The funeral was over, but even as people began to leave, I couldn't bring myself to follow.

I'd heard it said many times before that twins, and even triplets, had a special connection that went beyond understanding, one that started at the moment of conception, and lasted until death. But that was a lie. Peter and I never had that sort of bond. It was like he was a stranger to me. We were as different as one could be from the other. From my earliest memory, possibly my very first memory, he was always in trouble and had caused a lot of problems for my parents.

We didn't even look alike. While my hair was wavy and auburn in color, his was an odd combination of blonde, copper, and brown. His eyes were green and mine were a hazel blend of green and brown. Even our ridiculous names hadn't bonded us together. My mom had once told me that, as a girl, she'd always favored the tongue-twister Peter Piper (Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers), and decided to name us accordingly, only spelling mine differently, so she could sing it to us and it would be her own private joke.

Then, when Peter and I turned twelve, he was sent away to Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, to live at the group home; a place for kids who were 'dark' which meant in adult-language, problem kids, the rebellious kind, not easily redirected by authority.

That was Peter – always with his middle finger up at society.

Home life became even more tense than before. My parents didn't seem to get along anymore; my mom was preoccupied and moody, while my dad would excuse himself immediately after he finished his dinner, heading to his library where he stayed, behind a closed door, for the rest of the night. I knew he was sleeping in there because my parents' bedroom was directly across the hallway from mine, and the creaking sound the door made when it opened and closed didn't happen after my mom had gone to bed.

I hated it. I always felt out of place. I wanted to be away from them, away from home, but not in the same way Peter was. After he'd gone, the tension between my parents was almost unbearable, as if whatever cloud he'd been living under had stayed and was hanging over their heads. Then one night, I was awakened by their yelling. I'd looked at the clock – it was late. I remembered thinking I wanted to tell them to go to bed and start over fresh with their argument the next morning. I had a big science test the next day, one that counted for a large percentage of my grade, and because my grade was slipping, I needed every point I could get.

From downstairs, I could hear the front door close with a bang. I got up and descended the stairwell as quietly as I could, but only halfway so I wouldn't be seen.

My mom was standing in the middle of the living room, her body tense under her thin, pink robe, and her hands balled into fists at her side. I could hear my dad's car start and watched the beam from the headlights move across the semi-darkened room as he pulled out of the driveway and drove away.

Quietly, I turned and stole back up the stairs to my bedroom. I slipped between my sheets and closed my eyes, hoping to fall right off to sleep. Instead, I lay there, listening.

My parents had never argued much, but in the months before Peter was sent away, that changed – the yelling was constant and the tension was always thick. Only after he was gone, the stress began to lessen and life became much easier.

Then one night, a phone call came during dinnertime. My father got up to answer it, but I became worried when his expression went from relaxed to serious. Later, when they thought I wasn't listening, I heard my parents discussing it – Peter was up to his old tricks again, but worse; he'd tried to assault a nurse. Afterwards, he ran away, but was easily caught when he'd attempted to jump a fence, but fell instead next to a large dumpster, making enough noise so that he was easily found.

The reprieve from the stress ended, and our lives became tense again.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew, there was a loud banging on the front door. Startled awake by the sound, I clumsily got out of bed and started downstairs, wondering why my father had knocked and not just used his key to come inside.

When I reached the place on the stairwell where I always stopped to listen in, or view, what was happening downstairs in the living room, my mom was already at the front door. I could almost hear the whooshing sound as she yanked it open. "You have a lot of nerve, Dave, leaving like you did!"

She stopped what she was saying. Two police officers were there.

With a look of sympathy, one of the officers began to speak in a hushed voice. "I'm sorry, ma'am ... but there's been an accident."

My mom didn't immediately respond. Finally, she said, "What ... what do you mean 'accident'?"

He continued to gaze at her as if he wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words. Eventually, the other officer said, "Ma'am, did a David Anderson live here?"

My mother's voice warbled. "Did?"

Neither of them answered, but stood there, looking at her.

I heard her begin to cry.

That was my first funeral.

A week later, more withdrawn than before, my mom told me we were going up to Columbia to see Peter. I didn't want to go, but I kept that to myself. She was having a difficult time enough. My reluctance, or refusal, would only make things worse.

