When I was sixteen my father and mother took me on a summer vacation. They chose Myrtle Beach. My mother had many happy memories of going there as a child.

“The ocean,” she’d say and drift off, a dreamy expression on her face.

My father was happy that he could finally afford to take us on a proper getaway. Financially we weren’t poor, but we didn’t have extra funds for things like vacations. The money got sunk into car repairs, house repairs, and my college fund. Although, I was secretly planning on telling them I didn’t want to go to college. A friend’s brother, Harry Delmont, explained that a surefire fast-track to poverty was an undergraduate degree. Made sense to me, but I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with an innate mistrust of systems.

My father wanted me to not only have the education, but also the college experience. I didn’t know what he meant by that. All I could think of were movies I had seen where everyone gathered at a house (often with white pillars and second stories) wearing bed sheets and holding up their red solo cups. The primitive nature was both exhilarating and confusing, often leaving me disturbed.

But Myrtle Beach sounded all right to me. Open spaces mattered at this point in my life. When my parents and I were stuck in the car or our little living room I always found myself either cracking the window or walking back to my bedroom. I didn’t know why their presence raised my body temperature. My armpits would dampen and my face got hot. On the beach there would be a breeze to stave off stagnation, and other people, and all the impossibilities of the sky and endless water to broaden our senses.

“I bet you’ll meet a pretty girl,” said Dad.

“I doubt that very much,” I said.

“There are all kinds of pretty girls at Myrtle Beach,” said Mom. “You’ll have your pick.”

“I want to see the ocean,” I said, trying to change the subject.

My parents were always telling me how handsome I was. I knew I wasn’t. I had never had a girlfriend. There were times I couldn’t even imagine a girl looking at me and thinking I’d be boyfriend material. My nose for one was too big for the rest of my puny physique. For about a week in ninth grade I lifted weights. I quit most things I started and had a closet stock full of failures: Rubik’s cube, ukulele, chemistry set, a plethora of puzzles, and dumb bells.

In my sock drawer was a folded-up picture of a Playboy model. She wore black underwear, and nothing on top. I would flatten out the picture and look at her eyes and wonder what it’d be like if she looked back at me. What would it feel like to have her hands run through my hair? What would it be like to sit on the couch and talk and learn all about each other? It was a stupid way to think, and I knew it was pathetic, and there was also that feeling of doing something shameful. Boys shouldn’t be staring at naked women. Boys shouldn’t snoop and hide pictures of babes in their sock drawer. Boys should be a certain thing, but I wasn’t sure what that certain thing was. Maybe it had something to do with grooming lawns, repairing vehicles, and taking your family on vacations. Boys were supposed to be domesticated men, even when everything inside them solely longed for one thing: to be on a boat with a woman who looked back at them. Why does everyone pretend boys are something else? Sometimes I imagine myself behind a podium, looking out at a sea of professors—I proclaim, “Hey, assholes. We know who we are. Now go fuck yourselves.” Mic drop. Walk off stage. Flip the bird.

My father wore a Hawaiian shirt that had a red parrot in a palm tree on the back. My mother wore her bikini under a see-through dress. I wore gray shorts and a black t-shirt. When we stopped for gas we went to the bathroom, flip flopping like three ducks heading to the stream. We were happy on the drive and the air through the car spiraled in a circular motion keeping out smells and familial silences.

I should mention my brother. My twin brother. He died during labor. I didn’t kill him as far as I know, but it’s something I’ve come to point out to people even if they hadn’t asked.

“I didn’t like absorb his strength, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I’d say.

Most people laughed nervously and changed the subject.

My mother would remind me that one was plenty. This was after they gave up on having another child. There was an acceptance and at times I could tell they’d overcompensate for their loss.

“You know how much we love you, right?” they’d ask.

“Of course I do.”

And I did. There was no questioning their love for me.

Once, when my father was tipsy on gin, he admitted that he saw my brother as a ghost walking beside me. He said we looked very similar, but he wore his hair longer, and was more filled out in the shoulders. This made me believe, at least wonder, if it was possible for the dying to absorb power from the living. Perhaps he was the one who took something from me before slipping off to the underworld.

There were times I imagined having a brother, someone to share a room with, someone to punch or kick. Someone who would punch back. If I could only know what it was like to prepare for battle. I don’t need the real thing, the war, or the fight; I just wanted to know I could handle my own when push came to shove. But I wasn’t ready for any level of aggression. Instead I watched friends play video games where battles meant certain death, no in between, blood splattering the television screen.

When I was in the fifth grade, I asked my parents if I could play football. My father said, “You’ll get hurt.”

I said, “What’s so bad about getting hurt?”

He shook his head and looked sad. I wasn’t sure what he was upset about; I never asked to play football again.

