Chapter Ten Mary
Chapter Ten
Mary
Five years ago
I used to think of morning sunlight as a nuisance—the way it came slanting through my blinds, beckoning me to get up, get moving, be productive.
But that was before Sam.
Now, every morning started with her soft knock on my door and the smell of coffee.
Sometimes she’d already been up for hours reading on the porch or taking a slow walk with the housekeeper’s old Labrador.
Other days we’d sit cross-legged on my bed, sipping from mismatched mugs while she coaxed stories out of me—high school romances, family vacations, holiday traditions.
All the ordinary stuff I took for granted were the things she wanted to hear most.
It was strange how natural it felt, how quickly she slipped into my rhythms. We’d finish each other’s sentences, sing the same line of a song without realizing it, or blurt out the same thought at the same time and dissolve into laughter.
I started to understand why people always said twins had their own language.
Maybe we did too—it had just taken eighteen years to learn it.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like something was missing.
For the first time in my life, I felt whole.
We’d set Sam up in the guest room down the hall, complete with an en suite bath and a walk-in closet that was bigger than her old dorm room.
Not that she had much to fill it. Everything she owned fit with plenty of room to spare: a large roller bag of clothing and toiletries, a couple of boxes of books, and a tall hiking pack stuffed with camping gear—a pop-up tent, a tiny stove, and a sleeping bag.
She owned exactly four pairs of shoes total: sneakers, hikers, black flats, and flip-flops.
At first, she seemed overwhelmed—lost in that empty space, like she didn’t quite believe she was allowed to stay. But after a few days, she began to make herself at home—claiming a favorite mug for her morning coffee, rearranging the bathroom drawers, napping on a chaise longue by the pool.
After a little while, we settled into a comfortable routine.
She had physical therapy in the basement three mornings a week, while I logged time on the treadmill beside her.
By late October, the scabs and bruises had faded, replaced by a pale-pink map across her arms and legs.
“Battle scars,” she called them. Sam didn’t care about appearances anyway—never wore makeup, never fussed with her short ponytail.
Her focus was always on what she could do, not how she looked doing it.
Afternoons were for small adventures: runs to the farmers market, drives down to Coconut Grove, even one disastrous attempt at renting bikes.
Sam insisted she “knew how,” then immediately veered into a palm tree and blamed the bike for “having an attitude.” We were doubled over laughing before we even made it out of the parking lot.
We stayed up late bingeing old horror movies, and she’d mock every predictable jump scare until I was gasping from laughter.
I’d never had that kind of fun with anyone—not even my friends from school.
For a while, it really did feel like a honeymoon. Like we’d finally hit pause on the rest of the world and found a rhythm that belonged only to us.
“So the deadline’s almost here for the spring semester,” my father mentioned over dinner one evening in early November.
They’d been dropping not-so-subtle hints for weeks that it was time for me to return to school, but I hadn’t done anything about it.
“I was thinking I might like to take some time and see some of the country,” Sam said, cutting into her roast beef.
My parents had raised me vegan, and there was something mildly unsettling about meat at our table. The housekeeper, though, was delighted to finally serve someone who appreciated it.
“Oh, really?” Mom asked, brightening. “I think travel is so important of a young person. Where were you thinking you’d like to go?”
“The Pacific Northwest,” my twin said, not looking up.
“There’s this place out in Oregon—the North American Wilderness Academy?
They train you to be a wilderness guide.
You learn orientation and navigation, first aid—even bear safety.
It takes like two months, but by the time you’re done, you’ve got a certification.
I was thinking . . . maybe instead of going back to college and doing all the classroom stuff, I’d just head out there and learn in the field.
Then, hopefully, I could get a job as a wildlife guide out there somewhere, or maybe even a park ranger.
It’s always been my dream to have a little cabin in the woods by the water. ”
Her face softened as she said it. For once she looked completely at ease.
“Well, now I think that sounds like an excellent plan!” Dad said a little too enthusiastically, probably calculating the distance between here and Oregon.
Then he turned to me. “Maybe you two can see each other at the holidays. Or when you’re on break between semesters.”
At this, my twin caught my eye. “I was actually hoping Mary might come with me. Just to help me get settled? Or . . . maybe even take the course with me? I mean, if she wanted to . . .”
I gasped, tossing my fork down. “That is an amazing idea! We could stay here through Christmas, then head out there after New Year’s!”