We drove the four hours it took to get to where Peter had been living for the past three years.

Because he and I had never been close, and I didn't know how he would take the news of my father's death, I had my doubts about telling him, especially considering where he was. But when I told my mom about my concerns, she didn't respond. Instead, she kept her eyes on the road and drove in silence.

Eventually, we arrived. My mom pulled into the driveway of the exceptionally large, clay-colored building, and parked in the small parking lot to the left of it. Getting out of the car, I looked around the grounds. Pretty flowering bushes, planted within neatly trimmed grass, lined the driveway and parking lot, while Spanish moss hanging from the branches of the tall trees dotting the property swayed gently in the wind. But despite the pleasant scenery, butterflies filled my stomach with the anticipation of seeing Peter, and what his reaction to my mom's news would be.

We got out of her car and headed to the entrance. We walked up the steps and entered the building. I hadn't noticed how warm it was outside until then. People in uniforms, wearing badges, moved about as I followed my mom to the desk in front. A woman seated there looked up at us, smiling. With her voice clear, my mom said, "We're here to see Peter Anderson."

We were asked to have a seat in the main waiting room, which was just a bunch of plush, brown leather chairs behind where we stood. My mom and I went and sat until someone, a man, came out and asked us to follow him. He walked up to a set of closed doors, held his badge up to a box on the wall next to them, and as he did, I heard a loud buzzing noise and subsequent click. He took the handle of the door to the right and pulled it open. He walked through them and we followed.

Finally, we reached another set of doors, and as they opened, he gestured for us to go inside. "Peter will be brought to you shortly." We walked in and he turned and left us.

After a few minutes had passed, Peter, along with a woman, came in.

When he saw me and my mom sitting at the table closest to the double doors, he paused. Then, like he always had when he was nervous, he wiped his hands on his pant legs before he came over and sat down across from us.

We all sat there, not saying anything for a long moment.

Finally my mom broke the uneasy silence. "Peter, honey ... how are you?"

She was pretending – her attempt at a normal conversation wouldn't fool anyone, not even an idiot – and he'd seen right through it.

Looking from her to me, back to her again, he answered cautiously, "What's wrong?"

There was a long pause ... and then, taking a deep breath, she told Peter what had happened to our father. At first, he didn't respond. Then, his face turned red, and his fingers slowly began to ball into a fist just before he raised his arm high into the air and slammed it down hard onto the table we were sitting at, making it move slightly.

"Peter, honey ... I thought you'd want to know," my mom said gently.

He didn't answer.

"I know how you feel," I started.

Angry green eyes flashed at me. "You don't know how I feel, Pyper, so don't say you do! We might be twins, but you've never known how I felt. You're so self-absorbed that you wouldn't recognize me in a crowd. You've never even sacrificed your precious time to come and see me!"

Cursing under his breath, he stood and, with the same woman that had accompanied him into the room following frantically behind, he stormed off.

That was the last time I saw Peter.

For the next five years, I didn't go with my mother when she went to visit Peter. My life was mostly happy and I didn't want his unhappiness and self-loathing to bring me down any more. He was my brother, my twin, and I loved him, but I hated him at the same time. Instead, I'd stay behind with my friends to do important girl stuff – talking on the phone, texting, or planning whose house we'd hang out at next.

Late one night, after staying up to talk on the phone with my best friend, Hilary, I'd just started to fall asleep when I was jolted by the sound of the house phone ringing. From down the hallway, I could hear my mom's voice through my closed bedroom door ... and her words were both angry and sad. Wondering what was wrong, and who it could be, I got up and cracked open my door ...

"Dead ...? Fire ...? How?"

I ran to her room.

I stopped at her doorway. My mother was seated at the edge of her bed with the phone in her lap. She dragged her teary eyes to mine and whispered, "The house burned down – it burned down!" Fresh tears fell as she began to sob once again.

Trying to make sense of what she was saying, I said, "What was that call – who was that?"

"The house ..." she trailed off.

Frightened of what her reaction was really over, I slowly stepped past the doorframe and walked to where she remained seated. Gently, I removed the phone from her grasp. I could hear the dial tone as I replaced it into its cradle. I sat next to her and, feeling at a loss for what else to do to help comfort her, I started to wrap my arm around her shoulders, but stopped when she burst out, "Peter's dead! The house he was in ... there was a fire ..." She buried her face in her hands and wailed as her shoulders moved up and down.

