(Exactly the same age, if truth be known. But truth wasn’t known, was it?)
He reached out his finger to wriggle it in front of her sweet little face, a gesture that brought much giggling from his own (though not his own) Holly. Fast as lightning, Natasha’s tiny fist reached up and grabbed his finger, a grip surprisingly powerful. Margaret stepped in quickly to remove her daughter’s fingers from the strange man’s hand. But little Natasha (with a determination that would follow her through her years — as we shall, to our sorrow, see) clung. As Margaret pried each tiny finger loose, it snapped back in place. Finally, it was Johnny who gently removed the baby’s fingers. Natasha howled.
(Apparently she knew something no one else did. Smart little thing, don’t you think?)
Margaret pulled a baby wipe from her bag. When they got home, she gave Natasha a bath. Another incident occurred. (Insignificant except to those of us who watch such things.)
The babies were now about eighteen months old; walking, jabbering, and climbing. The two mothers met, each with a stroller, walking in opposite directions down the street of their small town. They stopped to admire the other’s child, although each individually thought hers the most beautiful. (A natural thing for a mother to think.)
Except for the hair. Anita commented on Natasha’s beautiful dark curls (she would never have said a word to a soul, not even Johnny, but she secretly wished her Holly had dark curly hair like her own) while Margaret stared wistfully at Holly’s silken blond hair and ran her fingers through her own blond hair.
(Those black curls! Natasha’s recessive genes, Margaret thought, harkening back to those far, far distant Russian ancestors. Oh, well.)
And then those two little girls did an amazing thing. With strollers parked side by side, but facing in opposite directions, and the two mothers openly expressing admiration for the other child (And why not? For were they not admiring their own flesh and blood?), Holly and Natasha stepped up onto their seats and tried to climb, each into the stroller of the other.
(Apparently they knew something no one else did. Smart little things, don’t you think?)
Quickly the two mothers reseated their children and continued on their way, Margaret to Sleek and Chic, a high-end dress shop, and Anita to Only Organic. The children leaned out of their strollers and watched the other disappear down the street. And wept.
We will now fast forward to the present day. But no. I lie. A bit of background before we do that. Both girls did well in school (having been born of remarkably bright parents, the mix-up not withstanding, and having been given every advantage in the world) from nursery school through preschool, on to kindergarten, elementary school, high school, and eventually college. (All private institutions, you will understand.)
Not that there weren’t a few bumps along the way. Natasha’s parent conferences, beginning with nursery school, made reference to “born leader,” and “must learn to share,” a teacher’s covert way of saying “bossy” and “grabby.” That, someplace around third grade, changed to “leadership qualities, but must learn to lead in a positive way.”
(Those teachers! Why can’t they just come out and say, “The kid’s a major pain in the ass?” Of course, that wouldn’t be good for the self-esteem… of the parents. But I digress.)
And — lest I forget — the beauty pageants! Under Margaret’s watchful eye, Natasha walked, pivoted, bowed, curtsied, sang her songs, recited little poems, made tiny speeches, and continually won second place. Until an unfortunate accident that occurred when the first-place winner was in the bathroom. (Nasty sprain!)
Natasha slipped into the winner’s crown effortlessly. (Perhaps slipped is an unfortunate choice of words.)
Then there was the incident in sixth grade, when Natasha’s science project looked like it would probably come in second, and the terrible crash and destruction of the entry that probably would have taken first place. (Probably. We’ll never know for sure, will we?)
Glass and strange liquids all over the floor. An eleven-year-old boy in tears. Margaret Miller was the first on her knees to help clean up the mess. “Such a shame!” she said. “Such a shame!”
Or how about the time Natasha tried out for cheerleading queen and didn’t make it? But, Voila! a place opened up when Queen fell down a flight of stairs (Nasty break!) and the pins all moved over one place. So to speak.
College? Well, Natasha’s grades weren’t quite sufficient for college, but Grandpa (from that far-off line of Russians and not really her grandfather) intervened, and Voila! all over again. A new wing for the science building at the state university.
(I name no names of places or institutions in the interests of protecting the innocent. Of whom, there seem to be few. So far.)
Yes, the wheels for Natasha were greased, to use a tired but true phrase. That is, those she did not grease for herself.
(We have not mentioned the girls weeping into their pillows as Natasha snatched first one and then the next and the next in a seemingly never-ending line of boyfriends. It was the conquest that challenged her, not the prize — although the sex was good. They were useless when she dropped them. Several took Holy Orders.)
But what of Holly? If you’re thinking Snow White and Rose Red (as any lover of fairytales might well be thinking), you would be quite wrong. Little Holly was no angel and had many time-outs in nursery school, one trip to the principal’s office while in elementary school, and a two-day suspension in her sophomore year for smoking pot in the girls’ bathroom. While in high school she was moderately popular with other girls, quite popular with the boys — with her long, straight blond hair and brown eyes (What a combination! Rather like Margaret Miller’s coloring, would you say?) — and never lacking for a date if she wanted one. But she rarely wanted one. It took someone quite special to take her away from her family on a weekend. Besides, she was determined to get into a major university (again we must offer anonymity) and she spent her time studying. Time well spent. She was selected valedictorian of her class, the only black mark on her record the two-day suspension. (We can forgive that.)
Both girls went on to college: Natasha (having vowed never to marry, since her rapacious sexual appetite could not be satisfied by one man, determined to be a career woman. Besides, she found other women’s men much more interesting. Her mother knew nothing of this vow and would have brought up the issue of the Russian genetic line had she known.) taking a law degree and going immediately into the prosecutor’s office where she planned to intern only long enough to gather the experience she needed for trial law, and Holly earning a master’s degree in Early Childhood Education and planning to work until she had children of her own.
And that brings us almost up to date. However, we should also mention here that the girls never attended the same school, in fact, never met (nor would they meet that fateful afternoon that we have not yet visited) except for the brief incident in the strollers. Perhaps if they had come to know one another, the disaster that ensued might never have. Ensued.