The Role You Were Born to Play

Summary

Podcast Summary: Selected Shorts – “The Role You Were Born to Play”
Date: January 1, 2026
Host: Meg Wolitzer
Episode Theme: Exploring the roles we’re cast into, willingly or not, and how we perform, reject, or transcend them—through two affecting short stories performed live by celebrated actors.

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Episode Overview

This episode of Selected Shorts examines the idea of roles—familial, social, and internal—that we occupy or find assigned to us. Through the lens of sharply observed fiction and accompanying actor interviews, the show probes the interplay between who we are, who we’re seen as, and whether (or how) we break out of the parts we’re given.

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Main Segments and Key Discussion Points

1. Introduction & Framing the Episode

[02:00–04:40]

• Meg Wolitzer discusses the comfort and confinement of knowing the roles we play in others’ lives, and the allure of stepping into roles unimaginable before.
• “There’s comfort in knowing the role you play in others’ lives. Also, there’s fun in imagining that one day you might break out and play some entirely new role, completely unknown to you.”
• Introduces tonight’s dual focus: stories of individuals forced into tricky, ill-fitting, sometimes thankless roles—and the yearning, or chance, to be something more.

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2. The Ugly Sister by Joanne Harris

Performed by Jane Atkinson [04:53–22:36]

Story Summary

A reimagining of the Cinderella tale from the perspective of one of the “ugly sisters,” blending dark humor, emotional longing, and meta-theatricality.

Key Points

• The narrator reflects on the role of the “ugly sister,” both in the pantomime tradition and personal identity.
• She bristles at being portrayed as inherently villainous (“Evil becomes ridiculous…there’s no dignity left in being a villain.” [05:00]), reveals the jealousy and pain beneath the bravado, and skewers society’s biases toward “the lookers.”
• The story muses on how history and storytelling solidify fixed, narrow roles, leaving little room for the “discarded ones” to find happiness or self-definition.
• Amidst the routine of another Christmas pantomime, an unexpected encounter with a mysterious, attentive man in the audience gives the “ugly sister” her own taste of magic and the hope of transformation:
  • “Beneath my grotesque costume, my mask of paint, a mystery awaits. One day, I tell myself, someone will notice me.” [11:30]
  • The stranger, “Wolfie,” reveals he’s drawn not to the leading lady, but to her: “These things are just part of the roles we play...The good, the bad, the ugly. We are heroes too, in our way, the ones of us who crawl away cursing when the curtain goes down. The discarded ones.” [21:10]
• The story ends on hope: breaking free of a script and finding joy in the unexpected.

Notable Quotes

• “It is a proud and lonely thing to be an ugly sister.” [05:28]
• “Have you noticed how history favors the lookers?...Court painters have a lot to answer for. And storytellers too.” [08:10]
• “Ugly is a word I’ve dragged behind me all my life. It defines who I am. Without it, what am I?” [20:36]

Memorable Moment

• The curtain call and romantic invitation from “Wolfie,” symbolizing the chance to write a new story and escape typecasting in both art and life.

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3. Actor Interview: Jane Atkinson on Playing the Ugly Sister

[22:37–24:44]

• Atkinson relates the theme of sibling rivalry to her reading: “Each one of us…has our own version of the story of our lives and who is the hero and who is the villain. So I think that actually speaks to a lot of siblings.” [22:55]
• On voicing all characters: “It’s like a one-woman show where you get to play everybody…at one point I actually felt like I was channeling Marilyn Monroe.” [24:06]
• Cherishes the Selected Shorts audience’s enthusiasm for discovery and story.

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4. Underwater by Hannah Kingsley Ma

Performed by Marin Ireland [27:56–60:41]

Story Summary

Sam, a woman vacationing with her husband and his twin sister’s family, is caught between multiple identities—wife, in-law, and member of her own complicated family of sisters. Amid tick checks, minor disasters, and fraught sibling dynamics (hers, and her in-laws’), Sam negotiates her place in overlapping family narratives and wrestles with envy, insecurity, and longing for clarity.

Key Points

• Sam’s introspective, self-deprecating voice exposes her inner turmoil about blending families, oddities of twinned intimacy, and inadequacies as a sibling and spouse.
• The episode teems with details of “role confusion”:
  • Sam feels overshadowed by her husband’s serene, perfect family and his twin Lizzie, leading to tension and oversensitivity about their closeness.
  • “To be a Sam, wed to another Sam was hugely embarrassing. But what could be done?” [28:20]
  • Sam’s relationship with her own sisters is full of bickering, competition, imperfections—yet also fierce love and humor.
• Major incident: Sam accidentally kicks Lizzie’s beloved dog, souring family dynamics and creating a sense of moral imbalance.
• Night terror episode: Sam’s husband has a nightmare, the family rallies, and the boundaries between roles blur (“You made an animal sound, Sam. You went someplace wild.” [46:00])
• Efforts at alliance and repair: Sam bonds awkwardly with Lizzie in the pool, revealing vulnerabilities and the legacy of childhood experiences.
  • “After the third or fourth terror… I just started kicking him or pinching…something to jolt him out of it, and then he’d be fine. His usual smiling self.” [54:28]
• Culminates in a fraught, almost allegorical incident at a swimming hole (tossing the dog’s stick over a waterfall), with Sam feeling both out-of-place and, perhaps, finally at peace with the shifting, unsettled roles—sister, wife, outsider.

Notable Quotes

• “If personality was the story of who you’d become, who told you that story in the first place? Your family, Sam thought.” [38:50]
• “I feel like the umbilical cord is already inherently a metaphor.” [41:30]
• “You aren’t fucked up… That’s what’s fucked up.” [42:00]
• On competitiveness: “Who doesn’t love to be loved the most?” (Lizzie, [53:00])
• “Our minds, their power…We don’t have control over these things.” [51:00]

Memorable Moment

• The swimming hole scene: “There was a moment of disbelief before Sam thought to scream after the dog, but her scream meant nothing.…In a matter of seconds, Dottie…was gone too. It all happened so fast.” [59:30]

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5. Actor Interview: Marin Ireland on Sibling Rivalry and Performance

[60:51–62:10]

• “This story is actually one of the most hilarious and also disturbing at the same time stories about siblings that I’ve ever encountered.” [60:56]
• On reading all voices: “It’s easier in some ways to tee up a joke if you’re playing both people.” [61:17]
• Shares personal connection: “I have a half-sister who’s twelve years older than me, so I…had some of each. I had a solo experience as well.” [61:39]
• Finds reading to a live audience immediate and gratifying.