As I gazed at his coffin, still on the metal life above the hole that had been dug for him, I tried to wipe those awful thoughts from my mind. The sorrow I felt over him dying was stronger than what I could ever imagine I'd feel, stronger than how I'd felt when my father had died. I didn't know what it meant because we'd never been close, but it had to count for something.

Though no one had said so, I could sense it was time to go. I turned to look for my mom among the other mourners. I found her – she was flanked on either side by my aunt, her sister, and my uncle, who had flown in to lend their support. Together, they walked slowly back to where the cars were parked.

Glad to have a few moments alone with Peter, our last together, I looked back at his casket. "For what it matters, if it even does, I'm sorry things weren't better between us ..." I paused, and with my voice cracking under the strain of trying not to cry, I continued, "And now you're gone. Tell Dad I love and miss him." I turned and walked back to the red rental car my uncle had used to drive us to the cemetery. He was waiting, standing at the back passenger side door. With a look of patient expectancy, he asked, "Are you okay?"

I nodded my answer and then slid into the backseat, next to where my mom sat, weeping. He closed the door gently, got in, and we drove slowly out of the cemetery grounds and into moving traffic.

Even though we lived only fifteen minutes away, the drive home seemed to take forever.

Finally we arrived back to the street we lived on. It was lined with cars belonging to those who had attended my brother's funeral. Only two cars were in the driveway; my mom's gray Tahoe, and my yellow 1968 VW Beetle. The moment my uncle pulled into the driveway, car doors began to open and people started to emerge, some of them with covered dishes of food.

I couldn't get out of the car fast enough. I went up the porch steps and waited impatiently as my uncle came to unlock the front door. The moment it was opened, I went directly to my bedroom and shut the door behind me. The loss of my brother had hit me hard and I needed time to collect myself, and even though it was stupid to feel that way, I didn't want anyone, particularly my mom, to see me crying. I hated to do that in front of people, and I didn't want her to worry. She had enough to think about. Later, when I was alone again, I'd let myself break down and cry.

I turned at the sound of someone knocking on my door. I quickly wiped the tears that had started down my face. "Come in."

The door opened, and my mom's tearstained face peeked around the corner at me. "Aren't you supposed to be downstairs with everyone?" I asked.

Sniffling, and with an awkward smile that told me that the dam was about to break, she stepped inside. "Just coming to check on you. Are you okay?"

"I just wanted to be alone for a moment."

Dabbing her nose with a Kleenex she had wrapped around her fingers, she nodded. "I wish I could be, too. But those people brought us food and want to give us their support."

Her eyes bottom lip began to tremble and her eyes began to well, but no tears spilled.

"How long are they going to stay?" I asked. "I wanted to go and see Hilary."

She nodded, but it wasn't because she understood. Keeping her voice level, she emphasized her words. "I ... would ... think ... you'd plan to stay." Her expression hardened slightly and she added sharply, "Pyper – your brother just died! You can't wait?"

Before I could control it, I retorted, "We weren't close! Will my being here, instead of doing what I want really make that much of a difference? Will it bring him back?"

My regret was immediate. But it was too late to take back what I'd said.

I watched, waiting to hear what she'd say.

My mother's face clouded, and she didn't say anything for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she replied quietly, sadly, "No. I guess it won't. I just thought it would be nice since they came for us. Support ... food ..." Looking helpless, she trailed off.

Her guilt trip angered me. "Nice? There's nothing nice about this, Mom! Besides, they're here for you, not me. I mean, the house is full of people your age – not mine!"

I hated that I'd just blown up at her, but it was too much to deal with at the moment, and I didn't want to deal with it! I didn't want to be there. Escape was what I wanted – escape from my feelings, from the heaviness of Peter's death weighing down on me, escape from the echo of his memory I felt only I could sense, even though he hadn't been there for so long. I wanted to scream that she shouldn't want me around. The comparison to him, my face, so much like his, but different, too, would be a bitter reminder of what she'd lost. I so badly wanted to be someplace else, because even though it wouldn't make the situation better, it would get my mind off of my brother's sudden, and unfair, death – at least for awhile.

