The Good Twin

by Marti Green

  “Would your mother tell you now if you were adopted?”

  “She passed away a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. From what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My mother had a three-pack-a-day cigarette habit by the time she graduated high school. Eventually, it led to stage three emphysema. I couldn’t go off to college. I had to earn enough money to pay the rent, to buy food and medicines.”

  “That had to be tough.”

  “I found a waitressing job easily enough. I was young and pretty, and the customers liked me, so they tipped me well. Any money that was left over, I used to take one art course a semester at the local community college.”

  “Here, in New York?”

  “No. I grew up in Scranton. As soon as my mother died, I packed up my things and moved to Queens.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He was killed in the Gulf War, before he and my mother married. Before I was even born.”

  “How about grandparents?”

  I shook my head. “My mother was estranged from her mother. She didn’t know her father—he split when she was a baby. I’m determined not to make the same mistakes they did.” I took a sip of wine, then leaned back in the chair. “It doesn’t make sense that I was adopted. I’m the reason my mother left her home, because she got pregnant before she graduated high school.” I didn’t tell him that whenever my mother felt overwhelmed, which was frequently, she blamed me for ruining her life. I tugged on my ear, a habit I’d had since elementary school when I was trying to figure something out. “Maybe my mom got pregnant before she had me? Maybe she gave that child up for adoption? Charly could be my sister, or half sister at least.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “September 24, 1990.”

  “That’s Charly’s birthday.”

  My hands began to shake. None of this made sense. I lifted the wineglass and took a large gulp.

  “She has to be your twin.” Ben moved closer to me and placed his hand over mine. “There’s only one way to know for certain. DNA.” He stood up and walked into the kitchen. I heard a drawer open, then a rustling sound. When he returned to the den, he had a plastic baggie in his hand. He handed it to me. “Hold it open,” he said, then, leaning over me, yanked out a hair from the top of my head.

  “Ow!”

  He looked at it, then dropped it in the baggie. “It’s good. The root is attached.”

  I rubbed my head. “You’ll tell Charly? She’ll put in a sample, too?”

  “Charly’s going through a hard time. Her father was just diagnosed with liver cancer. It’s at a late stage. That’s where she is right now. I don’t want her to be distracted by this until we know something for sure. She’s in too fragile a state. I can get her DNA sample without bothering her. I’ll let you know when the results come back. Figure at least four weeks, maybe six.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket. “What’s your phone number?”

  I gave it to him, and then he walked to a sideboard in the room, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a card. He handed it to me. “Here’s my phone number. If you need to speak to me, use the cell phone.”

  I nodded, then slipped the card into my purse.

  As I walked to the door, I glanced back at the apartment once more. I wondered if Charly lived like this because she’d married well, or because she’d been adopted well.

  As Ben closed the door behind his unexpected guest, his mind was whirring. Charly had a twin! An identical twin, surely. There were surface differences—the hair color and fuller face, but that could be explained by a few pounds’ difference. He’d seen the way she’d gawked at the opulence of the apartment. She’d told him she’d grown up wanting. She couldn’t have much now, working as a waitress. He felt his excitement rise. This could be his chance. He had to approach it carefully. And, most important, he couldn’t let Mallory meet Charly.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, as soon as breakfast was finished, I retreated to my room and began making a list. That’s my standard fallback whenever I feel stressed or confused. Write down the steps I need to take. First: track down any relatives. My mother had rarely spoken about her family. Whenever I’d asked about grandparents, she’d said there were none. When I’d asked about aunts or uncles, I’d gotten the same response. My mother had worked her entire life cleaning homes, at least two every day, sometimes three. She’d had friendships over the years, but they rarely lasted more than three or four years. If it was a man, usually less than a year. There was only one person who’d been a constant in my mother’s life—her best friend, Lauren. I hadn’t seen her since my mother’s funeral.

  I pulled out my cell phone and did a search for the phone number of Lauren Kurz, in Allentown, Pennsylvania. That’s where my mother had grown up. That’s where she’d first met Lauren. Nothing. No listing. In the years before my mother died, Lauren would usually come to Scranton to visit. Less often, we’d go to Allentown. I vaguely remembered once overhearing Lauren tell my mother that she was marrying again, but I didn’t pay it much attention. I was busy working to pay for food. Now I realized Lauren’s last name would be different, and I hadn’t a clue as to what it might be.

  I needed to drive to Allentown. Maybe Lauren was living in the same house. I’d visited it enough with my mother to remember how to find it. And if not, maybe a neighbor would know where she’d moved, or at least her married name. I didn’t own a car, but Brian did. He’d lent it to me in the past, and I was certain he would now. Next Monday, I’d skip art class. I needed answers, and Lauren was probably the only person who could provide them.

  I flipped through the stations on Brian’s car radio as I headed west on Route 78. I didn’t like any of the preset stations he had chosen, and I needed some distraction from the monotonous highway. I’d crawled through the Lincoln Tunnel, but that was no surprise. I didn’t want to arrive in Allentown before 7:00 p.m., to make sure Lauren or her neighbors were home from work. That meant leaving Manhattan during rush hour, which was anytime after 3:00 p.m.

