He gives another snort. “And yet that’s exactly what I am.”
Wally arranges an elaborate-looking sandwich of cheese, sliced ham, and tomato while I tuck into my honey-on-white. The date is going quite well so far, I think. We’ve made conversation; we’re consuming a meal. According to my research, that’s pretty much all there is to it. I’ve dismissed the possibility of getting pregnant today, obviously. Apart from the fact that it would be awkward and quite possibly illegal to have sexual intercourse in a park, I’m not ovulating. I know this because I bought some ovulation testing kits at the pharmacist, which tell me (by virtue of a smiley face in a small window) when ovulation is imminent. The booklet suggested testing around Day 10 of your cycle, with a view to ovulation occurring around Day 14, which, according to my calculations, means I’ll need a second date in just under a week to execute that part of the plan.
“So tell me about van living,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. I’d preprepared the question. Asking questions is a tactic I use when small talk is required—it makes you appear interested while simultaneously putting all the effort of the conversation on the other party. “What do you like about it?”
Wally is lying on the blanket, resting on one elbow. “Many things,” he says. “I find the small space cozy, like sleeping in a little cocoon. When it rains, I hear it pelting the roof; when it’s windy, I feel the wind up against the car. It’s like I’m out in it … but protected. What else? I like that I can’t have too many possessions, so when I do buy something, I have to consider whether I really need it. It means I only end up with things that are incredibly useful or very precious. I like that I’m not imprisoned by anything. Debt. Weather. Bad neighbors. My home is wherever I am.”
“Where is the van now?”
“Down the road. There’s a four-hour parking spot about a mile from here.”
“Don’t you find it unsettling having to move about all the time like that?”
“A little,” he admits. “But moving around is kind of cool.”
I consider this. “I moved around a lot when I was a child. Not in a van though. I can’t say I found it … cool.”
Wally shifts on his elbow, getting comfortable. “Why did you move a lot? Folks in the army?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I would have preferred more permanence but … things always came up. Mum lost her job or the landlord needed us to move.” Wally is really paying attention to me, which is both awkward and quite nice. Perhaps this is why, on a whim, I add, “My mum wasn’t … the greatest mum, I guess.”
It feels like a betrayal, for some reason. I don’t like speaking badly of Mum. It feels wrong somehow. Rose doesn’t feel bad about it. She and Mum never got along, even when we were kids. I remember hiding in the closet with Rose when we were ten, after Mum and Rose had argued about something. “Fern, I know you don’t understand this,” Rose had said. “But Mum isn’t a good mum. You have to do what I say, okay, otherwise I can’t protect you. She isn’t a good mum, okay?”
“Okay,” I’d said.
“I’m sorry,” Wally says.
“She overdosed when I was twelve, and my sister and I were put into foster care.”
Wally sits up. “Wow. Fern, that’s awful.”
I focus on the remains of the food, the grapes lolling on the chopping board. “I was lucky I had Rose. She’s my twin sister.”
I half expect Wally to have a reaction to this. Inexplicably, people seem to have such curious reactions when I report that I am a twin. In social gatherings, often all I have to do is mention that I’m a twin and the rest of the conversation is consumed by the twins in that person’s family, whether they were naturally or artificially conceived, or how their great-aunt Margaret was a twin but her brother died in childbirth. I enjoy this, because all I have to do is nod and smile, which is infinitely easier than having to say anything myself. But, extraordinarily, Wally appears to be one of the few people on earth who doesn’t have anything to contribute to the twin conversation.