"Diane?"

My aunt Patricia was at the doorway.

Without another word to me, my mom turned and walked out of my room.

I listened as they went back downstairs, and for a moment, I wanted to call out to my mom, to ask her to come back so I could tell her I hadn't meant to be so cruel, and didn't mean what I'd said, even though I'd made a valid point. Instead, I quickly changed out of the dress and into my favorite pair of jeans, solid dark blue, but torn at the knees, and not because it was the latest fashion. It was because I'd ripped the fabric one day when I slipped and fell while helping my mom with some household chores. After I saw what I'd done, I went to the kitchen, took out a sharp pair of scissors, and made a tear in the right pant leg, thinking it would balance out the right side and it'd look cool. It was a stupid thing to do. The tears weren't even ... not even close. One side was straight, while the other was lopsided and jagged. But I decided they were unique, and therefore, my favorite pair of jeans.

Looking for a shirt to wear, I spotted the old red football jersey my boyfriend, Matt, had given to me months before. He'd wanted to throw it away, but I stopped him, saying how much I liked it because the rips and tears in it made it look 'battle-worn' and 'authentic'. He'd laughed and handed it to me, saying I could have it.

I went to my dresser, opened the top right drawer, took out a white tank top, and put it on. Over it, I slipped on the jersey as I headed toward my bathroom. I switched on the light, picked up the first hair band I saw, the same pink one I usually wore, and haphazardly pulled my long hair into a ponytail, not caring if it was messy or neat, or that the band didn't match the color of the jersey. After a quick look into the mirror at my reflection, and determining that my eyes weren't too swollen from crying, I switched off the light and walked out into my bedroom. Grabbing my over-sized purse, and the keys to the house and my car, I left my room and started down the stairwell. When I reached the bottom step, someone called out to me.

Looking pristine with her short brown hair, her knee-length business suit-type dress, and her fashionable heels, my aunt Patricia came walking over. "Honey, are you okay?"

I'd never been so tired of being asked that. "Yeah, I'm fine."

By her intensely curious, yet concerned look, I knew I'd answered too fast. "Where are you going?"

My uncle walked over. "Is everything okay?"

My aunt murmured to him, "Everything's fine. Go check on Diane and see if she's okay."

"I was just with her ..."

My aunt's look stopped him. With a small smile at me, and a slight nod of his head, he left us. "Pyper, where are you going? Your mother needs you here."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "She doesn't. You're here. Uncle Anthony's here. All of these ... people ... most of them I don't even know, are here. I need to get out of the house."

"Honey, I think you should stay."

I wanted to scream. I hated that it didn't seem to matter to anyone how I felt. "I need to breathe, and here, I can't. I need to be with my friends."

There was a long pause and then she nodded. "You might be right. Go. Be with your friends. We'll still be here when you get back." She reached out and brought me into her arms for one of her long, tight hugs. I hated that, too. Not because it was a hug, I liked her hugs, but because it made me want to start to cry again. I gently broke the embrace and walked outside. The second I heard the click of the spring engage with the hold, I plunged my hand into my purse and began to rummage around, trying to find my cell phone, while I headed for my car. At its door, I finally found the phone. I pulled it out and immediately dialed Hilary's number.

It rang twice before she answered. "Hi – how's it going?"

"Ugh, not you, too."

"What?"

"That question. Everybody's asked me that about a hundred times. If I never hear it again, it will be too soon ... and the answer is, terrible. Can I come over?"

"Sure, but your mom let you leave just that easily?"

"Not exactly, but I told her I needed to get out of the house."

"Just don't wear anything black. I don't want to feel like I'm at a funeral, too."

"No chance of that. I practically tore the dress off."

"Have you called Matt yet?"

"No. He doesn't like this sort of stuff."

"How do you know?"

"He told me it made him uncomfortable to talk about it. He called it morbid."

I could hear her laughter on the other end of the phone. "What can you expect? He's a guy!"

"I'll be there in a minute." We hung up.

I unlocked my car door, threw my purse over onto the passenger seat, and got in. I put the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. But because the car wasn't a newer model, the engine needed to be revved a couple of times before it would get going. After making sure the car wouldn't stall, I backed out of the driveway and drove down the street on my way to Hilary's house.