 

When we got to our hotel we checked in with a person behind the desk, her title on the button said ADMINISTRATION. She was kind and kept congratulating us for having arrived.

“Congratulations! You made it!” “Welcome to Myrtle Beach!” “Cheers to you!” She once used the word, felicitations.

I was more than pleased to discover my father had booked me my own room. They were across the hall in the suite and I had a smaller room with a king-size bed.

“I didn’t want you to feel suffocated by your parents,” said Dad, slapping me on my back.

This made me think he too felt the insufferableness of small familial spaces. But was it me who made them feel claustrophobic or was it them? There was the ghost of my brother that was to be considered. When we were all together it seemed likely he was there too, drifting in the middle where none of us could miss him.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said, and we hugged. I was taller than him now, smelling the shampoo in his hair.

I watched television. Mainly, flipping through the stations. Stopping when I saw a beautiful woman. They were everywhere it seemed, doing things like laughing and running and cooking and shouting and publicly-informing and shooting basketballs and sailing and punching and making jokes on behalf of some guy they were next to. I couldn’t really keep myself from clicking the remote, moving on to see what all I was missing, then realizing I had gone through all the fifty or so channels several times over. It was exhilarating and depressing, which made me turn off the television and face the black hole of the blank television screen. This was the nineties, before everyone had the internet and phones and flatscreens. A time when only moments like these could believe the future of the novel Fahrenheit 451, with folks walking around with earbuds, family members staring back through flatscreens, and the absurdity of teenage suicides. What future did I see after turning off the television at Myrtle Beach? Everyone running, the sky stark white. There was more, but it has long since left me.

The following morning, we gathered for a continental breakfast. My large waffle tasted strange, until I drenched it with maple syrup.

“Isn’t this perfect?” said Mother.

Dad smiled, a mouthful of sausage.

“I can’t wait to see the ocean,” I said.

The ocean had never lured me to any meaningful degree. I hadn’t thought much of it, and figured it couldn’t be that much different than looking out over Lake Ontario. You can’t see the other side of Lake Ontario, so therefore, what exactly is the difference? One large body of water is just as spectacular as another.

But when we stepped on the sand and looked out over this particular section of the world I was overcome with emotion. My twin brother could be felt very near, I could hear him whisper in my ear the same phrase, “I’m here. And I’m never going to leave you.” It was haunting at first, although, with the immensity of the Atlantic, soon was drowned out.

“Let’s find our spot,” said my father.

Mom and I followed him to a place that was at a reasonable distance from the other vacationers. He set up an umbrella that he corkscrewed into the sand. We had three folding chairs and a cooler full of fruit, cold cuts, deli-sliced cheese, and beer.

“The world is yours, son,” said Dad, standing, opening his arms out as if he were about to take flight.

“Mine?” I said.

“Go and see what saltwater feels like.”

I had forgotten that there was a difference between fresh water and salt water. Freshwater had certain kinds of fish, familiar fish like perch and bass and sun fish. But the ocean was full of what? Jellyfish? Crabs? Sharks? What about dolphins and whales and sea lions? Where exactly was my father sending me out in? How much did he know about life under sea?

Walking to the shoreline I noticed children building sandcastles and couples holding hands. So many people I would never know, enjoying the air and the sights.

“My father said you look lost.”

I was surprised to find a girl walking next to me. I had not felt her presence, maybe that’s what the ocean can do: drown out everything even the pedestrian-instincts.

“Hi, what?” I said.

“He can be a bit critical,” she said. “My father thinks he can figure people out just by watching them from a distance. He said you don’t have to feel so scared. He said you could go one way or the other.”

“One way or the other?” I was lost. Who was this girl, and why was she talking to me?

“You know. Like, you could grow up to be a real somebody. Or you could grow up and be a real nobody.”

“I’m not scared,” I said. I was certain she could tell I was faking it.

“Good. You don’t need to be scared. Although, it’s okay to be scared sometimes. Anyway, I’m Valerie.”

I told her my name and for some dumb reason I stuck out my hand for a shake. She laughed and placed her hand in mine and then told me I need to tighten my grip when I shake.

“You don’t want to be a dead fish.”

“Let’s try it one more time,” I said.

“Sure.”

I went in strong and bold, and with great vigor.

“Ouch! Not that hard.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

She laughed and grabbed my hand and dragged me into the water. The waves came up to our knees.

If I had to pick a moment in time that changed the course of my life forever it would be this moment. Standing in the ocean with Valerie. I think it had something to do with nature, and a shift from the old me to the what I’ve become.

She was looking at me, laughing, talking. And I too had things to say and felt the strain of the smile on my face. I never thought it was possible to get out of myself: the loathing, the insufferable small space of my house, my future, my dead brother.