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Episode Takeaways

• Everyone has roles handed down or imposed, but transformation—through empathy, risk, or just chance—is possible.
• Sibling relationships (step/fostered/biological/adopted/twinned) inevitably shape our narratives, producing rivalry—and intimacy—in equal measure.
• Performance, whether on stage, in a marriage, or within a family, is fraught, funny, and full of opportunity for change.
• As Meg Wolitzer concludes:
  • “Some of the roles we play can be like roles in a play. We can change our approach to our parts…or if they’re parts we just don’t want to play, we might just refuse them outright.” [62:12]

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Standout Quotes & Timestamps

• “It is a proud and lonely thing to be an ugly sister. And don’t you forget it.” — Ugly Sister, [05:28]
• “Ugly is a word I’ve dragged behind me all my life. It defines who I am. Without it, what am I?” — Ugly Sister, [20:36]
• “If personality was the story of who you’d become, who told you that story in the first place? Your family, Sam thought.” — Underwater, [38:50]
• “You aren’t fucked up…That's what’s fucked up.” — Sam’s Husband, [42:00]
• “Who doesn’t love to be loved the most?” — Lizzie, [53:00]
• “This story is actually one of the most hilarious and also disturbing at the same time stories about siblings that I’ve ever encountered.” — Marin Ireland, [60:56]

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Final Thoughts

Packed with wit, pathos, and brilliant performances, this episode of Selected Shorts is a rich meditation on identity, family, and the possibility of stepping out of long-held roles—whether you're center stage, or playing “the ugly sister” in the wings.

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Episode Segment Guide:

• Introduction & Theme: [02:00–04:40]
• The Ugly Sister: [04:53–22:36]
• Jane Atkinson Interview: [22:37–24:44]
• Underwater: [27:56–60:41]
• Marin Ireland Interview: [60:51–62:10]
• Closing Reflection: [62:12–end]

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For more, visit selectedshorts.org or listen to the full episode wherever you get your podcasts.

Transcript

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

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Hi, I'm Meg Wolitzer. Before we begin, a quick reminder that Selected Shorts relies on the support of listeners like you. If this show has ever kept you company on a long walk, made sitting in traffic feel like a treat, or given you that sudden, wonderful urge to read more, please consider making a donation. Your support helps us bring great stories to life. Every week you can [e-mail] support. Thank you. The best friend, the boyfriend the stepmother there's comfort in knowing the role you play in others lives. Also, there's fun in imagining that one day you might break out and play some entirely new role completely unknown to you. I'm Meg Wolitzer and coming up on Selected Shorts, fiction about the parts we were born to play and whether or not we can break out of them. Don't go anywhere. You're listening to Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. You're an actor, it's true, even if you aren't auditioning, getting headshots and cold calling Adam Driver's agent There are many roles you play over the course of your life. You're a father, maybe a construction worker, a volunteer librarian, an amateur cook, and a secret swiftie. And these are only the roles you perform over the course of one day. Sometimes the roles we take on don't quite suit us. So they result in uncomfortable performances, the costume doesn't fit, the lines feel terrible coming out of our mouths, and we're always looking for the exit. And then other times we take on a part and it feels entirely natural, like we were born to play it. We can do it day in and day out, and everyone around us comes to associate us with that role. But maybe we ourselves feel a little stuck, and we wonder if we'll ever get the chance to transcend the thing that came so naturally to us. When I first got married, I had a little confusion about the role of married person. What did it mean to be legally joined to someone else, to have a spouse? Suddenly, when I had to fill out forms, I had cause to write my spouse's name down too, whether in some financial context or to list him as my emergency contact. Just as we ourselves had been joined in holy matrimony, we were now joined in paperwork. But he isn't me and I am not him. Don't you know that faceless bureaucracy? In any case, if I wanted to stay married and not run afoul of the law, spouse was a role I'd have to get used to. With this in mind in the next hour, stories about role playing in real life. In one story, a woman in a thankless part just might be seen for who she really is. And in another, a young wife watches the lives of her in laws and reconsiders her own little role. Joanne Harris is an incredibly prolific writer, one with 18 novels under her belt, including Chocolat, Broken Light and her latest van. She's also written nonfiction libretti and even a writer's guide titled 10 Things About Writing. This story is about role playing simultaneously in the theater and in your own life. A double whammy of acting. It was read by the Tony nominated actor Jane Atkinson. Her Broadway productions include Enchanted April and she features in series including 24 and death and Other Details. And now here's the Ugly Sister by Joanne Harris, performed by Jane Atkinson.

[Interviewer/Guest]

