Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) by Amy K. Nichols Page A

than the Barbies.
    I keep going, though. I keep the scissors cutting, taking off more and more until finally something like a rhythm kicks in. I lose myself in the work. Instead of combing the hair down his neck, I drag the comb up, stopping just above the hairline, and chop. Drag it up again and chop more. Snip, snip go the scissors. Down, down falls the hair. The floor is a mess. I’ll have to clean it all up before Dad gets home or he’ll freak out.
    Soon jagged angles emerge. Tufts here and there, some long, some short. I don’t worry about lines, matching lengths or any of those things professionals do. I just fight my way through. Move his head as I need to without apology.
    “You’re enjoying this.”
    He’s right, but I don’t tell him.
    So, if careers in science or welding fail me, I’ll be a hairdresser. Maybe Mom’s magazines are getting through to me. “Close your eyes.”
    “You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing, do you?”
    “This was your brilliant idea, not mine.”
    He closes those blue eyes and I snip a slight angle across the bridge of his nose. The hair falls away from his face.
    “Who’s Mac?”
    “Marcus McAllister. Teacher at Palo Brea. Probably the smartest man in the world. He used to be a NASA engineer.”
    “Can he help us?”
    “Maybe. Hopefully.”
    “You trust him?”
    “Yes.”
    He shifts his weight and tucks his hands between his knees. “I found them, you know.”
    “Who?”
    “My parents.”
    “What? That’s great! Why didn’t you tell me?” I swoop his bangs out of his eyes. Then I see his face and understand.

“Tell me about them,” she says softly.
    I’m looking at her face but all I see is the grave. Their names. The infinity symbol. I shake the image away and picture them instead at home. “Dad works for the city, at least he did, in infrastructure and planning. Mom volunteers part-time with kids. Helps them with reading.”
    But what they do isn’t who they are. Nothing I say will re-create them. They’re not here. She’ll never meet them. If I at least had a picture, that would…
    “Who do you take after?” She steps close again and works on my hair. My head feels about eighty pounds lighter. And I can see.
    “Most people say my mom. My eyes are definitely hers, but my nose is more like Dad’s.”
    She looks at my face. “I’m trying to imagine them.”
    I am, too. Friday morning before I left for Germ’s, Dad was already off to work and Mom was just getting her coffee. I yelled goodbye to her from the door. Didn’t give her a hug. “They’re older. Mom has a degenerative muscle condition that should have kept her from having kids. Doctors didn’t think either of us would live. She says I was a feisty baby, though. Calls me her miracle boy.”
    “I like that,” Eevee says, moving to stand behind me. “Miracle boy.”
    In my mind, I see Mom as she was that morning, standing by the kitchen counter, one hand on her cane. Red December blew up the mall. Did they hit other targets, too? Targets closer to home? I wish there was some way to know.
    “Hope they’re okay,” I whisper. She touches my shoulder and I feel my eyes well up. Good thing she can’t see my face. Time to change the subject. “What about your parents?”
    She grunts. “You’ve met them. What’s left to say?”
    “The two-houses thing is pretty interesting.”
    “Weird, you mean. But it works, I guess.”
    “How old were you when they got divorced?”
    “They were never married, actually.” She moves in front of me again. “They liked each other enough at some point, but decided they were better off living as neighbors instead of like normal people. From what they’ve told me—which isn’t much—having a kid was a matter of logic. Necessity. They’re both only-children. It was important to them to keep their DNA chains around. So here I am.” She laughs. “The archive.”
    “Wow. That’s really…”
    “Weird. I make it sound worse than it