Separated @ Birth: A True Love Story of Twin Sisters Reunited

by Anais Bordier

  The day after Thanksgiving, we headed to New York City. I had been there the year before, but this was much more special, because I was with my new extended family. I loved walking by Sam’s high school in Manhattan. It was the place where she started building her career, where she learned how to sing and dance and act, where her dreams were starting to come true. I imagined her in Fame, hoping and dreaming to be famous one day and dancing her way up to it. All the places we visited, however briefly, each represented a major step in her life, helping her to become who she is today. It was like unraveling a mystery, like a quest or an investigation—matching links and numbers to be able to draw the picture of her life so far. I was entering the Futerman family’s secret garden, and the admittance meant so much to me.

  The morning I left, I was feeling full of familial intimacy and new memories. I would have liked the holiday to last longer and forever, to have time to run around with Sam, visiting some of her other childhood places. It made me so happy to see both our families getting along together and interacting warmly with each other. This was a strong family story, still pushing out the boundaries. It was like a wedding, where everyone hopes both the families will get along. In this case, it was even more important to me as our families could not just be cordial to each other—they had to genuinely love each other! For me, it meant more than anything. Before this, our parents had been e-mailing every other day, but seeing them chatting, enjoying themselves, and feeling comfortable at the Futermans’ could not make me feel happier.

  Now that I had gotten to bond with Sam’s brothers, too, I wanted to know even more details about them, their jobs, what they liked and didn’t like, their girlfriends, and what their plans were for the future. Getting to know them in their home was the best way to start!

  The Bordiers and the Futermans, together in Verona, New Jersey, was an experience almost beyond words. We were two parallel realities becoming one, two lines in a drawing intersecting exactly where they should. The lines have always been there, but they don’t become meaningful until they meet at an inevitable point in time and space. For me, I knew Sam. She existed, and the people who cared about her cared about me. Still, I needed to see it and experience it physically, like a rite of passage. It was similar to my first physical encounter with Sam. I sort of knew how much I meant to her, and how much I loved her already. But it had been a “virtual” connection first, not completed by human touch. When she and I met, I was in shock. First of all, I didn’t know I was that short! But it took me a few hours to acknowledge that she was real, even though I had gotten confirmation when I first poked her head. I still had to learn how to move around her, how to act around her. I needed to realize that she was not going to react like she was in a mirror, as the truth is she was not my reflection. No matter how identical we looked, we were two separate persons in the same space-time dimension.

  On this trip, the amount of love I have for Sam and her family really got imprinted on me like never before. I didn’t feel as much sadness anymore when it came time to leave them, but rather happiness knowing they’d be here anytime. What made me the saddest was wondering when the next meeting would be. All together or separately, I just wanted to learn more about each member of Sam’s family, to know more about each important person in her life!

  It is hard to express, but I think that because I have now experienced Sam and her family with all my senses, my love has become infinite. In this reality, even though we have only known each other for what might seem to some a short while, and to others it might look absolutely insane, nothing can take our love away.

  18

  SAM

  Twinsgiving

  Thanksgiving 2013 was going to be the most memorable family holiday of my life. Not only was Thanksgiving my favorite holiday, but Anaïs and her parents were coming to the United States to be with my extended family. All of it was happening in Verona, New Jersey. Anaïs had never been to my childhood home, and although our parents had spent time with each other in London, having the Bordiers at my house with all my relatives was going to be incredible. It was like starting something brand-new. The holidays would never be the same from that year forward. The Bordiers were already my family, and now I got to have them with the rest of my family all in one place at one time.

  Since my move to L.A., I only made it east maybe once or twice a year, and I missed it. If I could spend September to December in New York, and January to August in L.A., I’d be happy. I have always considered the East Coast to be my real home, even though L.A. was becoming my more familiar place, where I found creative stimulation and growth as a person and artist.

  The Thanksgiving of 2013 was one year after the biggest North Atlantic storm in recorded history, Hurricane Sandy. My house had been spared, although a tree had fallen in Dad’s fishpond. This Thanksgiving would be remarkable for all the right reasons. Not many people can say, “My French family, including my newly found identical twin sister and her parents, will be celebrating their first American Thanksgiving with us.” The French may have great food, but they don’t have the famous turkey soup my father makes! I homed in on French words for various aspects of the upcoming feast: turkey (la dinde), corn (le maïs), cranberry (la canneberge), gravy (la sauce au jus de viande), and stuffing (la farce). For dessert, pumpkin pie—la tarte à la citrouille. Since I didn’t know how to pronounce any of the French words, I’d just have to let the food speak for itself.

  After my mom and Matt picked me up at Newark Liberty International Airport, and we settled into our local diner in Bloomfield, New Jersey, for matzoh ball soup and salad, I was still a little loopy from the flight and the time difference, but I was happy to be back and eating comfort food with my big bro and mom. It was funny, spending time with my sister and her parents had stirred up a longing for my own parents. These were the people who gave us happiness, opportunity, and boundless love. When I got to the house, Mom gave me two very important gifts—a sweatshirt and a T-shirt with the New York Jets logo. Our family is passionate about the Jets. Despite their less than enviable seasons in recent history, they are the best football team in the land, according to my father. So far this year, they had four wins and six losses . . . not looking good, which meant my dad would be grumpy until baseball season.

