I Was a Secret From the Past

Would I ever find my sister?

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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, I’m your sister– the buried shame who’s about to destroy the image you hold of your father. Thrilled to meet you.”

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.

When Mom was seventeen, she and her own mother had gotten into a meaningless spat about one thing or another. Mom left the house in anger, huffing all the way to her job.

Hours later, she returned home to an ambulance in the driveway, her mother on the stretcher. Dead of a heart attack at fifty-six.

Mom carried her mother’s death with great heaviness for all the years that followed, feeling responsible for bringing it on. The heaviness was only made worse by the fact that she never had the chance to say she was sorry, to tell her mother how much she meant.

Now, Mom’s family of seven was one short, the glue cementing them forever gone. My mother’s father was lost in his own grief, unable to fulfill his parental role.

After his wife’s death, he used the family cabin as a temporary hideaway. Isolated, he hid from the world, drowning himself in alcohol and despair.

Eventually, he rented his own apartment back in the Twin Cities, leaving all the siblings– Mom and Nancy at seventeen, were the youngest– in the family home. He said it was too hard to be in the house without their mother, too many memories, and he couldn’t move on.

Their oldest sister was already married with three little ones, and they lived on their own. Mom’s two older brothers both held full-time jobs and still lived in the house.

The oldest brother purchased the family home from their father, allowing the siblings to remain somewhat intact. They clung to one another through the forced changes that followed their mother’s death.

Not long after Mom lost her mother, she met Tom at the 100 Twin Drive Inn. Mom worked in the concession stand, and Tom was an usher. Tom’s mother had also recently died– in her case, from walking pneumonia at age 38.

The romance between Mom and Tom grew, a cherished, kindred bond that continued throughout Tom’s enlistment in the Marines. A few years later, upon his return, Tom had an insatiable and unexplainable desire to be married. Undecided and only nineteen, Mom felt it was too soon, too rushed.

Tom didn’t take Mom’s resistance well and broke off their relationship. Before Mom had a fighting chance, Tom proposed to another, intent on marriage.

And married he became. Mom’s heart, however, never faltered.

For reasons known only to them, Tom and Mom never stopped seeing one another, rendezvousing at every chance. Mom never viewed herself as the other woman. No, Tom was the love of her life, regardless of his acquired marital status.

When Mom and Nancy arrived at the small white lake cabin, they sat in the car, slow to get out. They hadn’t driven down that pebbled road lined with pines since losing their mother.

The tulips their mother planted every year were missing, the flower bed by the front door barren. The tall birch trees still held the light blue birdhouse they’d once painted.

Across the road, they saw the brown house belonging to Chuck and Helen, their mom and dad’s best friends. The two families had both bought their land across the street from one another so that they could retire next to each other one day.

Mom and Nancy unlocked the cabin’s front door and entered with hesitation, the musty smells inside overpowering them. They set their overnight bags down on the round wooden table.

Mom went into the bedroom and touched the multi-colored quilt her mother had made; the corners swaddled and snug under the bed.

The familiar hum from the empty pale-yellow refrigerator was somehow soothing, as though reassuring the twins that all was well. But it wasn’t.

Dust was everywhere; a thick layer covered the kitchen windowsill. A daddy longlegs crawled to its corner. The cabin brought forth memories that Mom and Nancy thought they had tucked away.

Their mother’s presence was scattered throughout the rooms, a bittersweet reminder of how special and gone she was.

The twins spent the weekend remembering, re-experiencing their grief. They attempted to put a plan in front of them– to come to a decision regarding Mom’s pregnancy.

The one resolution they agreed on was Tom’s need and right to know. For now, that was all they could manage. Drained from an emotional holiday weekend, they made the long drive back on Sunday.

Soon after Mom and her sister arrived back home from the cabin, there came a knock on their front door. Mom looked out the picture window and saw Glen, Tom’s best friend, standing on the steps. He wore white coveralls, his work uniform.

