Part 2: The Better Nadine
by Swati Sudarsan
Michel O’Hara, Figure 15: Havana, digital photograph, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.
Part 2: The Better Nadine
Swati Sudarsan | MAY 2024 | Issue 33
As Nadine took in the Other Nadine, she was overcome by a near-hallucinatory amount of self-consciousness. She could feel the loose hinges of her mouth, yet could not find a way to keep her jaw from gaping.
A bit of drool dribbled down her chin.
“I’m here to help!” the Other Nadine repeated, a bit more forceful this time.
The bleach-white smile remained frozen on her face, the teeth so clean they reflected the glow of her porcelain skin. Her eyes were alert and bright, her nose perfectly unsubstantial.
Nadine knew she should be questioning her eyesight, her hearing, or even her mental stability, but she felt only an unquenchable desire to peer into a mirror, side by side with the Other Nadine.
Was that really how she looked?
She felt a lightness in her knees, like the skin had lifted from her flesh and cold air was running through the gap. Then came a sickening thought: What if she was the type of person who believed everything she was told?
No, it was impossible. Nadine loved to ask questions. It was her way of showing intrigue and curiosity, though it had never landed well with Dev. “What are you, a detective?” Dev had asked, laughing uncomfortably at her efforts to understand how his brain worked. But she had taken it too far, as always, and he had accused her of “an unsettling proclivity toward interrogation” until Nadine stopped asking him anything.
Perhaps her easy acceptance of the situation came from her familiarity with night terrors, which had haunted her since childhood. She had gotten so used to them that she actually hated the feeling that came after the dreams more than the dreams themselves. She would find herself floating above her body, waiting for the creature below her, herself, to wake up. She resented being tethered to something so languid, something so duly wrapped in its own torpor. It made her want to jump out of her skin.
Still, the feeling she had now was different. She was spooked, of course. She was perfectly aware that this Other Nadine could be a genetically modified clone with vengeance programmed into its DNA, or a newly sentient robot out to steal her life. However, the figure before her was making odd jerking motions with its knees, resembling a child who urgently needed to pee. It was pitiful. She let the Other Nadine in.
As soon as the Other Nadine stepped in, she stopped jerking around and was overcome by an eerie calmness. She took off her shoes and tucked them neatly behind the door. She slid off her jacket, folded it delicately in half, and handed it to Nadine. In a polite voice she asked, “Is there a toilet here?”
Nadine took her to the bathroom, and was surprised by her own relief when the door shut. Finally, she could think. She pondered the phrasing of the Other Nadine’s question, which seemed like the phrasing of someone who had never spent time inside a regular home. What was the first thing she had said? “I’m here to help.” Was it not predatory, pouncing onto her with unwarranted offerings?
Nadine felt suddenly anxious. How could she be so stupid, letting this Other Nadine into her home without a single question? But what would she have asked? Hey, are you planning to steal my life? It made her cringe, the underlying presumption that she thought she had a life someone would want to steal. She would rather be murdered in her own home than live with the horror of being dubbed the arrogant Nadine, or the self-important Nadine.
Still, she felt that some level of precaution was called for. It occurred to her that she should check the Other Nadine’s jacket’s pockets, for contraband or identification. She stuck her hand in, glad that it did not go off like a car alarm. The pocket was lined with fleece, and held only a few stray gummy fish and a spearmint chapstick. It was the same brand Nadine used, except hers was peppermint because Dev liked the way it made his lips tingle when they kissed. Disappointed, Nadine hung up the jacket and went to the kitchen.
“Is that orange wine?” the Other Nadine asked when she returned.
She pointed at the glass Nadine had been drinking before she rang the doorbell.
“I’ve been trying to quit drinking, but I can’t resist an orange,” the Other Nadine continued.
Pushy, thought Nadine, Maybe an alcoholic.
Still, she poured the wine, and as she did, she began to notice small differences between the two of them. They had the same thick black hair, but the Other Nadine had bangs that brought her cheekbones to an edge, something Nadine had always thought of doing but invariably talked herself out of at the hair salon. They both also had the same heart-shaped face, their jawlines taking an early angle along their chins, but something about the Other Nadine’s eyebrows carved out a sharp, leonine profile. She gave the impression of casual brilliance, and Nadine had an unsettling feeling that she could see right through her.
An awful mixture of trepidation and jealousy rose in Nadine’s stomach. No one had ever called out any particular intelligence about her looks. Dev called her “adorable,” sometimes. Athena was not the type to bring up physical attributes unless there was an intellectual motive. Still, surely she would provide reassurance if Nadine asked.
She typed into her phone: Hey Athena. Do you 1) think I’m smart, and 2) does this reflect in my physical appearance?
She read it over and cringed. Was there not a more colloquial way to ask this?
Hey Athena, do you think I’m hot?
Much better. She pressed send.
“I love your eyebrows,” the Other Nadine offered abruptly, startling Nadine. “And your home is so lovely.”
Nadine rolled her eyes. She knew her home was depressing to look at. All the furniture was black, flimsy, and cheap. Stuff Dev snagged from online forums after haggling them down to an almost degrading agreement. “Functionality at its lowest price point,” he said each time he bought a new piece. When Nadine explained that real furniture had a much higher sustainability index, Dev had turned red with fury, and yelled, “I never thought my own wife would fall for that green-wash propaganda. You have such a weak mind, Nadine.”
She hadn’t argued with him on this, because she didn’t care if she was weak-minded. She cared about beauty. What else was the point of having a career and going through the motions of domesticity, if not to afford authentic aesthetic expression? How else could anyone maintain their sense of humanity? This steadfast belief had bifurcated her lifestyle, causing her to sneak around Dev like a shameless adulterer, though she was really only grasping at glimmers of hedonism and orange wine.