  The next day, I went to New York City to meet friends, getting back to Verona in time for dinner. My mom picked me up from the bus stop, just like when I was a kid. It never failed to amaze me how much she did for me.

  Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, I woke up knowing Anaïs’s parents were arriving. Dad came home early to make more turkey soup, as I had already eaten more than my share. He was also picking up the Bordiers at their hotel in New York City, where they had stayed one night, and bringing them to their hotel near our house.

  For many years, I had noticed that fathers sometimes get shortchanged when it comes to “the bond” with the children in the family. Even in birth searches, adoptees are always on a mission to find their birth mother. This really doesn’t give the birth father much credit in our existence. I thought about Anaïs’s and my birth father a lot. Who was he? I wondered if he thought about Anaïs and me ever, or if he even knew that we existed. Why didn’t anyone speak of the birth fathers? They were half of the equation, right? And who is to say that a father’s love isn’t as profound as a mother’s? Although I had not experienced the bond between a biological mother and child, I notice that sometimes people speak as though there is a greater love from mother to child than father to child. The blood in my veins and the DNA in my genes comes from both my birth mother and my birth father. In my own family, I know my father loves me and my brothers as much as our mother does. Just watching him enjoy every minute of making his next batch of turkey soup reminded me why I loved him so much.

  It was great to see Jacques and Patricia again, even though it had only been a few days since my return from Paris. There was something different about having them he
re in the United States. It was important to me that they got to see where their daughter’s twin sister had been raised and nurtured, and I was proud of my town, even with its surfeit of pizza parlors and nail salons.

  In fact, a pizza parlor/Italian restaurant was exactly where we were headed after exchanging our hugs and kisses. We packed into the car and drove to Forte Pizzeria & Ristorante, my favorite pizza restaurant in the world. There’s a pizzeria on one side and a proper dining room on the other, but we always eat in the pizzeria. We’re not fancy. I ordered pasta fagioli and eggplant parmesan with a side of spaghetti. I think the Bordiers were a little taken aback by Forte’s brash atmosphere, extraordinary portion sizes, and no wine available. Eateries aren’t like that in Paris. Jacques seemed simultaneously impressed and disgusted, but the food was delicious. After dinner, the Bordiers came back to the house for tea and a chat before returning to their hotel.

  The next day was Thanksgiving and Anaïs was arriving! At John F. Kennedy Airport, Dad and I watched the arrival board, calculating how long it took for certain planeloads to get through customs, so we could better judge when to expect our traveler. For example, a Japan Airlines plane had landed at nine forty-five, and at ten fifteen, a significant number of Japanese people were entering the terminal, so about a half hour from gate to clearance. It was a great game to pass the time.

  Finally, she came around the bend with a big suitcase and a massive Elle bag, which was decorated with numerous K-pop stickers. They might have found their way onto her bag in Korea, stuck there by an annoying twin sister—who’s to say? In our embrace, I caught a whiff of her favorite French perfume, Chanel. How bougie of her. When I get off a plane I smell like snacks, whiskey, and stale farts. My sister, on the other hand, is so elegant, even after an all-night trans-atlantic flight!

  Back in Verona, Anaïs was bombarded by my relatives. My immediate family hadn’t seen her since London, so my mother was overjoyed to see her again. My grandmother was pulling up to the house just as we were, and she had never met her. It must have been hard for Anaïs to meet so many people who were that excited to be near her, like she was a rock star in a crowd of fans. My relatives wanted to know everything about her entire life, and Anaïs accepted her celebrity graciously. I told her to run up to my grandmother and hug her, pretending she was me. Sure enough, my grandmother was fooled. Next, my cousin Jill and her husband, Tom, arrived at the house. Tom gave Anaïs a massive hug and kiss on the cheek, assuming it was me. Even though my sister didn’t know who they were, she went with it. Tom was shocked when he realized his mistake. A few seconds later, my aunt Jo, uncle Bob, and my cousins Jonathon and Jesse joined the party. Jo was the “JoFuterman” who Anaïs had located on Twitter when she was searching for me. All the relatives had a good laugh trying to figure out who was who.

  With everyone gathered, it was time for a Champagne toast. Jacques and Patricia had brought two bottles of Champagne from France—not sparkling wine, but true Champagne. It was thrilling to toast our new family. This was my ultimate dream, my ultimate fantasy—having our families together in the same place. It wasn’t that I wasn’t feeling claustrophobic with so many people milling about. There were moments in which I took refuge in the kitchen, pretending to be cooking. When I’m home, I like to cook to calm myself down. The chopping of vegetables and constant watching of the pot calms my nerves and forces me to focus on that one thing, concentrate while my brain processes the rest of the sensory overload coming from the rest of the house. My sister was being incredibly courteous in the living room, answering all the questions and pretending like she wanted to be there, although I know that she’d probably have preferred to be taking a big ol’ nap.