We split up for lunch, then reconvened in the water, this time going all the way in. The sun was high and hot, making our bodies sweat. The water cheered our hearts and made us so joyous in the way that wasn’t excepted anywhere else but here.

“Hey you,” said Valerie. “Do you like my bathing suit?”

It was blue.

“I do like it,” I said.

“You should consider buying a new pair of trunks,” she said.

I asked her what kind of trunks I should consider.

“Board shorts,” she said. “Like the surfers wear.”

I liked that idea and made a secret declaration to buy a pair as soon as I got the money.

“But I like what you’ve got on. I like that you don’t care about your appearance.”

It had never occurred to me that someone would think I didn’t care about my appearance. What did I care about all these years? I went to school with the clothes my mother picked out for me: jeans, t-shirts (or sweatshirt), sneakers.

“I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?” she asked, her hand on my shoulder.

“No,” I said. “Not at all. I guess I hadn’t ever thought of it.”

She stepped back and splashed me. Salt water stung my eyes. I had never felt better.

 

When it was dark my parents and I brought our stuff back to the hotel. I told them I had been invited to hang out with Valerie and her parents. They were having a campfire. My mother gave me a hug and told me how handsome I was.

“That’s my boy!” said my dad.

They seemed proud and possibly shocked at having predicted me finding someone of the opposite sex so quickly.

I hopped in the shower, hopped out, dried, and put on a pair of jeans and a Champion sweatshirt. Looking at myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but laugh at the drabness of my attire. Not only were the clothes not cool, my hair was too straight, too tame, and I had a bit of a neck beard. The question came to mind, again: Out of all the boys Valerie could have approached, why me?

I ran out of the hotel room, remembering to store my key in my pocket, and back to the beach where Valerie and her parents would be sitting around a fire.

As I approached, I spotted them. They were lit up by the fire: Valerie, her parents, and a boy who looked oddly familiar. I stopped, skidding in the sand. Like, whoa. What’s this all about? Be cool. Don’t panic.

I crept closer. Perhaps he was a cousin of some kind. Or some other familial relation.

Have you ever actually seen yourself? Like, walked up and bumped into him? I’m not talking about looking in the mirror, or seeing your reflection in the lake. I’m talking about actually bumping into you.

There they were. There he was. Laughing and nudging and carrying on. I even heard Valerie say my name. But it wasn’t me who she was speaking to. She was speaking to him, the guy who was me, but not me.

The closer I got the more I began to realize the differences between this guy and myself. For one he was slightly broader in the shoulders. I’m sure Valerie couldn’t have noticed, and if she did, she could blame it on first impressions. There was always a reason for the inexplicable. His hair was a touch shaggier than mine, disheveled, in a cool way. Also his eyes were darker and his nose seemed to fit the symmetry of his face. I’ll admit it, he was more handsome than I.

“You’re hilarious!” cried Valerie, punching him in the shoulder.

“Damn,” I whispered, now realizing who it was.

My brother. My dead twin brother. There he was, sitting next to the girl of my dreams.

 

I went back to my hotel room and turned on the television. I scrolled through some shows full of pretty people making good decisions. The ugly ones were all making bad choices: murder, over-eating, ignorant comments. The ugly ones were getting locked up, stuffed away, where no one could find them. It was depressing. I clicked it off and closed my eyes, hoping to succumb to sleep. After all, it wasn’t such a bad day. For most of it I spent with the girl of my dreams and we laughed and she touched me on my shoulder. That was all over now, but better to have had love then none at all?

I turned off the light next to my bed and tried my best to be positive. Don’t concern yourself with how it could be. How a dead baby could simply grow up and come back to the living.

I dreamt I was running hand in hand with Valerie. We were trying to find a quiet place to lay down and kiss.

I woke to the door opening. I could hear people talk. Confused, disoriented, I thought I was home in my bed and my parents were waking me for school.

“I’m not ready,” I murmured.

The light came on and I shielded my eyes and said, “Fuck sake.”

Then the two people stopped talking, everything went silent.

“What do you want?” I asked, my arm over my face. “I don’t want to get up. I don’t,” and then it dawned on me that I was not at home in my room, but in the hotel on Myrtle Beach. And the voices sounded nothing like my parents. And anyway, I was the only one who had a key.

I rubbed my eyes and found a young couple, holding hands, staring down at me.

“Who is he?” asked the girl.

“Oh him,” he said, looking confused.

“Wait,” she said, “I think I know him. I thought,” and then she drifted off, obviously working something out in her brain.

She let go of his hand and stepped away.

“What is this all about?” she asked. “Is this some sort of sick game you two are playing on me? I had a feeling something was off. I remember thinking you weren’t you. I mean, you weren’t him. But you look so much alike. I don’t get it.”