  I found a classic-rock station and settled in. I supposed most people would think I was too young to appreciate classic rock, but it was the music my mother always had listened to in our apartment. At 7:15 p.m., I pulled up to what I hoped was Lauren’s house. It had been years since I’d visited her with my mother, but I’d always had a good memory. I parked in front of the semiattached two-story brick house and rang the bell. Moments later, an unfamiliar woman answered the door.

  “Does Lauren Kurz live here?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” She hesitated. “Wait? Do you mean Lauren Walker?”

  “That could be her name. I know she remarried.”

  “That’s the woman who sold me this house. Almost two years ago.”

  “Do you know where she’s living now?”

  “Sorry, dear. Don’t have a clue.”

  I thanked her and left. At least I had her last name now. Unfortunately, it was a pretty common one. I retreated to the car, then entered the name Lauren Walker into a telephone app on my phone. There were too many to count. At least a dozen in the right age range residing in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. I got back out of the car and walked up to the other half of the semiattached house and rang the bell. A white-haired man leaning on a cane opened the door and smiled when he saw me.

  “Well, you’re a pretty girl. How can I help you?”

  “Do you remember the woman who used to live next door?”

  “Lauren? Of course. She was a pretty girl, too.”

  “Do you happen to know where she moved to?”

  The man held the door open wider. “Come on in. I think I saved her Christmas card from last year.”

  I hesitated a moment. I already felt uncomfortable from his comments about my looks. Even though he appeared frail, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was someone to be afraid of. As soon as I thought it, I felt silly. Twenty-four-hour news cov
erage on multiple cable channels had made the world seem like a frightening place. It was far more probable that he was a harmless old man, one who could possibly lead me to Lauren. I stepped inside.

  “Go, sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  The living room looked like it had been decorated in the seventies and never updated. The couch I sat on was frayed along the seams, and the fabric of the two slipcovered chairs looked faded. There was nothing homey about the room, and I suspected he lived alone.

  “Found it,” he said as he walked back into the living room. “I always keep the holiday cards, so I know where to send them the next year.” He handed me an envelope. The return address had the name of Walker and listed a street in Philadelphia. I took out my phone and entered the address into a Notes app.

  “I really appreciate this, Mr.—”

  “Gunderson. Felix Gunderson.”

  “Well, thank you again.” I stood up to leave.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?” His voice had a pleading tone.

  I bet he’s lived by himself for a long time. I bet he’s lonely. I gave him a bright smile. “Sure. I’ll have a cup.”

  It was 8:00 p.m. by the time I left Gunderson’s house. Over the half hour I spent nurturing one cup of coffee, I learned his entire life story. I was glad I’d stayed. He’d been retired and widowed for almost a decade, and he needed someone to talk to. But now it was getting late. It would take me a little more than an hour to get to Lauren’s house. As soon as I got into the car, I checked online and came up with a phone number for Lauren Walker in Philadelphia. I dialed it, and a woman answered.

  “Lauren? It’s Mallory Holcolm.”

  “Mallory! My God, it’s been ages. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

  “Good. I’m good. Listen. I need to see you. Is it too late if I get to you around nine-ish?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just need to see you, and I can’t explain over the phone.”

  “You have my address?”

  I repeated it to her.

  “Then, sure. Come over. I’ll be awake.”

  At 9:20 p.m., I pulled up to Lauren’s apartment in Center City. I gave my name to the concierge, and he pointed me to the elevators. The door was already open when I reached 12G. I hadn’t seen Lauren since my mom’s funeral three years ago, yet somehow, she seemed even younger than she had then. Maybe it was because she’d dyed her hair a rich auburn, covering up the loose strands of gray that had popped up. Maybe it was because she’d lost some weight, and her tight jeans showed off her figure. Or maybe it was just because she was happy in her new marriage. If so, I was pleased for her. Yet, at the same time it saddened me that I’d never seen my own mother with the glow that radiated from Lauren.

  Lauren threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly. “I’m so happy to see you. I sent you a Christmas card after Sasha died, but it was returned, marked Moved. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, you know, to see how you were holding up.”

  “I moved to New York City. Queens, actually,” I said as Lauren led me into the living room. “I had to get away from Scranton.”

  “Are you studying art there?”

  “I am. I’m really learning a lot.”

  “Good. Now, tell me—why are you here?”

  On the drive over, I had thought of little else than how I would raise the subject. Ease into it, I’d told myself. Just ask about my mother’s life, about her family, general questions. Get Lauren comfortable talking. All that advice evaporated in an instant. Instead, I blurted out, “Do I have a twin sister?”

  Lauren’s posture stiffened, and her voice, now shaky, said, “Why are you asking that?”

  “I saw someone who looks just like me.”

  Now, Lauren’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, honey, I guess we all have someone who resembles us.”

  A feeling of anger arose, and I tried to push it away. I felt certain Lauren knew something and was holding back. “Not resemble. Exactly like me. With the same date of birth.” I stared hard at my mother’s friend.