  Every year for as long as I can remember, my father starts making his famous turkey soup the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I’d always wake up to the aroma of a turkey being boiled to oblivion and the sound of the dogs going crazy in the kitchen, feasting off of my dad’s mess. As the soup simmered, he’d watch football between stirs, the all-American father. I would go to the kitchen every hour to check the soup’s progress myself, and sneak a spoonful or two from the pot in my taste test. For the next few days after Thanksgiving, there would be turkey soup for breakfast, afternoon meals, evening meals, and snacks. Nobody complained—it was that good.

  This year, my mom was worried about making the seating arrangement for twenty-two people. She wanted to satisfy everybody. So she decided to draw names from a hat and placed them at the table randomly. I rearranged Anaïs’s and my names, even though I was cheating the system. There was no way we weren’t going to be seated together. How else would I pick off her plate?

  Dad took the turkey out of the oven, but there was still a half hour to go. I made a side dish/appetizer of kale marinated in balsamic vinegar and champagne vinaigrette, with roasted pumpkin seeds, dried cherries, and roasted butternut squash. Despite reservations on the part of some family members, it turned out to be a huge hit. My aunt ate three servings and offered full compliments. It was the perfect holdover until the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes could get to the table.

  The Bordiers’ first Thanksgiving seemed to be a success. Eating, seeing my sister eat her turkey and stuffing, my dad burning the tops of the marshmallows on top of the canned yams—memories I’d never forget. It was just as I had imagined. And the dogs were staring at us longingly from the kitchen to get any tiny scraps of food.

  We finished up the meal just before the sun went down, leaving us time for a quick game of football in the street. I wanted Anaïs to play, as it was tradition, but after she got hit in the face with a ball as a child, she preferred to just watch. The rest of us were running around in the street like children, screaming and yelling in good fun. I personally caught the winning touchdown, making my brothers proud. I did, however, take a chunk out of my hand when I toppled onto the sidewalk. What’s a little football in the street with brothers without a few scrapes and bumps?

  Because Thanksgiving is so close to my birthday, dessert is always a birthday cake for me. This year was no exception, and the best part was that I got to share it with my sister. As Anaïs and I were blowing out the candles, I remembered I had again forgotten to make a wish. But what more could I wish for? Everyone I needed was right there in the room with me.

  The Friday after Thanksgiving, both sets of parents, Anaïs, my brothers, and I drove into New York to see the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. When we got to the helix that brought traffic into the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel, the entire Manhattan skyline was visible across the Hudson River. Anaïs started oohing and aahing at the breathtaking view. It was funny—I always felt like it was so crazy romantic that she had grown up with the Eiffel Tower in her backyard. I guess I was so used to my city that I took my own landmarks for granted. In the skyline, the Empire State Building, decked out in red and green lights from top to bottom, had its own impressive statement to make.

  Everyone wanted to see the World Trade Center site as well as the newly finished Freedom Tower, the tallest building in the United States, so we headed to lower Manhattan. The site is still so humbling, while being such a testament to our ability to start over. In 2001, we came together for our city like never before, and we may have even felt quite protective of our right to be more horrified than those farther from Ground Zero, as we had experienced it with such immediacy and had felt the public and private pain of so many people. The number of tourists from foreign countries coming to pay their respects was truly astonishing.

  We went for lunch at Southern Hospitality, Justin Timberlake’s restaurant on Ninth Avenue and Forty-Fifth Street in Hell’s Kitchen. How could we not go to his restaurant, loving his “Mirrors” song as much as we did? As seemed to be the pattern, portions were pretty massive compared to the servings at French restaurants. Anaïs and I loved the collard greens in particular, something else we had in common!

  After lunch, we went to Rockefeller Cent
er to take selfies in front of the world-famous Christmas tree, even though it hadn’t been lit yet, then on to Radio City Music Hall for the Rockettes. Everyone must see the Christmas Spectacular once in their life! It certainly gets you in the holiday spirit. Anaïs and I could never be on this stage, high-kicking with the statuesque ladies on the chorus line—we were more than a foot shorter than the standard five ten.

  After the show, we all walked over to Fifth Avenue and stopped into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It was covered in scaffolding, which detracted from its elegance. After Notre Dame, all churches and cathedrals seemed pretty lame. The fact that Notre Dame was almost seven hundred years older than Saint Patrick’s made Saint Patrick’s seem that much less important.

  At the Korean BBQ restaurant later, Anaïs and I ordered dinner for everyone. Her parents were a little put off by the whole “sharing” thing that Koreans and Americans do in these types of restaurants. Just as Anaïs started getting annoyed with them for not understanding, my father irritated me by saying he didn’t really like Korean food. I assured him that it was the same cuts of beef he eats—brisket was the same piece of meat we eat at Passover, except this one was sliced thin and grilled right in front of you. Ugh. I started scolding him, and I turned around to see my sister was doing the same thing with her parents—except in French.