Hello, the Ugly Sister. It's not easy being an ugly sister, especially not at Christmas, smack in the middle of the pantomime season with all its glitter and fakery and hissing and booing and tawdry old jokes, plus being spat on by shrieking sticky children with ice cream all over their faces or pelted with flour by a girl in prince's clothing before all going round to Cinderella's ancerama for pie. Ps happy hour after the show. No thank you. Nowadays, of course, we have Trial by Disney, which which is almost as bad Evil becomes ridiculous. Faced with so many pratfalls and flower bombs, there's no dignity left in being a villain. Instead it's just another Christmas crowd in Bolton on Dern or Barnsley Civic hall or featuring third rate soap has beens and some bloke who once appeared on Opportunity knock. But I don't complain. I'm a professional. Not like these fair weather artistes killing time out of season between walk on parts. It is a proud and lonely thing to be an ugly sister. And don't you forget it. We, my sister and I, were born somewhere in Europe. Accounts differ. In any case, no one cares much about our history, or for that matter, what happens to us when the curtain goes down. There's no ever after for an ugly sister, let alone a happy. Our father adored us. Our mother had ambitions like all mothers, to see us settled, preferably a comfortable distance away. Then came tragedy. A fall from his horse killed our indulgent father. Mother remarried to a widower with one daughter. And here the story begins in earnest. You know it, of course. At least you know her version. How the widower died, how we then oppressed the the daughter, the charming waif called Cinders. How we made her skivvy for us and sew for us and cook our enormous meals. How we callously denied her the opportunity to be teen queen at the palace, all night disco, the mice, the dress, the fairy godmother, all that drivel. Yes, I said drivel. That was not the story at all. Oh, she was quite pretty, in a sickly sort of way. Bottle blonde, skinny, as pale and delicate as we were strapping. She did that on purpose. Ate nothing but raw food. Always dressed in black, exercised compulsively. You've never seen such clean floors. Apparently sweeping burns 400 calories an hour, polishing 500. She rarely spoke to us, but listened raptly to the minstrels who came by with their tales of romance and never missed the penny plays every Sunday morning in the village square. Boys liked her, of course, but she wanted a prince. Village boys not good enough for Miss High and Mighty. Of course we hated her. We were both quite ordinary looking. They made us out to be ugly. Later, out of spite, bits of us jiggled when we ran. We had poor complexions and bushy hair that no amount of blow drying could straighten. Mistress Mugarella was toned, sleek, a perfect size 8. Anyone would have hated her. Of course, she always dressed in rags. She was the type. Besides, that raggy look was very in that season, designer rags cost a fortune. You had to Be thin to carry it off. I'd have looked like a pantomime cow. And the shoes. If you had seen the pairs of shoes she had in her wardrobe. Not just white ermine, but crocodile, mink, plexiglass, ostrich, lizard silk and all with six inch heels, well, you just wouldn't have believed it. Have you noticed how history favors the lookers? Henry viii, bad press. Richard Lionheart, good press. Catherine of Aragon, bad press. Anne of Cleves, good press. Court painters have a lot to answer for. And storytellers too. Well, you know the end. She gets the prince, who, by the way, was short, fat and balding. The castle, the gold, the white wedding, the rose petals, the whole shebang. We get the crows happy ever after. But it gets worse. I've already told you, there is no ever after for an ugly sister. Nobody thought to write one, of course. They were too busy swooning over her royal smugness and her perfect tootsies. So what happened to us? Did we vanish? No. What happened is this. We, the Forgotten Sisters, soon became the Ugly Sisters, the Weird Sisters and the Sisters of the Divine Comedy rolled on into legend, picking up blemishes like lint along the way. We skirmished unsuccessfully with Grimm and Perrault. We tried a bit of seduction on Tennyson, but again to no avail. We hoped for better in the 20th century, but as I said, that was when Disney came along. And by then we were ready to sell our souls for a bit of good press. But we're troopers. At least I am nowadays. My sister pays a little too much to the gallery for my taste. You'd always see me here at Christmas, in one theater or another. Face gleaming with grease paint and powdered wig and giant hipped skirt. I like to think there's something noble, almost heroic about my part. A hidden pathos which only the select few will ever see. Most of them aren't watching me anyway. They're watching her, aren't they? La smuggette in her flouncy dress and spangled shoes. When I speak, my lines are usually drowned out by hissing or laughter. But I don't care. I'm a professional. Beneath my grotesque costume, my mask of paint, a mystery awaits. One day, I tell myself, someone will notice me. One day, my prince will come. Last night was Christmas Eve, Best night of the year. Oh, there are shows after that, right until late January. But Christmas Eve is special. After that, the magic runs out. Depression sets in. Everyone feels bloated and sluggish. Audiences dwindle, People forget their lines the show moves away, to Blackpool maybe, or some other out of season resort to molder quietly until next year. Costumes stored in trunks, lights packed onto cases. But now it was Christmas Eve. Everyone was louder, brighter, screamier than usual. The kids were stickier, the prince more camp, the pantomime cow more athletic. The star of the show was sweeter, prettier, daintier, more glittery and fairy like than ever before. Only I felt different. As the last act approached. My head was aching. I wondered fleetingly whether it wouldn't be a good idea to get out of the panto for good, to move away, to retire somewhere out of Europe where I wouldn't be recognized. Fat chance, I thought. There's no escape for an ugly sister. And still the thought persisted. What was wrong with me tonight? I shook my head to clear it, and for the first time in my long career, something caught me by surprise and I almost fluffed my line. There was a man watching me from the stalls, sitting close to the stage, half in shadow. A large, long haired man, shoulders hunched a little under a shaggy gray overcoat, his eyes fixed on me. That was unusual. I mean, more than that, astonishing. It was Cinder's scene, the one where my sister and I primp at the mirror while she sings her mournful song and the animals sit about blacking in sympathy. And yet there was no doubt. I stared a second glance. He was looking at me. Me. I felt my heart give a rejoicing, ridiculous lurch. He was no Prince Charming, that much was obvious. I could see from the grizzled look of his rough hair that he was no longer young. But he looked strong and powerful, and his big eyes beneath the fall of hair were bright and intent. I suddenly felt very conscious of the ridiculous costume I was wearing, the huge bustle, the oversized shoes, the absurdly padded bosom. He thought me amusing, I told myself sternly, that was all. And yet he was not smiling. I was conscious of his eyes on me throughout the rest of the scene. When I came back on stage after Cinder's mawkish duet with her prince, he was waiting for me. Then again in the next and when the flower hit me in the face and the audience screamed with mirth, he alone did not laugh. Instead, I saw him lower his head. As if in sorrow, I thought, at a fine, proud woman brought low, my heart was beating wildly. I raced through the final scene as if in a daze, reciting my lines automatically, my eyes returning incessantly to the face of the man still watching me from the shadows. Not a handsome Face? No, but there was character there, a kind of wild romance. His hands, so large as to be almost pores, looked capable of gentleness. His eyes gleamed. Wedding ring gold. In the darkness I was trembling. All over the last scene came the curtain call. Linking hands, we all came down to the front of the stage for a bow. And as I bent, he stood up and spoke urgently in my ear. Meet me outside, please. I looked around wildly, still half expecting to see some other woman, some more beautiful, more deserving woman, step forward to receive his message. But he was watching me, his gold ringed eyes intent. And as I stared at him, quite forgetting the hot and foolish hand of the actor beside me, I saw him nod, as if in answer to an unspoken question. Me? Yes, you. And then he was gone in the crowd as quickly and silently as a hunter. We took 14 curtain calls and the streamers flew past my head. Confetti fell, flowers were presented to her nibs and the sham Prince Charming. I could see the audience shouting and clapping with a few stray boos and hisses for you know who. But in my head there was a great silence, a great astonishment. It was as if an eye I'd never known about had just opened inside my head. After the curtain, I flung aside my wig and hoop and raced wildly for the stage door, certain that he had gone, that it had been a joke, that he, whoever he was, had already moved on, taking a piece of my heart with him. He was waiting in the alley behind the theater. Neon light from Cinderella's Dancerama across the road torched his hair with gaudy colors. The snow crunched beneath my feet as I ran toward him. He stood head and shoulders above me. Though I am taller than most, for the first time in my life I felt small, delicate. I knew straight away he growled as I entered the circle of his arms. As soon as I saw you up there, just like the stories, just like magic. He was kissing me fiercely as he spoke, nuzzling hungrily against my hair. Come away with me. Come with me now. Leave everything. Take the risk. Me? I whispered, hardly able to breathe. But I. I'm an ugly sister. I've had it with leading ladies. They're all the same. There was a girl once. He stopped, lowering his head as if the memory pained him. I know better now. I've learned to see past their disguises. He paused again and looked at me. Yours too. I clung to him as he spoke, my face and the shaggy gray fur of his coat. I could hear my heart pounding more wildly than before. But I'm. I began again. No. Gently he ran his hand across my face, wiping the grease paint with his fingers. You're not. For a moment I tried to conceive of not being an ugly sister. Ugly is a word I've dragged behind me all my life. It defines who I am. Without it, what am I? The thought made me shiver. The stranger saw my expression. These things are just part of the roles we play, he said. The good, the bad, the ugly. We are heroes too, in our way, the ones of us who crawl away cursing when the curtain goes down. The discarded ones. The ones with no happy ever after. We belong together, you and I. After everything we've endured, we have a right to something of our own. But the story, I said weakly, will write another story. He sounded very certain, very strong. I felt the last of my defenses begin to crumble. Behind us, Cinderella's dance, O Rama, began to thump out of disco beat. Happy hour was beginning. But I don't even know you, I protested. What I meant, of course, was that I did not know myself, that a lifetime of ugly sisterhood had robbed me of all other identity. And for the first time in my life, I felt close to tears. Stranger grinned. He had rather large teeth, but his eyes were kind. Call me Wolfie, he said.

