My father rubbed his forehead.
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One day I had a twin.
"She died," he said. "Ella died. That's all you need to know."
I didn't see a body. I don't remember a funeral. No small casket. No grave I was taken to.
One day I had a twin.
The next, I was alone.
Her toys disappeared. Our matching clothes vanished. Her name stopped existing in our house.
"Did it hurt?"
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At first, I kept asking.
"Where did they find her?"
"What happened?"
"Did it hurt?"
My mother's face shut down.
"Stop it, Dorothy," she'd say. "You're hurting me."
I grew up like that.
I wanted to scream, "I'm hurting too."
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Instead, I learned to shut up. Talking about Ella felt like dropping a bomb in the middle of the room. So I swallowed my questions and carried them.
I grew up like that.
On the outside, I was fine. I did my homework, had friends, didn't cause trouble. Inside, there was this buzzing hole where my sister should have been.
"I want to see the case file."
When I was 16, I tried to fight the silence.
I walked into the police station alone, palms sweating.
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The officer at the front desk looked up. "Can I help you?"
"My twin sister disappeared when we were five," I said. "Her name was Ella. I want to see the case file."
He frowned. "How old are you, sweetheart?"
"Sixteen."
"Some things are too painful to dig up."
He sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Those records aren't open to the public. Your parents would have to request them."
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"They won't even say her name," I said. "They told me she died. That's it."
His expression softened.
"Then maybe you should let them handle it," he said. "Some things are too painful to dig up."
I walked out feeling stupid and more alone than before.
"Why dig up that pain?"
In my twenties, I tried my mother one last time.
We were on her bed, folding laundry. I said, "Mom, please. I need to know what really happened to Ella."
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She went still.
"What good would that do?" she whispered. "You have a life now. Why dig up that pain?"
"Because I'm still in it," I said. "I don't even know where she's buried."
She flinched.
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