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    What she loved most about the relationship was the freedom to just be. Sure, they fantasized about their future, but instead of dreaming about a wedding and names for their children, they talked about the house Alan would build and—as he liked to tease—Lacey would paint.
    She wanted a lighthouse in Maine; he wanted a big house in Boston. He proposed a compromise. Their big house in Boston could have a turret, and maybe they could build a summerhouse in Maine. He didn’t pressure her about marriage or kids. If she wanted to be a part of an institution, she’d pick one that came with free Jell-O and bingo night.
    Boston, Lacey thought. Monica Bowman lives in Boston. With her fiancé, Joe, and her puggle, Snookie.
    Alan pulled her toward him and kissed her long and hard. I have a face thief, Lacey thought as she tasted his lips on hers. Or a twin. Why aren’t I telling him?
    Because she didn’t know anything. She wouldn’t know anything until she saw the woman for herself. Rookie ran onto the porch. Lacey picked up his wiggling body and kissed him. He too smelled like fresh shampoo.
    “Did you give him a bath?” Lacey asked. Alan smiled at her. His neck was flaring.
    “It’s a special night,” he said. It was the second time he’d said that.
    “I might be late,” Lacey said. “Can we do dinner at eight?”
    “Eight?” Alan looked alarmed. Lacey mentally flashed through the evening. Book reading at six, then who knew what was going to happen? They would talk settlement terms most likely. How much was her face worth? If only she didn’t have to go in disguise; she might be able to kick the price up a bit if she was dolled up. But it had to be a slow attack, she wanted to draw the moment out, then show her face to the audience. Look, I’m her. She’s not!
    “Eight,” Lacey said. She put Rookie down and headed for the bedroom. Alan followed at a close clip and before she could climb the stairs he tapped her on the shoulder.
    “What’s going on?” he asked. Astute as ever, on full alert.
    “I’m running late,” Lacey said. “I have errands.”
    “What errands?”
    “I can’t tell you.” Lacey ran up the stairs and headed into the bedroom. She stood in front of the closet. Alan tapped her on the shoulder again, even though she already knew he was there.
    “What?”
    “What errands?”
    “I can’t tell you.”
    “You’re kidding, right?” Alan said. “I thought we were over this.”
    Translation in English:
    By we he meant her.
    By this he meant secrets.
    By over he meant: Tell me!
    In ASL:
    Secrets. Me. You. Finish!
    Translation: Tell me!
    Okay, so maybe she and Alan weren’t as close as they could possibly be, maybe she used to keep everything to herself, maybe she still did. But wasn’t it enough she came home to him? She wasn’t lying to him, or cheating on him, or stealing from him. Although he would argue shutting herself off to him was stealing from their relationship. But tonight was different. Tonight she could feed him a fish.
    “It’s our anniversary,” she said. “You can’t make me tell secrets.” It worked. The worry lines across Alan’s forehead disappeared. He smiled again. Why didn’t she just tell him the truth. I got a letter. It says I have a sister. A twin. Her name is Monica.
    Maybe it would be a joyous reunion. Maybe it would be the beginning of a friendship, a kinship, a twinship. Alan was still staring at her. She should tell him. Or she could get her jacket, pull the letter out, and hand it to him. Together they could go to the computer and Google Monica Bowman, The Architect of Your Soul. She lifted her hands. It would take little effort to produce the signs. But it was back. Her internal “lockdown,” the sensation of closing in on herself, a selfish clamping of information, the inability to share, and the self-pity it produced. Was it a power trip, or self-punishment? If thoughts and experiences were dancers, meant to leap across the stage and