[Announcer/Producer]

That was Jane Atkinson reading the Ugly Sister by Joanne Harris. She performed this tale at a sisters themed evening at Symphony Space, and we asked her about whether she drew on her own experience.

[Interviewer/Guest]

It's a stepsister theme, and it's just that each one of us, as I know because I have sisters, we each have our own version of the story of our lives and who is the hero and who is the villain. So I think that actually speaks to a lot of siblings. There's sibling rivalry and there's sometimes siblings who love each other, and sometimes there are siblings that have a completely different experience and are cast as the villain versus the big beautiful shiny one with that title. Is there a hint of fairy tale to your view? There might be. And what's it like embodying more than one person? It's only two in this case, and I've read books on tape before and I absolutely love it. It's like a one woman show where you get to play everybody. So I really enjoy finding the voice for each person. I actually did the it was Joyce Carol Oates. Was it Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde? I loved it. I tell you what, I had an amazing at one point I actually felt like I was channeling Marilyn Monroe.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

So I love it.

[Interviewer/Guest]

I love doing different voices. I used to read to my sisters when I was little as the oldest, so I would play all the different characters in the story. How many sisters? Two. You're of course, a longtime performer with us.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

What about this audience is special?

[Interviewer/Guest]

Oh, well, always. The audiences that come to hear these stories are so appreciative and they're some of the best audiences that I've had because they really come wanting to listen, learn about the author, learn about new short stories and enjoy themselves. So I love them.

[Announcer/Producer]

That was Jane Atkinson backstage at Symphony Space. When we return, imposter syndrome Amid your in laws. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

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[Announcer/Producer]

Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. Hello, I'm Meg Wolitzer. This show is an exploration of the roles we play and whether or not we can transcend them. Maybe you want to transcend the standard listening experience and enjoy these performances up close. If so, consider joining us for Selected Shorts in person if you're in or near New York City. All of our actors are recorded in performance at Symphony Space. If you're elsewhere in the United States, Shorts is regularly on tour. Just go to selectedshorts.org and click the On Tour tab to find out how close we come to your home. You've just heard some great short fiction. Now it's your turn. It's time for the 2026 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize. We're very excited that this year's guest judge is one of Shorts favorite funny mainstays Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in of spite spring 2026 and published on Electric Literature. The winning writer will receive $1,000 and a free 10 week course with Gotham writers. You have until March 6th to submit your story, which you can do by going to selectedshorts.org and scrolling to the bottom of the page. We can't wait to read your submission. Next, a story by Hannah Kingsley Ma. She's a Brooklyn based writer and producer whose work has appeared in outlets including the New York Times, the Believer, and others. This piece about other people's dogs, siblings, and vacations was published in the Drift. Reading it is Marin Ireland. She's a theater stalwart who has appeared in Broadway productions, including Reasons to Be Pretty, in a role that earned her a Tony nomination. Her recent credits include the movie adaptation of Ottessa, Moshfegh's Eileen, and the Apple TV series Dope Thief. And now Marin Ireland reads Hannah Kingsley Ma's story Underwater.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

