My twin sister disappeared into the trees behind our house when I was five years old.
My parents were informed by the police that her body had been located, but I never saw a coffin or a grave. There were only decades of silence and a sense that the story was far from ended.
I’m Dorothy, 73, and a small girl named Ella has always been the missing piece in my life.
My twin was named Ella. She vanished when we were five years old.
There was more to us than being “born on the same day” twins. We were twins who shared a bed and a brain. I would cry if she did. She would laugh more loudly if I did. It was she who showed courage. I did the same.
On the day she disappeared, we were staying with our grandma while our parents were at work.
I was ill. Burning throat, feverish. Grandma used a cool washcloth to sit on the edge of my bed.”Just relax, sweetheart,” she urged. “Ella will play quietly.”
Ella was singing while she bounced her red ball against the wall in the corner. I recall the gentle thump and the beginning of the rain outside.
The house wasn’t right when I woke up.
Then nothing.
I slept.
The house wasn’t right when I woke up.
Too silent.
Not a ball. Don’t hum.”Gramma?” I called.
No response.
She hurried in, her face taut and her hair mussed.”Where is Ella?” I inquired.”I think she’s outside,” she said. “You stay in bed, all right?”
She trembled when she spoke.
The back door opened, and I heard it.”Ella!” called Grandma.
The police then arrived.
No response.You come in here immediately, Ella!”
Her voice rose. Then there were frantic, quick footsteps.
I climbed out of bed. The corridor was chilly. Neighbors were at the door by the time I arrived in the front room. Mr. Frank dropped to his knees before me.”Sweetheart, have you seen your sister?” he inquired.
I gave a headshake.Did she converse with strangers?
The police then arrived.
Radios crackling, damp boots, blue jackets. Queries I was unsure of how to respond.What did she have on?””Where did she enjoy playing?”Did she converse with strangers?
They located her ball.
A strip of woodland went along the property behind our house. Although there was only trees and shadows, people referred to it as “the forest,” as if it were infinite. Flashlights bobbed through the trunks that night. Her name was yelled into the rain by men.
They located her ball.
The only unambiguous information I ever received was that.
The quest continued. Weeks, days. Time was hazy. Everyone muttered. Nobody gave an explanation.
I recall Grandma sobbing at the sink and repeatedly saying, “I’m so sorry,” in a whisper.”Go to your room, Dorothy.”
“When is Ella coming home?” was a question I once asked my mother.
She was doing the dishwashing. Her hands came to a standstill.”She isn’t,” she stated.”Why?”
My dad interrupted.”Alright,” he yelled. “Dorothy, go to your room.”
My dad gave himself a forehead rub.
They seated me in the living room later. My dad gazed at the ground. My mom gazed down at her hands.Ella responded, “The police found her.””Where?””In the woods,” she murmured. “She’s gone.”Where has it disappeared to? I inquired.
My dad gave himself a forehead rub.
I had a twin one day.”She passed away,” he said. “Ella passed away. All you need to know is that.
No body was visible to me. No funeral comes to mind. No little coffin. I wasn’t taken to a grave.
I had a twin one day.
Then I was by myself.
Her toys vanished. Our matching outfits disappeared. In our home, her name ceased to exist.Was it painful?
Initially, I continued inquiring.”Where did they discover her?”What took place?”Was it painful?
My mom’s expression became blank.She would say, “Stop it, Dorothy.” “You’re hurting me.”
I was raised that way.
It made me want to yell, “I’m hurting too.”
I learned to keep quiet instead. It was like dropping a bomb in the middle of the room to bring up Ella. I decided to carry my questions and swallow them.
I was raised that way.
I was all right on the outside. I had friends, completed my assignments, and avoided problems. Where my sister should have been, there was a buzzing hole inside.I would like to view the case file.
I made an effort to combat the stillness when I was sixteen.
Sweating palms, I entered the police station by myself.
The front desk officer raised his head. “Can I help you?”When we were five years old, my twin sister vanished,” I remarked. Ella was her name. I would like to view the case file.
He scowled. “How old are you, sweetheart?”Sixteen.”Digging up some things hurts too much.
He let out a sigh.”I apologize,” he said. “The public cannot access those records. They would need to be requested by your parents.”I responded, “They won’t even mention her name.” “They said she passed away. That’s all.
His face became more placid.Then perhaps you ought to let them deal with it,” he responded. “Some things are too painful to dig up.”
I left feeling foolish and even more isolated than before.Why would you dig up that pain?
I made one final attempt at my mother when I was in my twenties.
We were folding laundry on her bed. “Please, Mom,” I pleaded. I must know the truth about Ella’s fate.
She became motionless.”What’s the point?” she muttered. “You now have a life. Why bring up that suffering?”I answered, “Because I’m still in it.” “I don’t even know where she’s buried.”
She winced.
I became the mother.Don’t ask me again, please,” she begged. “I can’t talk about this.”
So I didn’t.
Life propelled me ahead. I changed my name, got married, had children, completed my education, and made my bill payments.
I became a mother.
A grandmother follows.
My life appeared to be full on the outside. However, there was always a calm spot in my chest that resembled Ella.
This could be Ella’s current appearance.
I occasionally caught myself setting out two dishes after setting the table.
I occasionally woke up in the middle of the night, certain that I had heard a young girl shout my name.
I used to think, “This is how Ella might look now,” when I looked in the mirror.
My parents never told me anything more before they passed away. Two funerals. Two tombs. They took their secrets with them. I told myself that was it for years.
A child who has gone missing. A hazy “they discovered her body.””Silence.”You must come visit, Grandma.