Glen also worked as an usher at the drive-in; he was a member of their inseparable gang. But on this day, Mom was taken aback by Glen’s unusual demeanor: face splotchy, shoulders slumped, hands deep in his pockets. She opened the front door.

Despite Mom’s sense that something was wrong, she feigned normalcy, as though it might make the likelihood of wrongness less true. “Hi Glen, what’s going on?”

Glen sighed long and drawn out. “Linda, I have something to tell you.”

The hairs on Mom’s arms raised. Glen wouldn’t look at her.

“Glen, why are you acting so strange? What’s wrong?”

“There is no easy way to say this.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but Mom’s eyes. “Tom had an epileptic seizure, and his lungs collapsed. There was nothing they could do.”

Her mouth half-open, words unable to come, Mom placed her hands on her stomach, reminding herself of the unborn child she shared with Tom.

She waited for the punchline, hoping this was one of Glen’s foolish pranks. But instead, he held her tight.

A cruel flashback replayed, mirroring the heartache of her mother’s death. Mom felt betrayed by God, twice abandoned.

Mom went to the Catholic funeral Mass, dragging herself up the concrete steps, leaning on her best friend. Sobbing, she took her place in the back pew. In the first row, my father’s wife was surrounded by Tom’s family and loved ones.

Tom’s wife was crying. His widow was soothing her six-month pregnant belly protruding under her black dress while Mom’s hand rested on her own stomach, the child growing within.

The priest spoke, but Mom struggled to register his words. Her arms hung limp as she leaned on her friends. Mom wanted to tell Tom’s family how much he had meant to her. She wanted them to know that she and their unborn child mattered too.

The church evoked images of her mother’s funeral. Of her confirmation, when she chose St. Frances as her patron saint, a significance she no longer felt.

She chose not to receive Holy Communion. Instead, Mom’s mind solidified in that church. She resolved then and there to hold onto me, the one-piece she had left of him.

My daughter opened the French doors to my home office, peeked her head in, and asked if I was coming up to bed. Startled but quick to smile, I told her I’d be up in a bit.

The floor-to-ceiling shelves were double-stacked with books- a smorgasbord ranging from personal development, cooking, yoga, parenting, nutrition, and natural living.

Cabinets were overstuffed with paperwork from my husband’s business. Filing was my least favorite chore and always on the to-do list.

Hours upon hours’ worth of our kids’ Lego creations, along with their photographs in an array of rustic wooden frames were scattered about. A lifetime of cherished memories swathed this room. I sank deeper in my worn black leather chair.

It was now or never. I couldn’t believe this was happening. After years upon years of dead ends, I’d stumbled upon a probable relation of my sister– my sister, Tom’s widow’s child– through Ancestry.com.

I emailed the relation and gave the short version of the story, telling her I was looking for Tom’s daughter. The relation emailed back and said she’d contact her with the information I’d provided and get back to me if this person was in fact my sister.

She was.

I received an email from my sister soon after my exchange with the relation took place, an email that included her phone number and an invitation to talk– if I wanted. I did. How could I not?

Yet, here I sat.

Unlike my sister, I’d had years to process this quandary. How would she react? Would she care to know who I was or see me as an outcome and source of shame?

Finding courage, I picked up the receiver and dialed my sister’s number before I could change my mind.

Her voice was kind, soft-spoken. I made an awkward joke about our situation. She laughed. I confessed my hesitation in contacting her, not sure of her reaction.

I told her I understood the great difficulty of the circumstances, that I could appreciate if she wanted nothing more than answers from me. I’d respect her wishes either way.

I revealed Mom’s story. How Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge over troubled water made Mom cry, even to this day. It was their song. How she still kept a memory box near her bed filled with his letters along with the furry brown stuffed bear he’d won for her. How she always ended up staying home on the July fourth weekend, regardless of planned events.

She told me the little she knew of our father. He had two brothers, he was a marine and an aspiring chef.

I’d always wondered if her mother knew about Mom, and I was finally able to ask.

She had not known or at least had never told my sister. My sister’s mother had moved to northern Minnesota right after Tom’s funeral. She’d had a terrible time getting over him, but she did eventually remarry.