Underwater. What a pool it was, Sam thought, a special kind of pool. Very cold and salty. There was no chlorine in it, all saline. She took that to mean they were basically bathing, treating their various open wounds. She had been on vacation with her husband's family for exactly two days. A well bred dog, genetically modified to have the personality of a teddy bear, pawed at the water, hesitantly struck with the expression of someone who has either witnessed or committed a crime. The previous night this same dog, Dottie, had been seized by an urge to hump one of Sam's Crocs, still affixed to her foot, and she had stood there frozen until her husband, also named Sam, kindly suggested she kick it to the side. So she had kicked the dog in front of the entire family, and the dog had issued a sharp and plaintive yelp. Sam had profusely apologized again and again and again, but no one present could get the sound of hurt out of their mind. I can't believe you told me to do that, sam wailed at her husband once they were alone. I didn't tell you to do that. I meant kick off the shoe. I didn't know. I had to clarify not to kick the dog. I kicked the dog, sam said mournfully. You did, he confirmed. To be a Sam, wed to another Sam was hugely embarrassing. But what could be done? Sometimes you just made an asshole out of yourself, falling in love with someone with the exact same name. Sam, said the judge who married them. Do you take Sam to blah blah blah? Everybody laughed. Everybody except Sam's mother. She did not think the sameness was funny and had in fact suggested that Sam take legal action. What do you mean? Said Sam. Change yours, said your mother. Otherwise it will make your mail too confusing. Change it to what? Asked Sam. What about Naomi? Naomi's a nice name. Then why didn't you name me that back when you had the chance. I didn't think of it then. Things change. Her mother wasn't entirely wrong. The problem with the matching names was that Sam's husband already had a twin, the owner of the genetically superior dog. The twins name was Lizzie, a name that Sam found undignified for an adult. But Lizzie was modern, shiny even, a woman in control of her own image. Not daftly pretty, but beautiful. Hers was an anxious, odorless kind of beauty, quietly protected. By what means and at what cost? Sam couldn't tell, even after all these years. But she detected a hardened effort in Lizzie's looks. This fascinated Sam as much as it threatened her. Every now and then Sam was suddenly beautiful, but on those days she felt that she had simply grabbed her attractiveness out of the sky like loose bills in a radio contest. Sam kept these thoughts private, ashamed of the underground river of jealousy that every now and then threatened to sweep her away. Seeing her husband and his twin sister interact made Sam feel insane. She wasn't sure whether she was perverted or they were. Which would be worse if Sam was imagining a psychosexual dynamic that didn't actually exist, or if her husband was cultivating an intensely subtle psychosexual dynamic with his sibling that only Sam was was smart and incisive enough to pick up on. She feared that the odds were against her being a perceptive genius. After all, she had grown up in a single sex household. She had three sisters. A fact that others could convincingly argue had deformed her in more ways than she'd ever be aware of. But the whole business of twins, she thought, was nothing short of witchcraft. What had they been doing while they were in there? Swapping amniotic fluid in the womb? Getting wasted and doing backflips whenever their mother ate maple syrup? Sam didn't like to think about it. Sam wasn't proud of the way she acted when Lizzie was around. In the presence of her sister in law, Sam stomped about with an explorer's swagger, sticking her flag wherever she could. She employed the royal We. She spoke loudly and sympathetically of her husband's small struggles, as if she was taking an oral exam on his emotional well being. Look how well I know him, she seemed to be saying. Look how well I care for him. The vacation with the Woodruffs twin sister Lizzie, parents Hugh and Elaine, a few rogue cousins, was controversial in Sam's own family. Her three sisters filed a formal complaint. An ethics board was assembled. A verdict reached. Sam was showing preferential treatment by taking time off work to attend this vacation. Instead of one with them. You like them better than us, her sister Sarah had accused one day when they were watching Sarah's toddler, Arthur, at the playground. Sarah was the oldest and Sam was third in line, the undecided middle. Look at him, sarah added, jabbing her finger toward her son, who sat dumbly in a patch of sand. Look at how much older he already is. You're missing it. I'm not missing it, said Sam firmly. I'm right here. I'm with your son all the time. God forbid I spend some time with Sam's family, which, don't forget, is a million times more normal than ours. They spoil you, said Sarah, her arms crossed in displeasure. What's wrong with that? I don't ask them to. Well, I spoil you too, said Sarah. You don't say thank you. Then you pretend like it's so special when they treat you to something. Because they don't make me feel bad about it, cried Sam. I don't make you feel bad about it, Sarah cried back. You don't even like me, sarah reminded Sam. So much could be said for Sam's sisters. They had spirited dialogue, good jokes, grew up eating dinner at the dinner table. Relatively minimal inherited trauma, zero stints in rehab. Only one had been divorced, and that had really been for the best. But under no circumstance did they ever go with the flow. In fact, they were salmon, out to spawn, swimming upstream, mouths open, gulping. When Sarah gave birth to Arthur, Sam and Maya and Allison had stood around his crib, looking at his tiny anatomy and reassured one another that gender wasn't real. Sarah, initially apprehensive at the news of his assigned sex, had announced, with the sudden confidence of a conservative pundit, that she was a boy. Mom, gross, sam had whispered to Maya. She wants to kiss him on the mouth. Stop, maya had said. The other sisters had tried to protect Arthur from the UV rays of boyhood, but somehow it had crept under doorways and through slatted windows. Sam found herself reading to an eager audience of one usually library books about giant monster trucks dumping their big filthy loads. She and Sarah were driving back from the grocery store, Arthur yawning in the backseat, when Sam had asked Sarah if he had said anything funny. Recently, said Sarah, he said he wanted to saw my legs in half. Excuse me? Asked Sam. He wanted to saw my legs in half, she whispered. Where did he learn about that? I don't know. But then he said that after he s a w e d me, he