“That’s what I was thinking too,” Sam agreed with a small, almost shy smile.
But when I glanced around the table, I realized she and I were the only ones who were smiling.
“Mary,” Mom said, her voice tightening, “you really shouldn’t postpone school any longer. You’re already a semester behind everyone else.”
“Jesus, she’s not in middle school,” Sam said lightly, almost amused. My parents both stiffened at the language, which only made her raise her brows innocently.
“Meaning what, exactly, Samantha?” Mom asked through clenched teeth.
“Meaning she’s not getting held back or whatever,” Sam replied, unbothered. “Hell, she was there for like five minutes. She didn’t even have time to make any friends.”
Mom’s spine straightened a fraction—the profanity, the flippancy—but Sam either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
Dad stepped in. “We put a very high premium on education in this family. The sooner she finishes her degree, the sooner she can take her place at Langston Pharma, like her grandfather always wanted.”
“And what does Mary want?” Sam asked—not confrontational, just direct.
Three pairs of eyes swung toward me.
“I . . . uh . . . I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe take some time to work, travel. It might make me a better employee later. You guys both worked before joining Langston Pharma.”
Dad sighed. “Your mother and I both earned our degrees while working full time. It took years. We don’t want that for you. You should focus on school now—plenty of time to work later.”
“Exactly,” Sam said, pointing her fork in agreement. “Doug, you just said it—she’ll spend most of her life doing something she probably hates. Shouldn’t she get to enjoy herself first?”
Mom’s tone sharpened. “Your father and I will discuss this, Mary.”
Sam let out a soft, incredulous breath through her nose—not mocking, just . . . amazed.
Mom heard it anyway. “Is something funny about that, Samantha?” she asked icily.
“Actually, Theresa? Yeah,” Sam said, mirroring the cool formality of my mother’s tone. “You talk like she’s eight, not eighteen. She’s legally an adult. She can make her own choices.”
“We’re her parents,” Mom snapped. “It’s our job to guide her.”
“Oh, and I’m the danger she needs guiding away from?” Sam asked, voice still steady. “Jesus Christ.”
That did it.
Mom’s chair scraped back. “We do Not take the Lord’s name in vain in this house!”
Sam didn’t flinch. “Right. Sorry. Maybe you want to baptize me in the pool next?”
“Okay!” I said brightly, hands up. “Let’s not do this.”
I exhaled. “Look—I’ll go back to school. But maybe I take a gap semester first. I’ll tell the college I’m returning in the fall, and I can spend a few months out West with Sam. It’s a compromise.”
The tension stretched taut for several seconds until Mom finally sighed, her shoulders releasing. “All right,” she said quietly.
Dad looked ready to object but wilted the second she shot him a look.
Sam leaned back, muttering, “Just one big happy family.”
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, things between Sam and my parents had thawed only slightly.
They were polite with her, careful with their questions, but there was always a faint stiffness beneath everything—as if they were still trying to decide what box she belonged in.
Sam felt it too. She stayed helpful, quiet, and mostly out of the way.
The kitchen was its usual holiday chaos.
Mom orchestrated the vegan spread like a conductor—mushroom-lentil roasts, wild-rice stuffing, roasted vegetables, all her usuals. Meanwhile, the housekeeper happily handled the small turkey entrée for Sam and our guest, humming as she basted it.
I was lighting the candles when the doorbell rang.
“Mary, get that?” Dad called.
“Of course!” I called back. “Sam, come meet my Uncle Jules!”
“Yeah . . . just a sec,” she said, eyes glued to the cucumber she was peeling.
But at that exact moment, the housekeeper swooped past her with the roasting pan, someone opened a cabinet drawer right behind her, and she turned abruptly—bumping straight into the counter’s edge.
The cucumber slipped out of her hand, the peeler clattered to the floor, and she instinctively reached for a dish towel to mop up a smear of dressing . . . knocking that to the ground too.
“Ugh—sorry,” she muttered, crouching down to grab it all while everyone else kept cooking at full throttle around her.
Given how tense things had been with my parents, I knew she was anxious about meeting yet another person from the life I’d built without her. But with the tiny kitchen pileup, I figured she just needed a moment to collect herself. So I left her and ran to the door with a smile.
“Uncle Jules! Happy Thanksgiving!”