After that, my granddaughter was accepted to a college in a different state.”You must come visit, Grandma,” she pleaded. “You’d love it here.””Someone has to keep you out of trouble,” I said, promising to come.
I flew out a few months later. We argued over towels and storage containers for a day as we set up her dorm.
She had class the next morning.She kissed my cheek and said, “Go explore.” Around the corner is a café. Fantastic coffee, awful music.
It sounded just like me.
So I went.
The café was pleasant and packed. Mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu, and the aroma of sugar and coffee. I didn’t actually read the menu as I stood in line, just looking at it.
The voice of a woman at the counter then reached my ears.
putting in a latte order. Be calm. a bit hoarse.
I was struck by its rhythm.
Our gazes met.
It sounded just like me.
I raised my head.
A woman with tangled gray hair was standing at the counter. the same height. The same stance. Strange, I thought, and then she turned.
Our gazes met.
I felt as though I had stepped out of myself and was looking back, and for a brief moment, I didn’t feel like an elderly woman in a café.
My gaze was fixed on my own face.
I moved in her direction.
Somehow softer, somehow older. but mine.
My digits became icy.
I moved in her direction.
Her voice was a whisper, “Oh my God.”
Before my head caught up, my mouth moved.”Ella?” I suffocated.Margaret is my name.
Her eyes began to well up with tears.”I… no,” she answered. “My name is Margaret.”
I jerked back my hand.”I apologize,” I blurted.Ella was the name of my twin sister. When we were five, she vanished. No one who looks like me has ever looked like this before. I realize I sound nuts.”No,” she answered hastily. “You don’t. because I’m thinking the same thing when I look at you.”
The same nose. The same eyes.
The barista’s throat was cleared. “Would the ladies like to have a seat? You’re obstructing the sugar in some way.
After a nervous laugh, we both went to a table.
It was nearly awful up close.
The same nose. The same eyes. The same tiny furrow between the eyebrows. Our hands even matched.
She encircled her cup with her fingers.She continued, “I don’t want to worry you any more, but… I was adopted.”They would shut it off if I inquired about my birth family.
My heart became constricted.”From where?” I inquired.The hospital is no longer there in this small Midwest town. My parents always claimed that I was “chosen,” yet they would shut me down if I inquired about my biological relatives.
I took a swallow.”In which year were you born?”I said, “My sister vanished from a small Midwest town.” Our home was close to a forest. The police informed my parents that they had located her body months later. I didn’t see anything. I recall no funeral. They wouldn’t discuss it.
We gazed at one another.She inquired, “What year were you born?”
I informed her.
She shared hers with me.
She laughed unsteadily.
Five years separate them.”We’re not identical,” I stated. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not—”She concluded, “Connected.”
She inhaled deeply.”I’ve always felt that my story was lacking something,” she remarked. “Like there was a locked room in my life I wasn’t allowed to open.””That room has felt like my entire life,” I remarked. “Want to open it?”
We traded phone numbers.
She gave a tremulous laugh.”I’m afraid,” she acknowledged.”So am I,” I replied. “But I’m more scared of never knowing.”
She gave a nod.”All right,” she said. “Let’s try.”
We traded phone numbers.
My hands started to shake from digging.
I relived every instance in which my parents had silenced me back at my hotel. Then I remembered the dusty box in my closet that contained their paperwork, which I had never opened.
Perhaps they hadn’t said the truth to me directly.
On paper, they might have forgotten.
I dragged the package onto my kitchen table as soon as I came home.
certificates of birth. tax returns. medical documentation. ancient letters. My hands started to shake from digging.
My knees nearly buckled.
There was a thin manila folder at the bottom.
An adoption document is within.
baby girl. No name. Year: 5 years before to my birth.
My mother was my birth mother.
My knees nearly buckled.
Behind it, in my mother’s handwriting, was a smaller folded note.
My chest ached from crying so much.
I was young. single. I caused dishonor, according to my parents. I had no option, they said. It was forbidden for me to hold her. Across the room, I caught sight of her. I was told to forget. to get married. to have more kids and not talk about this ever again.
I can’t forget, though. No one else will ever know, but I will always remember my first daughter.
My chest ached from crying so much.
For the young woman my mom had been.
For the infant she was compelled to donate.It’s true.
For Ella.
For me, the daughter she kept, who was raised in the shadows.
I gave Margaret pictures of the note and the adoption document when I was able to see them again.
She made a call immediately.Her voice trembled as she said, “I saw.” “Is that… real?””It’s real,” I said. “Looks like my mother was your mother too.”
To be certain, we performed a DNA test.
Between us, there was silence.”I always felt like I belonged to no one,” she said. Or no one who desired me. I now realize that I was… hers.”Ours,” I said. “You’re my sister.”
To be certain, we performed a DNA test. We already knew that they were complete siblings, and this confirmed it.
People inquire as to whether it was a large, joyous reunion. It didn’t.
It was like finally recognizing the extent of the harm while standing amid the wreckage of three lives.
Childhoods are compared.
We’re not acting like we’ve become great pals. Coffee cannot make up for more than 70 years.
However, we converse.
Childhoods are compared. We send images. We draw attention to minor parallels. We also discuss the challenging aspect:
My mom has three daughters.
One that she had to give up.
In the forest, she misplaced one.
Pain explains secrets, but it doesn’t justify them.
She wrapped it in quiet and kept it.
Was it just? No.
Is it possible for me to comprehend how someone breaks like that? Yes, occasionally.
Something changed when I realized that my mother loved me in her broken, silent way, along with a daughter she couldn’t keep and another she couldn’t save.
Pain explains secrets, but it doesn’t justify them.