It hadn’t always been like this. In the beginning, she had been sure there was some way to keep the status quo while surviving his judicious practicality. The how had come as a sort of epiphany. Candles! Something that could imbibe a good mood over the entire house without treading on his utilitarian restrictions. She felt like a genius for thinking of it, but still she knew she’d need an airtight argument to get him to agree. So, she’d done her homework, painstakingly researching artisanal, ethically-resourced candles at a reasonable cost until she found the perfect one. When she presented it to him, he had said simply, “We are not the type of people who throw away money on scented wax.”
Nadine hadn’t cried at his coldness. Instead, she had become filled with rage. She bought the candles out of spite, stuck them squarely on the center of their fireplace mantle, and prayed she would ruin his day when he saw them. However, Dev had never noticed the candles, so she had never burned them.
She wondered now if the candle would impress the Other Nadine, but more urgently, both of their wine glasses were running empty.
“Would you like some more?” Nadine asked.
The Other Nadine shook her head.
“Are you hungry?” she tried again.
Another head shake.
This time, the rejection felt personal.
“Why are you here, anyway? Why did you come find me?”
The Other Nadine looked at Nadine like she had suggested they take their pants off together on the count of three.
“I wasn’t looking for you.”
Nadine scoffed. This magnitude of coincidence was impossible. In what world could the arrival of a twin, a double, be purely random? Nadine glared at her. The Other Nadine glared back. A rumble in the garage interrupted.
“Oh fuck, that’s my husband. He can’t see you.”
“I can hide,” the Other Nadine offered. “Just tell me where to go.”
The only place Nadine could think of where Dev would never look was next to the cleaning products under the sink, with all her wines.
“Get in here,” Nadine directed, and the Other Nadine obliged, squeezing gracefully into the depths of the cabinet. She pulled her knees to her chin, and Nadine patted them awkwardly. She told her she’d be back. The last thing Nadine saw before shutting the cabinet door were two bright eyes shining like lanterns.
Dev lumbered in, trailing in the stench of anesthetics mixed with sweat.
“Is there anything to eat?” he asked, his usual greeting.
Nadine looked longingly at her candle and began to fix up his dinner.
+
The next morning, Nadine woke up to an empty bed and stiff limbs. She had fallen asleep almost instantly after dinner, and last night’s dream was still on the tip of her brain. A woman, her twin, had come over and set her house on fire. What stood out most was how her home had crumbled like paper under the flames.
Nadine still felt ill, and she decided to take the day off again. She pulled out her phone to send an away message, and instinctively opened her weather app:
Raucous plumes of cumulus clouds will gather all day, their formations as unpredictable as the midheaven ascendant. Seek shelter, or let them be the shelter.
She wondered when she would be prompted to rate the app, and if she should give it two stars for clarity or five for entertainment. A text from Athena interrupted the thought:
Duh, you’re hot. Come over for breakfast if you’re off house arrest.
She wasn’t, but Dev would never know she went out, as long as she got home before him.
I’ll bring wine, Nadine texted back.
Athena was the only person she knew who had red wine with breakfast. They poured it generously to go with the elaborate breakfasts Athena liked to make for Nadine. “You deserve someone else cooking for you, for once,” Athena insisted.
The thought of dissecting the dream with Athena over a hot meal brightened her up. She had a good feeling about the day. Nadine brushed her teeth, showered, and put on some makeup to cover up her ashen skin. She practically skipped her way down the stairs, and she whistled her way into the kitchen to grab the wine. She opened the cabinet door and froze. Inside were two lanterns. They blinked.
The events of yesterday afternoon came back to her like an electrical shock.
“Oh, you,” Nadine said faintly.
“I thought you said you were coming back.” The Other Nadine sounded distressed. “I’m hungry!”
Nadine’s head instantly started throbbing again, and she became annoyed. How was she now responsible for this Other Nadine’s well-being? Had she asked her to barge into her home? She wanted nothing more than to drop her off at some gas station a few towns over and never see her again, but the Other Nadine looked so helpless, like a crumbled doll, stuffed into her wine cabinet.
A thought occurred to her. Why not bring the Other Nadine with her to Athena’s? After all, Athena was the smartest person Nadine knew. Surely she would know how to handle this.
“I’m going to a friend’s for breakfast,” Nadine said. “Want to come?”
The Other Nadine gave a curt nod and shot her legs out of the wine cabinet.
Despite their equally clammy hands, both Nadines had surprisingly strong grips. In no time, they were both putting on their shoes and on their way out the door.
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Swati Sudarsan is an Indian-American writer who grew up in the Midwest. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her work is published in The Rumpus, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Catapult, Denver Quarterly, and The Spectacle, amongst others. She was the 2023 recipient of the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference Katharine Bakeless Nason Award in Fiction, and has also received funding and support from the Tin House Workshop, the Kenyon Review, Kweli Journal, and more. She now lives in Brooklyn with her black cat Toothless.
Michel O’Hara is a writer and photographer living in Los Angeles, CA. Her most recent poetry can be found in One Art Poetry, The Rising Phoenix Review, The Blue Route, and The Sucarnochee Review. Her photography has been included in exhibitions at the Griffin Museum of Photography, Los Angeles Center of Photography, Lightbox Photographic Gallery, The Curated Fridge and PhotoPlace Gallery. Michel is currently pursuing her M.F.A. in Poetry at Antioch University Los Angeles.