“We shouldn’t have come here,” he said.

It was strange. Seeing my twin brother this close-up. Yes, he was more muscular than me, but there was something else there too. Something he lacked.

I sat up and said, “Valerie, I went back down to meet you at the fire, but saw him and didn’t know exactly what to do. I watched you and you seemed happy, so I came back here. I had the most perfect day, and thought it best to leave it be.”

“So eloquent,” said my brother. “Such a gentleman.”

“Na,” I said. “I’m no gentleman. But I didn’t want this to happen. I don’t even know how it’s happening. But I guess I’m glad we’re finally face to face. To be honest I’m sick of you always hovering around us. I’d like for you to stop getting in the way.”

“Getting in the way?” asked my brother. “Is that how you think of me?”

“Not always.”

His eyes started watering. I didn’t feel bad for him, although, later on I did. I even cried on his behalf, knowing that there was a large part of me that missed him deeply. He was the brother I never knew.

“You two are sick in the head. I can’t believe I wasted my time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t plan on this. I sort of don’t even believe it’s happening.”

By this point I was standing, facing them both. It felt good to see him up close. He was a little taller, but he was wearing shoes.

“Want to fight?” he asked.

“You two are so stupid. Brothers,” she said, shaking her head. “Always competing.”

“Yes,” I said. “I think we should fight.”

I put on some clothes and the three of us walked down to the beach. The wind was blowing and there was a chill in the air. Valerie wore a hoodie, short shorts, and stood there, rubbing her arms.

“You ever fight a god?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Are you a god?”

“If you fight a god and win you can be whatever you want.”

“What if I lose?”

“You’ll get nothing. And you’ll be no one.”

I punched him in the face. His head went back, and then, just as violently snapped back, revealing a sinister smile.

“It’s on,” he said, and tackled me.

We wrestled, grappled, choked, pinched, bit, and kicked. I couldn’t tell if Valerie was laughing, crying, or simply giving periodic sounds of disgust. I’m sure we looked pretty pathetic, as two guys can who have no understanding of what it takes to actually win a fight.

After some time, and with an earful of sand I heard him say, “Okay, all right. Get off me, you idiot.”

I stood, heaving.

He stood, facing me, blood dripping from his lip.

“Now what?” I asked.

“You won. You have wrestled a god and won.”

“I get whatever I want?”

He stuck out his hand to shake.

His grip was sweaty but strong. Then he gave me a sly look, a knowing look, and walked toward the ocean until he was completely lost in the dark.

“Do you feel good or do you feel stupid?”

“Good, I guess,” I said.

“You didn’t have to fight him for me.”

“I didn’t. I fought him for me.”

She took my hand and we walked to what was left of the fire. Mostly dim coals. I found some drift wood and placed them on the coals. Then we watched a flame rise, then more, until a consistent burning began.

She rested her head on my shoulder and muttered something about leaving in two days time. Her father needed to get back to work, their vacation was drawing to a close.

“Will you write me if I write you?” she asked.

“Of course I will.”

I had my first kiss. It was long. And later we kissed with tongues. And when we heard her parents walking toward us, the low light striking them in their faces; we stood, held hands and ran to a quiet place only young people can find – behind a small dune where a large tree had fallen long ago – tumbled, and kissed in the sand, our hands all over each other, there was no stopping the drumming in our chests.

Later we played in the ocean like children. When it was dark, we found ourselves back in the sand, kissing, and then later on, holding each other looking up into the night sky. We talked about everything on our minds, and when it was time to separate, we embraced right in front of our parents.

 

The drive home was silent, the windows were closed. Rain hit the windshield hard. I had that afterglow about me, and my parents looked rested and younger than I had ever seen them.

When we got home, we cleaned ourselves up and organized all our luggage. My father took out the old record player and hooked it up to speakers. We grooved to Simon and Garfunkel, and some Bob Seger.

The following week I was in school, in the cafeteria, eating by myself. The wrestling coach, Mr. Alderson, approached me and told me he needed me.

“You need me? For what?”

“I need you to wrestle. Thompson is out for the season. You look about one-thirty.”

I don’t know why I did it. I was a terrible wrestler. Lost every time. But in my final match I was able to escape getting pinned. The guy beat me on points, zero to seven. Coach and my teammates were so surprised and elated with my effort they hoisted me on their shoulders and paraded me around the gym in front of all the parents and classmates in attendance. Most everyone was laughing. The other school, and all their fans (and the guy who beat me), looked confused. My father and mother were cheering, fist pumping, with tears in their eyes. I would never win. But at least I improved.

As for Valerie, she never wrote. Neither did I.