Chapter One
I Was a Secret From the Past
Would I ever find my sister?
The familiar sensation returned, and I tried resisting the surge of self-consciousness coloring my cheeks. It often hovers at times of uncertainty, my weathered tattoo of disgrace.
Should I call? I’d already tapped the first of the falling dominoes– it wasn’t like I could take it back. I picked up our home office phone but set it back down. What would I say? “Hi, are you my sister?”
When I was around nine, Mom revealed I had a half-sister somewhere out there. She was vague at first, offering broken bits and pieces suitable to my age. At last, when I was seventeen, Mom sat me down and bared the whole story.
Mom was 19 years old on that Friday– it was the July 4th weekend of 1971. Mom had gone in for a check-up because she wasn’t feeling well. Doc Good delivered the news of her pregnancy, along with his recommendation of abortion.
“You’re young and unmarried,” he said. “That’s not any kind of situation for a baby.”
Mom’s mind whirled, questions without answers bouncing before her. What would her father say? And her boyfriend, Tom? What if she were carrying twins?
Her mother had carried three sets of twins. Mom and Nancy were the only set having survived birth. How could she abort this child when her mother had fought so hard to keep her own babies alive?
Mom walked out of the examination room, bracing herself for the decision in front of her. Mom’s twin, Nancy, was waiting in the reception area.
As soon as their eyes met, Mom lost her composure. They sat side by side on the vinyl burnt-orange couch, Nancy holding Mom’s hand. “Linda, you’re going to be okay,” she said. “We’ll get through this; I’m here for you.”
The two twins’ personalities and appearance were such clear contradictions that people never imagined them sisters, let alone twins. Mom, with her tan complexion and deep brown eyes, took after their French-Canadian mother. Her long ironed-straight black hair fell to the middle of her back, overtaking her petite frame.
Nancy, with her short blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion, resembled their European father. She also stood a good five inches taller than Mom. And, being a wise soul by nature, Nancy was ever protective of Mom. They were eternal constants to one another.
Their short drive home from the clinic was silent, aside from Rod Stewart’s Maggie Mae on the radio. Unwanted tears trickled down Mom’s cheeks, and Nancy grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze.
They sat in the driveway, not sure of the next move. Unable to make any sort of decision, they threw some clothes in a bag and started for the family cabin, a three-hour drive.
For Mom, the familiar route to the north woods of Minnesota evoked a longing for the simplicity of her childhood. Of summers long past when the family of seven had climbed in their olive-green Desoto for weekend getaways.
Without fail, they’d leave at 5:15 on the nose on those long-ago Fridays. Tuna fish and pickle sandwiches packed, the twins would wait on the steps for their father to get home from work.
The cabin was a straight shot, but their father took the roundabout way to pursue his favorite watering holes. Mom and Nancy would order orange soda pop and pretzels while the adults toasted with longstanding friends.
Their father often wound tight from a hard day’s work at the railroad loosened with each stop. They all knew by the third tavern, designated the Chicken Roost; he’d burst into song– Dean Martin’s Tiny Bubbles to be exact. He’d grab one of his girls, twirling them around, singing and dancing to the melody.
For the past two years, however, the cabin had been sitting unused. Empty and alone.
