Dr. Palmer’s office was on the ground level of a residential brownstone. Smiles for Miles Oral Surgery Center, established 1996. Like most dentists, the doctor’s name was written on the door, right next to cartoon teeth holding toothbrush javelins: Richard Palmer, D.D.S. For a moment Miranda thought she had the wrong address. She drove in circles, searching for a more discreet entrance. Were they supposed to waltz inside, act like regular patrons? Surely not. Surely there’d be a fire escape, then a door to a smaller private office. Out of plain sight. If you knew, you knew. But there was nothing.
“Stop going in circles. Just park the car,” Matthew said from the passenger seat. After another trip around the block, Miranda obliged. She left sweaty imprints on the steering wheel. Matthew’s seat belt came off before she killed the engine.
Inside was outdated but clean, full of furniture made of fake plastic wood. An oversized fish tank hung out in the lobby, bathing the room in soft, marine blue light. The air smelled heavily of artificial pineapple, Pine Sol, and fresh bleach. There were sounds of drills in the distance, amongst other things. Phones rang with no answer. Patients sneezed into dirty fists. No one said gesundheit, or looked up from wilted pages of Better Homes and Gardens. A single television in the corner played Law and Order. Nobody paid attention.
Dr. Palmer’s receptionist had a strange haircut. Asymmetrically styled, the kind Miranda saw at club nights after two in the morning. Her gelled bangs made a sharp triangle whose center point laid right between her eyebrows. Matthew poked Miranda’s side.
You’re staring again. Get on with it, he gestured. Miranda cleared her throat. He was hungry to begin, already rushing her.
“We have an appointment,” she forced herself to sound agreeable. “Twelve thirty, with Dr. Palmer?” It felt strange to call him that. It’d feel strange to call him Richard, too. Honestly, she’d rather use his FetLife username.
“Both of you?” asked the secretary. “At the same time?”
Matthew cut in, “at the same time.”
She let it go. Asking follow-up questions must’ve been above her paygrade. She clicked several buttons on her keyboard, long fingers working fast. “Last names? Dates of birth?”
“Webb, Matthew and Miranda. November 8th, 1998.”
The secretary squinted, searched their faces. Beyond basic genetic similarities, they shared a nose job and the same botched brow lift. “You’re twins.”
“Fraternal,” said Miranda. Clearing confusion would get them backstage faster. They looked more alike with their clothes off, but she wouldn’t know that, would she? Matthew rubbed his hands together, impatience palpable. She pinched his leg to make him stop fidgeting. He pinched her back.
“Huh,” the secretary grunted in satisfaction. She gave Miranda a clipboard. “Go ahead and fill that out. I’ll let Dr. Palmer know you’re here.”
They sat together in a bariatric chair, scraping paint off of drywall each time they adjusted its legs. Matthew’s thigh pressed up against Miranda’s; she saw his muscles twitch through his slacks. She put her hand on his knee, rubbing the bony part with her thumb. Miranda took deep breaths, obnoxious and loud until her brother followed suit. For this to go well, he had to relax.
⧫⧫⧫
“So,” Dr. Palmer sat down like an old man, grunting and coughing, but didn’t seem that old. Liver spots speckled his leathery hands, but he didn’t emit that smell yet, that signature old people smell of aged caramel candies, a hint of urine, and of course, Vaporub.
“What brings you both in today?”
She and Matthew couldn’t fit together in the dentist’s chair, so they stood side by side at the door. “We came to ask for a favor.”
“A favor?” His glasses came off, resting on a chain around his turkey’s neck. He lowered his facial mask and rubbed his mustache. “This is a dentist’s office. We don’t do favors. Unless your insurance covers them, of course.”
His idea of a joke, she figured. Neither twin smiled, but Matthew wanted to. Miranda saw traces of a laugh forming in his cheeks. “We spoke online? You’re ‘richietheripper,’ right?”
Dr. Palmer’s infliction changed at the mention of his username. He leaned backwards in his wheelie chair, nearly snapping its neck in half. Lines on his wrinkled face grew less pronounced, and Miranda couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or proud of himself. “Have we?”
“A few weeks ago,” she continued. “You liked a few of our pictures.”
Palmer gawked at the Webbs until their identities dawned upon him. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
“We get that a lot.”
“I have to admit, I’m a big fan,” Palmer paused. “The infamous Webbs…”
“In the flesh,” Miranda cringed at herself for being so on the nose, but her brother snorted. She pinched his thigh and twisted. He smacked her hand. Palmer cleared his throat and they stopped.
“May I… see ? The bloody photos you put online were lovely, but… I imagine you look different in person,” he said. “Especially now that you’ve healed.”
The twins stripped at an even pace. They did so calmly, with no sensuality or immediate urgency on their faces. Matthew finished first. His clothes laid in a dark pile around their feet. Then Miranda. Before their last procedure, she’d been shy about sharing. Being photographed was a chore; she dreaded the sight of a camera, even if it wasn’t pointed at her. Now everything felt less intimidating. Whoever wanted a peek, got one free of charge.
Both their chests were waifish, lean and blank. No tattoos. No nipples, breast tissue or prominent pectoral muscle in sight. Only flatness. Below the belt, Matthew and Miranda were sexless, like they’d never been human at all. Both their nether regions were completely smooth except for identical scars. Dr. Palmer let out a sharp sound of sheer excitement. He asked how, why, when, where with just a single look.
“The original plan was to trade parts, just like we did our names. Matt wanted a penis, I offered mine in exchange for his breasts, but that seemed a little… complicated to do on our own.” Miranda explained.
