Short Story Sunday: Mimicry

I like to observe her. When she catches me staring, I disarm her with my smile. I met her when I was fourteen, and she rescued me from Tommy Lincoln’s fist. Catherine was twice my age and worked behind the counter in her father’s shop.


The story goes that her father changed his name when he came to this country. Nobody knows what it actually is, except me. Mr Lister is called Vincenzo, but goes by Vincent. He has the body of a dumpling, and when he perspires, it glazes his face like syrup. I know her name is Vincenza Caterina Lazzari, but everyone calls her Catherine. There are eleven moles on her face and neck. She carries her beauty in her eyes and mouth, and her patience extends only to the very old and very young. She sings to herself when she thinks nobody is around and loves to read poetry before bed. Although he does not deserve it, she works hard to please her father. She has four brothers who toil on the railways and in the mines and factories. Their mother is dead. Fell from a window, they say. From what I know about Mr Lister, she was probably pushed.
 
That day, when she sent Tommy Lincoln crying to his mother, she invited me behind the counter. She gave me tea and love, and when her father found me he shouted so much that the cans rattled on the shelves. She convinced him to let me stay and sweep the shop. I have done this and more for three years. I spend my days working alongside her, collecting information on how she speaks, the way she moves and the impulses that drive her. She has no idea.  

Last week, I came to work with the same hairstyle as Catherine. She looked at me and smiled, but there was fear in her eyes. I was wearing a hairpin she had thrown out. Maybe she thought I stole it, but she didn’t ask. I also wear the same clothes as her and sometimes I correctly guess which colours she will choose to put on. Mr Lister says we look like twins.

This morning, I was packing a box in the storeroom when I heard her crying. I reached for her but she scratched me and screamed at me to get out. I called Mr Lister, and he called the doctor. They say she has lost her mind and must go to the asylum. Mr Lister is distraught. I volunteered to fill her place and take on her duties. He was thankful and tearful. I start tomorrow. 

Finally, I will know what it feels like to be Catherine Lister.