Sharing our personal stories, looking for parallels to somehow confirm our origin, we found likeness. We spoke as though we’d known each other for years, revealing our quirks, comparing our childhoods, attempting to find answers to our endless questions.

The connection was joyful. We talked about our kids and how excited they’d be to have more cousins. The one apprehension she felt was a concern for her mother.

She didn’t want to hurt her, digging up a deception from the past.

Her mother had loved our father, and his loss was a difficult pain she thought was over and done. My sister felt conflicted.

Confessions from our past, regrets of lost time, and future possibilities filled our three-hour conversation. With reluctance, we finally said goodbye, but only after promising to email each other photos of ourselves the next day so we could see if we looked alike.

After hanging up the phone, I ran up the stairs, three steps at a time. I jumped on the bed and woke my husband. I told him everything, unable to contain my excitement.

I plopped my head on the pillow and told him I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to get to know me.

My husband wrinkled his eyebrows and said, “Of course she does, why wouldn’t she?” We talked a bit more and he went back to bed.

Countless nights I’d envisioned this moment, sleep was not an option.

Early the next morning. I searched for the best picture I could find of myself. I struggled and found fault with each one, that creeping feeling I was still somehow tarnished, stained.

What if she changed her mind? What if I was prettier? What if she was? Did it matter?

I take after my father’s side of the family. Standing at 5’9 with blondish hair and a complexion Mom calls peaches and cream, plus green eyes and full lips, that Mom says are just like his.

I was self-conscious, unsure of what my sister might think of me. Would we look alike? Would my sister resemble my father too? Or her mother? My mind was on a circular loop.

I bit my lip, chose a few pictures, and pressed send.

Early the next morning, I told my kids about the phone call and their newfound cousins. My sister’s family lived just three hours away. My husband suggested we get a hotel for the weekend– just my sister and me, to get to know each other.

I kept checking my email, waiting for her picture. I could hardly wait. The day was filled with bubbliness, possibilities circled through all of our minds. I must have checked my phone at least fifty times throughout the day.

That evening, I played Monopoly with the kids to keep myself busy and distracted. So, it wasn’t until later in bed that uncertainty and doubt finally took over. Was she busy? Having second thoughts? Unsure of what to think, I reminded myself not to let my mind run wild. She might have simply had a busy day.

The next morning, I checked my email sent box. Maybe my message hadn’t gone through? It had. I figured I’d for sure get a response from my sister before the day was over. I wasn’t going to worry too much. I had things to do.

But the daily tasks dragged as I kept checking my inbox in spite of myself, willing my sister’s picture to appear. My mind replayed our conversation again and again. Had I missed something or offended her in some way?

The kids kept asking if she had responded and I realized I should have waited before telling them anything.

That night, my husband asked if she had emailed yet. I shook my head with forced nonchalance. Seeing through me, he said, “Don’t let it bother you. She’s the one missing out. You’ve gone this long without her, and you have a good life.”

I understood what he was saying. It made sense. Still, it didn’t feel so cut and dried.

As reality began sinking in, the heaviness of the bottom-line anchored in.

I tried rationalizing, seeking to understand how difficult her position must be, rather than wallowing in the sense that I wasn’t enough. Sleep was hard to find.

I told the kids the next morning. They put on smiles and said it was okay. My daughter put her hand on my shoulder and smiled softly. I sensed their disappointment but was helpless to take it away.

I never wanted them to experience any form of rejection from this part of my past. I packed everyone up, and we went for root beer floats. I’d braced myself for this possibility. I told myself it shouldn’t hurt.

I wished I could take my pictures back.

Now, five years later, I still reserve hope. Maybe one day it will feel right for my sister to reach out. Or not. I’m no longer searching, waiting for acceptance or absolution from a family that was never mine.

Before calling my sister, I’d upheld the shame, allowing an undignified past to haunt me, as though somehow providing redemption.

In a poetic unveiling, these recent years offered a deeper, slower reflection. They provided the awareness that my way to existence never had the power– or right, to define me.