THE OTHER

You might not remember it properly, or if you do you remember it only in fragments. Bright lights and colours, soft music playing, crowds of people, your dad’s brown suede jacket that he wore all the time, a hand reaching out.
He remembers it, remembers every moment of it, but he has never talked to you about it and never will. He wouldn’t even know how to begin to talk about it to you. 

What happened was this. It was four days before your mother’s birthday, and you had gone out with your father to the department store so you could both choose a present for her. He had promised you a burger when you were done, and you had hopes that the day might bring a toy for you if you were good, so you did your best to be good.

Your dad was busy looking at pieces of china, and although you knew your mother loved them you couldn’t think of anything less interesting, so you wandered over to a display of little ornamental houses that lit up if you pressed a button. You stood there for a few moments. Light on. Light off. Light on.
Then you heard your dad say your name and you looked up and there he was on the other side of the display in his brown suede jacket, holding out his hand for you to come to him.
You stepped forward, and then you heard your dad say your name and you looked behind you and there he was in his brown suede jacket, holding a box ready to take to the till. You looked back at the other dad, and your dad with the box followed your look and went very pale when he saw himself, identical in every way.
The other dad gave a rueful smile, lowered his hand, backed into the crowd, and was gone.
You got your burger, and a milkshake, and a toy, although your dad didn’t say very much while you were eating it or on the way home, and even when you were old enough for it to become a little embarrassing he still held your hand when you were out with him, held it very tight.