wanted to put me on the back of a flatbed truck drive Me into a tunnel underneath the water and cover me in cement. Damn. What did you say? I said that might hurt Mommy's feelings. Sarah had warned her three sisters that Arthur was his own person, made in his own image. It was as if she knew the dark thoughts brewing in her sisters minds. That they could change him if they wanted to. That they could press down upon him and make him into a shape all their own. Arthur was who he was, who he wanted to be, Sarah said, even if it meant his sawing off her own two legs. The house Sam's husband's parents had rented was an elegant big windowed cottage in the Berkshires. Every morning Sam swam in the pool with her husband and Lizzie while the air was still and full of birdsong. At the end of every evening, Lizzie parted her dog's hair. The dog had hair, not fur, signaling once more its genetic superiority to search for ticks. Sam did the same for Sam and vice versa. Everybody groomed each other like a bunch of chimps. This was the stuff of a real family vacation. Yes, they were surrounded by the threat of crippling tick borne disease, but they weren't afraid. Simply mindful, practical. The truth was that Sam liked to go on vacation with her in laws because her husband relaxed into him, himself, around them she could almost see it, his whole body going slack. He was cheerful to begin with, but out in the world he could be mistaken for a serious person. Around his family a simpler genial humor descended on him. Didn't the opposite happen in most families? In normal families weren't you supposed to have your hackles raised? The conversations veering inexorably toward wounding, the cracks of conflict widening into chasms. That was family. That was love. It was supposed to be hard. It was hard between Sam and Sam. After all, from the outside their relationship had moved smoothly, as if guided by wheels. A couple of years dating, a couple more living together, and then the proposal on a rare overseas vacation. And yet Sam often felt the hard edge of contrast between them. Their expectations, their reactions. Sometimes in an argument she could see them wallowing in their respective personalities. Her charging into battle, him cowering. In these moments she felt the desire to slap her chest and shout, fight me bitch. If personality was the story of who you'd become, who told you that story in the first place? Your family, Sam thought. These people had steamrolled a path before Sam and Sam. And now whenever they considered making a family of their own, they found themselves walking down it as if it were the only available road. Sam wondered if her husband's family had figured out something no one else in the world had. Or if they were just supremely in denial about their own dysfunction. In her mind, she had always associated closeness with a certain level of difficulty. And yet here were these twins, all tangled up in one another, the proverbial umbilical cord wrapped around both their necks, and they didn't seem to be vexed in the slightest. Once Sam had practiced this theory on her husband, and he had replied matter of factly, no, we had our own umbilical cord cords. Twins don't share one. I meant it metaphorically, she said. I feel like the umbilical cord is already inherently a metaphor, he said. A direct line to your mother that gives you all the nutrients you need. Blood, oxygen, life. I'm dictating the metaphors here, said Sam. Right, said her husband smoothly, burrowing his head into Sam's hair. What's a new way to say that my sister and I are fucked up? You aren't fucked up, said Sam, pushing him away as he reached for her. That's what's fucked up. Usually, Sam loved how affectionate her husband was. He touched her whenever he could her dangling foot, her roughened elbow. This could be sensual, but sometimes he reached for her breasts with an eagerness that made the dreaded phrase echo in her head. Boy, Mom. Historically, Sam had loved the part of dating someone when you first dug into the family stuff. It was like a vintage store full of garbage and one priceless purse. When meeting someone new, she always led with the fact of her sisters. She thought it made her sparkle. All those women. As if she had invented the concept of sisterhood. She didn't want to be competitive, but she had felt a little upstaged when Sam first told her he had a twin. A twin brother? Sam had asked. No, said her future husband. Sister. Wow. What's that like? What do you mean? To have a sister when you're a brother. Isn't any kind of way. I think it all depends on who those two people are. You know, I would think that it's kind of like having a mother. Wife. Um, no, said her future husband. It's really nothing like that. We shall see, thought Sam. We shall see. One evening, Sam and the Woodruffs were lingering over a perfect summer meal, and the twins were reminiscing about their last trip to the Berkshires, back when they were in college. Oh, God, said Lizzie. That was when I was dating Ben. I liked Ben, said Sam. He was a nice guy. He wasn't that nice, lizzie corrected. You always think My boyfriends are nice. Maybe you have good taste in men, said Sam. I obviously don't, said Lizzie. I'll never forget you telling me about the way he kissed, said Sam. You mean badly, said Lizzie. You said it was somehow both too wet and also too dry. Both, said Lizzie. Sam fidgeted in her seat while her sister in law spoke. How is that even possible? She asked. He was a magician, her husband said. A magic man. Too wet and too dry. Enough, said his mother. I'm losing my appetite. We've already eaten, lizzie noted. Maybe it was your fault, said her brother. Impossible, said Lizzie. I'm a good kisser. I've been told that before. That same evening, Sam felt possessed to ask her husband. Am I a good kisser? He laughed. She tugged at his waistband. But he claimed he was sleepy. And maybe he was. He fell asleep instantly, into the kind of deep, unbothered sleep that only the well adjusted can achieve. Sam, agitated, read until it was late, listening to the soft huff of his snores. And then suddenly her husband was sitting up. He began to scream. He screamed and screamed and screamed. The sound activated the whole house. Everyone ran in, one after the other. Lizzie, Elaine, Hugh, the dog. Their urgency was almost cartoonish. Hugh had a golf club in his closed fist. Sam was trying to reach her husband through all the impenetrable screams, screaming, asking him what was wrong. Did something hurt? Who was this rigid, alert man in front of her? Where was the man who had spent all week so relaxed his body seemed nearly liquid? The new Sam's eyes were open but unfocused. He was wearing nothing but boxers. She scanned his body for signs of injury. Sam, said Lizzie. Sam, can you hear me?