“So you… cut everything?” Palmer asked.
“We talked about it for a long time before committing. Getting rid of everything became our best, easiest option. Looking back, I don’t know why we didn’t start there.”
“Yes,” the doctor was breathless, lost in lurid admiration. “Two blank slates. Twin tabula rasas. You’re practically seamless… truly beautiful work.” While the good doctor spoke, Matthew made a show of stroking his own arms and legs, raising tiny goosebumps on his skin. His hands lingered near his crotch, cupping the area where his genitals were sewn shut. “You did this yourselves?”
“It wasn’t so hard. We used sharpened cheese wire and three bottles of Everclear. Deed got done in under three hours.”
Dr. Palmer swallowed hard. His hands hovered over two hairless mounds, eager to cup and squeeze. After going smooth, the Webbs performed life in abstract. Every outfit, no matter how simple or complex, was a costume. They got done up for laughs and fun. They dressed down for rest and relaxation. But Miranda doubted Palmer cared about body modification with no sexual output. Smoothness didn’t relax him, or make him feel complete.
Smoothness titillated Dr. Palmer. Cleanliness, cured cuts, succinct stitching. Abscesses, absences, and most importantly, well-done amputations. The twins followed his blog for months before making an appointment. Palmer’s written musings were easy to find online, though they were easily dwarfed by photos and charcoal drawings. Miranda’s favorites featured swollen, bloody gums; busted teeth; and root canals gone wrong.
Matthew swatted the doctor’s hand away. He hadn’t come to be touched, only examined. Palmer looked upset by the denial, but didn’t push. This, Miranda liked. Once the twins redressed he sat back down with the same strained effort as before.
“Thank you for that,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “What can I do for you two?”
“We want to rent your operating room.” Miranda stated matter-of-factly. “Just for an afternoon. Maybe into the evening. Preferably next Thursday.”
“What for?”
“Matt’s got some loose ends to tie up,” she started. “Naturally, the emergency surgeons who ‘helped’ us go smooth didn’t know why we’d done it. Their job was to close us up and stop the bleeding. Even if we were coherent enough to explain ourselves and what we wanted, nobody would finish the job.”
“What does that mean? Finishing the job.”
“Scooping out the rest.”
“The rest?” He asked despite a glint of recognition in his eyes.
Matthew cupped his lower belly, eyes shut. He pressed down hard enough to bruise. Miranda flinched on his behalf. “In here.”
“It’s not enough for some people,” she folded her hands over her lap. “Being nothing on the outside.”
“Take your clothes off again,” Dr. Palmer instructed, uncapping a purple marker. He perched his glasses back on his crooked nose and walked his chair towards Matthew. “Let’s take a closer look.”
⧫⧫⧫
If it were up to Miranda she’d be finished with surgery. No more silver scissors, ten blades, or bone saws would come near her ever again. Time called for her to retire, wipe her hands clean of blood and guts once and for all. She cut off what she could. Innards never plagued Miranda the way they did her brother, who craved being identical inside and out.
This was all for Matthew. His uterus burnt a hole inside his body. He swore it. He would die without scratching that phantom itch; it killed him to be smooth and not hollow. He stated as much when they were kids: I don’t feel like anyone, or anything. I think I was born to be nothing forever.
Miranda believed him. She wouldn’t lodge her arm inside his abdomen if she didn’t believe him. Before Palmer pumped him full of anesthetic, Matthew grabbed both sides of her face and tugged her ears, fingering holes where her earrings went. “You don’t have to be clean. It doesn’t matter if you get scared. Just get it done. Finish me.”
Miranda clamped rubbery fallopian tubes with metal forceps. She touched them with a cauterizing tool, breathing deeply as thin lines of fire melted him. Best to get those out of the way first. Even through her surgical mask the smell of burning flesh reached Miranda. Sweat dripped down her chin, the inside of her mask grew moist. Matthew’s hand twitched; his lips were a cool shade of blue.
Dr. Palmer waited outside in case of emergency. “If you need me, just knock,” he said, but she wouldn’t dare. This was a family matter.
Miranda whispered instructions to herself. In the case of a radical hysterectomy, read the anatomy book, the whole reproductive system is removed. Removed was a pretty word; it sounded businesslike. Pristine and sterile. This was not pretty, but the end result would be. Hollow and pretty like ornate porcelain. Sharp nails broke through her powderless gloves, and bright red cervical tissue built up beneath them. Messy with pulp up to her elbows, Miranda’s chest heaved as if she were on the table giving light. She grabbed what she could without being too rough or sloppy.
Carve, scoop, splat! Almost there; she felt around until the tip of her finger breached his cervical wall. She pushed through the barrier. Mushy handfuls of Matthew fell into little bowls, resembling crushed watermelon meat. Carve, scoop, plop! Miranda’s stomach growled. Better doctors could repair the damage she so lovingly inflicted. And it’d been love that drove her. The thought of an ambulance kept her going. Once she finished, she’d call.
Miranda bent forward, trembling. Her slick forehead pressed against her brother’s dry one, and she kissed it, lips pursed to feel the bulged shape of his skull. Finally, she wrapped her fingers tight around his deflating sex. Miranda pulled to loosen the ties. She pulled harder, hardest, then came wet, delicious rupture. She ripped Matthew’s uterus out of his body. It pulsed in her fist, trying and failing to pump blood. The gaping hole in her brother’s abdomen winked at the ceiling. It spoke to her: just get it done. Finish me.