Chapter One
Many things run in my family; a fiery passion, an obvious sense of humor, an outgoing energy, and twins. It seems that every trait in the family gene pool skipped over me….except twinship.
I always thought about what I’d do to be like my family, when I was too little to realize that next to nothing could be done about it. And every single time I pondered it I came to the same conclusion. It was totally bearable that I was shy and timid, aloof and maybe a little too profound. I was able to cope with having an enigmatic wit and a withdrawn instinct to always observe and never participate. As long as I had my sister, I could endure anything.
It seemed the differences fell away when we were together. We understood each other. We loved each other. We shared a room. We told each other secrets that the other had already sensed was hidden away. We were constantly aware of each other.
When my sister Mila and I were sorted into different classes in kindergarten, I found myself using “we” and “us” instead of “I” or “me”. It was incredibly strange being a singular soul when I had grown up as a part of a larger, more collective being. I felt incomplete.
Twins run in my family, so the concept of one creature suddenly being two is not new to us. But when I hear that word, that precious word that defines who I am, I don’t think of definitions or scientific technicalities. A slideshow of names, dates, faces, and tiny random facts flashes before my eyes. My story is played. But my story as a twin did not begin when I was born, when I was given my name, or when I understood what a twin actually was. No, my story as a twin began generations ago, before my parents, grandparents, or their parents, were even born. Mila and I, our story is on a grander scale. Our story begins with another pair of sisters in our family, five generations ago. Their names were Adelaide and Abigail, for whom Mila and I were given our middle names.
When we were small girls, we were told the story of Addy and Abbie, and often Mila and I liked to pretend we lived in that time. We wrote each other notes throughout the day and out them in an elaborately decorated wooden box, to be read by the other whenever they had time to check the “mailbox.” Our lives seemed to revolve around that wooden box. We checked it whenever possible, constantly filled it with our uncertain handwriting, and wondered about it all day.
Back then, so many years ago, it appeared the only thing Mila and I had in common with Addy and Abbie was the obvious fact that we were both sets of twins. What eluded us was the concept that their destiny was also ours. Their lives were entwined with our own. The only thing separating us from them was time, five generations of solid time perching as an interval between two tales that would otherwise be one.
It is this story that I will tell you now, a story that I believe has been unsung for five generations too long. Maybe it’s happened before. Maybe I’m the person who needs to tell it. But in order to tell you our story, Abbie, Addy, Mila and I, and perhaps a thousand others, I’d have to also tell you another story. The story of how Mila Abigail LaBeau fell in love, and how I, Holly Adelaide LaBeau, her sister, watched.
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