[Interviewer/Guest]

Sam?

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

Sam was confused, but his thrashing slowed. He blinked hard and gasped. You're okay, sam said. You're having a night terror. Sam began to paw at his throat, as if he could feel the rawness from the outside. What's that smell? Said Hugh. The room was full of it. Sulfuric springs. Rotten fish. I think it was Dottie, said Sam's mother. I think dogs do that sometimes when they're afraid. Whoa, said Sam. He kept tilting his head back and raising his eyebrows as if he was slowly reinhabiting his body. That was crazy. Sorry, guys. What happened? Asked Sam. That was horrible. You were in pain. Weird dream, I guess. I don't even remember. Maybe it's just being in a new place. But I feel fine. Look at dad. Laughed Lizzie with his weapon of choice. Listen, said Hugh, disgruntled, lowering the club to his side at least I didn't express my anal glands. Oh, we scared her, said Lizzie, patting Dottie. The sound you made scared her. You made an animal sound, Sam. You went someplace wild. Sam couldn't fall asleep after all that trouble. She was convinced it would happen again. But her husband slept through the night. Something unnervingly close to a smile stretched across his face. He was still asleep when she woke up and headed toward the saltwater pool. Sam took up residence in one of the lounge chairs, a soggy paperback book by her side, a thriller in which a woman with a cataract turned out to be psychic. She neglected it in favor of her phone, a black gleaming square that sent dire warnings about its own overheating. Lizzie, too, was frequently on her phone. She kept it tucked at her hip as if what she was texting was secret, and she frowned at the screen a lot in careful concentration when she was facing it, whereas Sam had the unfortunate habit of grinning whenever a message or notification came through, so that people frequently asked what she was smiling about. Nothing, Sam would report glumly. That's just the expression I make when I look at my phone. Sam knew that Lizzie always had some suitor chasing her. The last time Sam had seen her, not so long ago, she'd been dating a man who. Who made expensive bucket hats out of old lampshades. Would he be coming on the trip? Sam had asked her husband. Oh, no, he informed her. That guy was long gone. She's seeing someone new, he said. A woman named Eleanor. Eleanor, said Sam. I think Lizzie's pansexual, her husband said. God, said Sam. Please, it's only 11 in the morning. That's not early. It is always too early to be talking about your pansexual twin. Okay. Do you notice how beautiful she is? Of course I do, he said. I've known her my whole life.

[Interviewer/Guest]

Hmm.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

Sam, do you realize that you're the one making it weird? It's only weird if you acknowledge it being weird. She cried with the unbearable satisfaction of a person proved right. This is the start of a fight, he said. A long and terrible fight. Can't you see that? No, she said. Yes, no, but also yes. She had tried to complain about all of it to her little sister, Maya, but Maya was never sympathetic the way Sam wanted her to be. Tell me again, maya said. What's wrong with them being close? I don't think I can be clearer, said Sam. We're close, said Maya. All you ever do is tell people how close we all are. But it's different. Why Please, it's obvious. It's not. What are you trying to say? I think Sam's right, said Maya. You're the one making it weird. I'm his wife. My God, said Maya. Listen to yourself. She tried her second oldest sister, Allison. Next. Sam could never figure out the time difference between the east coast and France, where Alison had lived for the past five years. Or Sam chose not to. She called in the early evening, long past midnight, for Allison. What? Said Allison sleepily. Is something wrong? Why are you calling to chat? Said Sam defensively. Yeah, said Alison. But it's late. It's not my fault that you live in France. It is my fault, said Alison. Correct. It is your fault. Okay, said Alison. Proceed. Sam laid out her case, all the evidence she had gathered. Sam? Said Allison. Yes? Said Sam. It's you. Wrong. You got it twisted, said Allison. You need to check in with yourself. I'm checking in all the time. Why do you do this? It's like with our baby. The sisters always referred to Arthur as our baby. What do I do with our baby? Asked Sam. The way you gender things. You think all boys and girls kiss on the mouth. You say things like kiss on the mouth. I don't. You know how I know you're sick? Said Allison.

[Interviewer/Guest]

How?