  Lauren stood up. “Let’s go in the kitchen. I need a cup of coffee. How about you?”

  Reluctantly, I followed her into a kitchen that looked like it had recently been updated. Although the apartment building was old, the kitchen shined with stainless-steel appliances and gleaming granite countertops. A round table with four chairs was tucked in the corner. I took a seat while Lauren went to the Keurig sitting next to the refrigerator and put a cup in place.

  “Decaf or regular?”

  I was already too wired. “Decaf.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  I shook my head. “Just black.”

  When both cups were filled, she brought them over to the kitchen table, then sat down. “Your mother loved you very much.”

  That was news to me. Growing up, my mother could be affectionate to me, or as cold as ice, depending on her mood. Mostly, though, she’d seemed indifferent toward me. “Was she really my mother? Or was I adopted?”

  “She gave birth to you.” Lauren sighed deeply, then dropped her head into her hands. After a minute, she looked up. “When she got sick, when it was clear she wouldn’t recover, I begged her to tell you her story. She was terrified that you would hate her.”

  Suddenly, I wasn’t certain I wanted the answers I’d come searching for. Just get up and leave. Tell Lauren to keep Mom’s secret. But I knew it was too late for that. From the moment I’d spied Charlotte Gordon through the window of the art gallery, I knew that my life was going to change.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Your mom met your father when she was sixteen,” Lauren began.

  My arms were wrapped tightly around my body, a protective armor. Despite the sips of coffee I’d taken, despite the warmth in the kitchen, I shivered.

  “He was eighteen, finished with high school, and working in his father’s construction business.” Lauren stopped and smiled. “My, he was handsome. Just about the most handsome boy either of us had ever seen. Wavy blond hair and the deepest blue eyes.”

  “Like mine?”

  “Exactly like yours.”

  “Mom told me he was killed in the Gulf War. Is that true?”

  Lauren nodded. “Sasha didn’t know she was pregnant when he entered the army. If your father had known, maybe he wouldn’t have enlisted. Then, your grandmother probably wouldn’t have kicked her out.”

  My eyes widened. I’d known that my mother had cut ties with her own mother, but I didn’t know she’d been kicked out of her home, pregnant and alone. “How could her mother do that?”

  “Your grandmother’s name was Millie. Your grandfather, Kyle, walked out on her when Sasha wasn’t even a year old. Left her with nothing. She’d struggled raising Sasha, all on her own. She just wasn’t willing to start all over again, raising her granddaughter.”

  “But still—”

  “Millie was resigned to the pregnancy while your dad was off fighting in Kuwait. Sasha had written to him, and he wrote back that he wanted to get married.”

  “But then he was killed?”

  “That’s right. Millie insisted that Sasha put you up for adoption. But Sasha wouldn’t think of it. So Millie threw her out.”

  “She’s horrible! I’m glad I never knew her.”

  “Don’t judge so quickly. Life decisions aren’t always black and white.”

  I looked at Lauren incredulously. “She abandoned my mother when she needed her the most. There can’t be any excuse—”

  A wailing sound coming from down the hallway stopped me. “What’s that?”

  Lauren smiled. “Be back in a minute.”

  Five minutes later, she returned with a sleepy toddler in her arms, his head resting against her chest.

  “Meet Tyler.”

  My mouth dropped open. Lauren was the same age as my mother would have
been—forty-four. “Is he yours?”

  Lauren laughed. “You think I’m too old?”

  “No, I . . . I mean . . .” I could feel my face turning red. “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

  “I wasn’t the last time I saw you. Tyler was my happy surprise. I got pregnant soon after your mom died. Sometimes I think Sasha pulled some magic strings from the grave to bring him to me. He’s twenty months old now.”

  “Can I hold him?”

  Lauren handed him to me, and immediately Tyler wrapped his arms around my neck. I’d never thought about having a child myself, but I suddenly felt overwhelmed with the desire for a baby. I didn’t understand how my mother could have given one away.

  Lauren poured some milk into a sippy cup for Tyler, and he grabbed it in his soft, pudgy hands, then leaned back into my body as he began to drink.

  “You okay with him? My husband won’t be home until midnight, so he can’t take him.”

  “More than okay,” I answered.

  Lauren sat back down. “So, where were we? I remember. Your grandmother. She had a difficult life. After your grandfather left, she had no money and no skills. She tried to track down your grandfather, make him at least pay child support, but he’d disappeared completely. After five years, she had him declared legally dead. That way, she’d be free to remarry. Although no man was ever good enough. I think she was afraid to trust someone again.

  “Millie began cleaning homes to support Sasha and herself. When Sasha was nine, Millie was at a job. She tripped and fell down a flight of stairs, broke her leg and a few ribs. She couldn’t work and had no money in the bank. Her landlord kicked her out when she couldn’t pay the rent. She and your mother lived in her car.”

  My hand flew to my chest. The thought of my mother living in a car, even for a short period, made my heart ache. “Oh, no!”