the spot where our heads were joined. My left hand was tucked up under my stomach, and Srebra’s right hand was tucked under hers. The two of us were thinking of the day when our summer game of fortune-telling would come true, when we would have husbands with whom we too could cry out in pleasure. We didn’t dare think about women. Sleep overtook us in that position. When we awoke, it was thefirst day of 1985.

That year, January 6, our Christmas Eve, fell on a Sunday. Early in the morning, you could hear knocking on doors as carolers went door-to-door singing traditional carols. Srebra and I never went out caroling on Christmas Eve, not even when we were younger; we couldn’t stand it when people opened the door and gasped when they saw our conjoined heads and then, confused and not knowing what to say, they’d shove a few chestnuts into our hands before locking the door after us, crossing themselves in horror at the encounter, some even spitting on the spot to prevent something like that happening to them. We were conscious of the fact that it was best if the coordinates of our lives moved between home and school—to the store, around our building, and no farther, not to other buildings or neighborhoods—just to places where people already knew us, though, even there, we weren’t really accepted. That is why on Christmas Eve we stood silently in the hallway, listening as carolers sang and knocked on the door, while our hearts raced like mad. We did not open the door even for Roza, because there was always some other child with her. If our parents were home, our mother would open the door and give each caroler an apple, even as our father asked, “Why are you opening the door?” Although we didn’t open the door ourselves, we wanted Mom to tell us how many children had been there, whether they were older or younger, boys or girls, what they were carrying in their bags. But on that January 6, by the time our mother got around to opening the door, the carolers were already gone. Srebra and I were still lying in bed and, just like every other Sunday morning for the past several months, listening to a Tina Turner song that reverberated from the neighboring apartment. It was always the same song, every Sunday morning for months. It was Christmas Eve and our mother made a leek pita pie, and the traditional round loaf with a coin baked inside was small and soft. Srebra and I sat on our chair, Mom and Dad stood as Mom divided up the loaf, and the coin was inside the piece that had been set aside for God. Then we shared walnuts, chestnuts, apples, dried plums, and figs. Just as it did every year, the ritual lasted about two or three minutes. Our