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

You married someone with the same name. We don't have control over these things, said Sam. Our minds, their power. Okay, Lizzie's pansexual, said Sam. So? I just mean I'm open minded. You're not, said Allison. It's actually one of your words. Worst qualities. I can't listen to you, said Sam. You live in France. Twins. Probably kiss on the mouth there, too. Do they kiss on the mouth, Sam and Lizzie? Metaphorically speaking. Goodbye, said Alison. Bon nut, said Sam. Nui, said Alison. Over the years, Sam had figured out how to court Lizzie, just as she had figured out how to court her husband. She was careful to remember all the small grievances Lizzie held against her parents. And to affirm Lizzie's retelling of collective memories, she had agreed to let Lizzie officiate her wedding with her own sisters, the people she felt actually close to. It looked different. There was something so ancient in the way they collided. Cave wall painting ancient. What if, Sam's husband once ventured. What if. What if what? She said, her eyes slits. What if it's the four of you, the weird ones. The way you fight isn't normal, is it, Sam? Said Sam. Okay, said Sam. The conversation ended there. People feared them, the collateral damage they were capable of inflicting. Like a Windstorm. Someone blowing down your whole damn house. Normally, on a vacation with the Woodruffs, Sam would have stayed near her husband, slinking off with him when she thought no one would notice. But that wasn't going to cut it this time. Sam had kicked Lizzie's dog that first night, and though it was an accident, a karmic stench seemed to trail the act. Lizzie loved her dog with the ferocity of someone who had a dog. She loved her dog very, very, very much. So Sam tried extra hard with Lizzie in the days that followed. Let's take a stroll in the pool, she said the morning after Sam's episode. Just the two of us, said Lizzie brightly. Yes, Sam's still sleeping. The screams off. Okay, said Lizzy. That sounds nice. They lowered themselves into the pool, their shoulders up by their necks and their little T. Rex arms at their sides, easing into the chill as they moved toward the deep end. Dottie ran along the perimeter of the pool, anxiously barking, her tail wagging. Just get in, said Lizzie, patting the surface with her hand. With each splash, Dottie barked louder. She wants to be near me, explained Lizzy. She's obsessed with me. That must feel good, said Sam. Sure, laughed Lizzie. Who doesn't love to be loved the most? A small inflatable raft drifted past them. Sam helped Lizzie position it right up against the lip of the pool, and Dottie tentatively eased her weight onto it. The effort caused the raft to cleave from the cold concrete, and now the dog was fully marooned, an island unto herself. She let out bewildered yelps, silenced only by Lizzie's steady hand guiding the raft. Finally the dog could take the uneasy motion no longer and fell sideways into the water. She paddled furiously, her head craning desperately above the wobbling surface. Oh, please, said Lizzie as the dog clambered up the pool steps and gave herself a hearty shake. What a drama queen. You know how to swim the Night Terror? Said Sam cautiously, once calm had been restored. I've never seen Sam like that. He used to get them occasionally when we were kids, said Lizzie. It's like what happened to you as a child. But I know everything that happened to him as a child. And the worst thing was, one time our parents said he couldn't go to Six Flags because our step grandpa died. What would you do when he screamed like that? Sam asked. Well, the first time it scared the living shit out of me. We had our own rooms, but we never slept in them. I would go to his room or he would come to mine. That's so Sweet, sam lied. After the third or fourth terror, Lizzie said, I just started kicking him or pinching. Once I even bit him. Something to jolt him out of it, and then he'd be fine. His usual smiling self. What a freak, said Sam. Lizzy shrugged. The water stilled between them. That's just like him, isn't it? Said Sam. To wake up in the middle of the night screaming and then two seconds later, just pretend it never happened. That man wouldn't know his own feelings if they slapped him across the face. I guess that's what we're for. I think he'd do okay without us, said Lizzie coolly. Sam's husband emerged from the back patio, his face streaky with sunscreen. He must have applied it himself, a fate he was unaccustomed to. Someone was always reaching out to rub him, as if racing to do the honors. Sam thought back through the six years she'd known the Woodruffs. Had she heard even one of them breathe a bad word about her husband? They might have rolled their eyes at him every once in a while. But nothing beyond that. No combat. It bothered her like the pale scrim of sunscreen on her husband's face. He bent down at the edge of the deep end, hovering over the two of them as they treaded water like a pair of gigantic ducklings. Sam looped her hand around the hard egg of her husband's ankle. He staggered back to escape it, nearly stepping on Lizzie's dog, who skittered toward the grass. Don't worry, said Sam as her husband loosened himself from her grip. I wasn't going to pull you in. The last outing of the trip was to a swimming hole that a second cousin had recommended. It was a relief to leave the rental house. Like all worthy swimming holes, this one required some light trespassing. They parked at the end of a private road and set off, Dottie running two steps ahead regularly throwing her head back to make sure they were behind her. Sam could hear the distant echoes of other bathers, a hollow yelp from the top of a tall rock, the crash of a body as it hit the water. After a few minutes, they emerged at the top of a small waterfall. The water was green and scummy at the edges. Teenagers sunned themselves on the nearby granite shelf. Sam shimmied out of her shorts and into the water, which smelled faintly of runoff, but she didn't mind. She crawled to the ledge where the water cascaded down. There were rocks underneath, the current pulling tight around them. Sam's husband swam toward her, with Lizzie behind him and the three of them raised their voices to be heard over all the rushing water. Dottie, swept up in the feeling of the afternoon, approached with her tail wagging, a waterlogged stick hanging sideways out of her mouth. Sam's husband threw it a couple of feet and she swam after it, bringing it back. Sam herself threw it next. She had terrible aim. The stick landed right at the edge of the waterfall, then quickly sailed over. There was a moment of disbelief before Sam thought to scream after the dog, but her scream meant nothing. In a matter of seconds, Dottie, blinking and paddling, was gone too. It all happened so fast. Sam and Lizzie's parents were standing up, their books abandoned, craning their necks, trying to look downstream, shouting after Dottie. Sam spun around with a splash and came face to face with her husband and his twin. They were clutching one another, sobbing. Quiet then, and too much of it, just the sound of the water as they all strained to listen. But wait. Couldn't Sam hear it? She thought she did. A twilight barking, equal parts joy and apprehension. Maybe that dog had gotten free. Maybe that dog was running right back. Couldn't her husband hear it too? Didn't he know what was coming, to whom this dog belonged? The current was strong enough that if Sam wasn't careful, she would lose her footing. She bent down to readjust her stance, then righted herself.

[Announcer/Producer]

That was underwater. By Hannah Kingsley Ma Performed by Marin Ireland I'm Meg Wolitzer. We spoke with Ireland backstage about this story and sibling relationships.

[Interviewer/Guest]

How do you feel? The story exemplifies the theme of sibling rivalry.

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

I think that this story is actually one of the most hilarious and also disturbing at the same time stories about siblings that I've ever encountered. I think it's good that it's last one because it definitely takes a lot of twists and turns through your emotional life. It's sort of letting us into a lot of people's inner voices that they should never say out loud. I do a lot of audiobooks, so I get. I'm a little used to playing multiple parts and it's actually, you know, it's easier in some ways to tee up a joke if you're playing both people. But I think it also, for the purposes of tonight, it certainly helps because it really puts everybody into the same headspace and the same vocal register.

[Interviewer/Guest]

And are you drawing on any personal experience?

[Narrator/Host (Meg Wolitzer)]

I have a half sister who's 12 years older than me, so I sort of had an experience of being a bit of an only child. She left home when I was little So I had some of each. I had some of each. I feel I had a solo experience as well. What's it like just reading to an audience? I love it. I really do. I mean, when I'm doing audiobooks in particular, I always imagine the viewer at home and listening. And my sister listens to a lot of my audiobooks. And so to actually read live to people, it's very gratifying.

[Announcer/Producer]

That was reader Marin Ireland, backstage at Symphony Space. In this story, Sam, our narrator, not her husband, has a time juggling all of her roles. Wife, sister in law, girl. I think we can all relate and yet still manage to avoid reenacting Sam's most nervy role, antagonizer of pets. Because after all, some of the roles we play can be like roles in. In a play. We can change our approach to our parts. We can try on new roles, enjoy a couple of public performances and abandon them. Or if they're parts we just don't want to play, we might just refuse them outright. As to my own life as a newlywed, I did get used to my role as a spouse and all the paperwork that goes with it. Yes, the trail of marriage follows you from the altar all the way to the DMV and beyond. But to tell the truth, I no longer mind at all as to my next role, whatever it is. Let's table that discussion for next time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs, presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles, are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Art of with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.