THE COP'S DAUGHTER IS MY DOPPELGÄNGER REEM RIZK
2023

The cop's daughter is my doppelgänger. He shows me her picture soon after the recording stops. As if I am famous, he runs for me inbetween the interrogation room and the triage. Nervously approaching with I know this is weird… as if he is my groupie, or as if he is scared of breaking a law. But the resemblance is uncanny.

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I stop. I look. I genuinely say something along the lines of: oh wow. Most of the time, when someone claims to know my doppelgänger, I am shown curly hair, caramel skin, and mouldy eyes. But this time is different. I have trouble remembering faces. I think she was wearing purple. I think she had a blonde streak in her hair, because I remember either saying or planning to say I did that to my hair last year. I learn more about my doppelgänger. She graduated a year before me. My school was her second choice, and her school was my first. He tells me it felt surreal to have me describe it all. His daughter will be hugged extra tight on Friday evening. She lives on campus, he explains, but she comes home on the weekends to do laundry.

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His partner asks what I was wearing. They have to ask, and I understand. I show them a picture on my phone. The officer describes my outfit aloud for the sake of the digital record’s gaze. 

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A friend of mine takes Psychology 101 and it’s become her entire personality. If therapy was less costly in both ego and finances I could afford to be peeved by this. I tell her that I have trouble remembering faces. She cites the graphic of a red apple and tells me the lack of a mind’s eye is called aphantasia. I think he was around 5’7, I count on my fingers, or maybe six foot, I was wearing five-inch shoes and I only remember the fact that he was my height. I don’t know which height my memory is referencing, sorry. They look at me the same way they did while emphasising the mini in mini skirt. I remember his uniform. My peer psychologist asks me questions about my blind mind’s eye all the time now. I have a picture of his elbow, and I think he was bald. No. I know he was bald. 

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More confidently than his physique I know what is to come next. Police stations all look the same. They have you wait six hours. They have to ask you what you were wearing. They look at you as if to say this won't go over well as soon as you answer. They say don't walk home alone in the dark and release you at nine pm. They call you two weeks later. They tell you that it won’t go in your favour. I banter on the phone and say don’t worry, I’m an experienced realist. And then it is over.

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My doppelgänger’s father chases after me and offers a ride home. He says that this session was uniquely difficult for him to hear. I remember either thinking or planning to think: and what if I didn't look like her? When I walk home it is dark out, I can still see it when I shut my eyes.