Arrival Gate

Two people meet, come together, form a relationship; two gametes meet, come together, form a zygote; multiply that times two and you have fraternal twins… like my brother Stephen and I.

As babies, Stephen took after our father with dark blond hair and grey-green eyes, while I resembled our mother with darker coloring. The summer before kindergarten our parents divorced, and Stephen moved out east with our dad. Mom and I remained in California where she was teaching at UC Santa Barbara. I was too young to remember details, but I knew that my parents’ breakup was anything but amicable.

Being raised by a single mom with progressive views did have its advantages. She was busy enough with classes and students that I had a certain degree of freedom. While we weren’t rich, our ranch style home was comfortable. I wondered what the situation was like for Stephen living in New York.

At first, I’d ask my mom when I could see my brother again, but she was always evasive. We’d exchange birthday and Christmas cards, with occasional photos, but there were never any plans to get together. I overheard a number of telephone conversations that ended with an argumentative tone of voice. Then, around the age of eleven, even that limited amount of contact stopped.

As I entered middle school and later high school, I felt a certain disconnectedness. I suffered, more than most, from teenage angst. I didn’t resort to anything as dramatic as cutting myself, but mom could see that I was depressed. She agreed with the school counselor that I should see a therapist.

As the years went by, I had more and more questions about the sibling with whom I’d shared a womb. My mother informed me that our father had remarried and was reluctant to dredge up the past. Finally, she admitted that she’d been the cause of their breakup and divorce, but she still declined to open up and say why.

Meanwhile, I was majoring in Spanish and minoring in French at Berkeley. Hanging on my bedroom wall, was a colorful Frida Kahlo print depicting the artist with a thorn necklace and hummingbird, monkey and black cat, lush vegetation and butterflies…so much symbolism. I was intrigued by writers like Gabriel Garcia Márquez and my wall contained this quote from Love in the Time of Cholera:

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

In search of this obligation to give birth to myself, I travelled to South America the summer after my senior year of college. Flying into Peru, I joined my hiking companion, Brooke, for the obligatory visit to Machu Pichu. Despite all the tourists, the Incan site in the Andes, literally and figuratively, took our breath away. Renowned for its stunning views, astronomical alignments, and stone walls configured without mortar, it’s no wonder so many people are drawn to this mountain location.

“Don’t you just love the llamas and alpacas?” I asked. “And the colorful blankets and clothing made with their yarn?”

“Guanaco and vicuña, too,” Brooke replied. “You do know they’re related to camels,” she added. Having visited Morocco with her parents, she’d actually ridden one in the Sahara. Always good to have a travel buddy with experience!

As our Spanish became more fluent, we were pleased to interact with the locals and sample offerings of the local comida. Brooke was squeamish about trying the roasted guinea pig that we jokingly referred to as nouvelle “cuy”sine, but both of us appreciated the variety of potato dishes and Asian fusion offerings. Even on a limited budget, we could find affordable places to eat.

***

Upon my return to California, I found a letter with a New York postmark sitting on my dresser. The return address took me by surprise since I hadn’t seen or heard from my brother in 17 years. My mother was consumed with curiosity, too, but allowed me the space to read the letter first. Setting my backpack in a corner, I sat on the bed and tore open the envelope. Stephen acknowledged that his letter would probably come as a shock, but he had some important news to convey.

He wrote that his father had terminal cancer, was only given a few months to live, and wanted his son to be able to reconnect with his birth mother. I say “his” father because that was our family’s long kept secret. I discovered that the divorce happened after Stephen’s father learned I wasn’t his biological son. At an out of town conference, during a period when their marriage was on shaky ground, our mother had reconnected with an old boyfriend, and I was a result of that liaison. But, as sometimes happens, that seemed to reignite her marriage, et voilà: fraternal twins.

Stephen’s father only learned of this when I was about four and came down with a severe bronchial infection. When he took me to the hospital, the emergency room doctor casually mentioned that my AB blood type was rather rare. That set off alarm bells since he was aware that my mother was Type A and he was Type O. Being a scientist, he knew that my biological father had to have contributed the B element.

In the closing paragraph of his letter, Stephen said he hoped we could meet again in the near future. He also admitted he didn’t know why his father had become so adamant about breaking off communication when we were approaching our teen years. I, however, had my suspicions.

After reading the letter, I went in the kitchen to confront my mother. She explained that she’d kept all of this a secret at the request of her ex. Also, my biological father had been in the States on a student visa and left after getting his master’s degree. A year after returning to Spain, he’d written my mom about his engagement.

Since I’d grown up in a state with a large Hispanic population, it was only natural that I would study Spanish, but my mother had certainly encouraged me. Now it made sense. She no doubt wanted me to have a connection with my father’s culture. I wonder if she’d planned to reveal her secret someday?

I was feeling overwhelmed: so much to digest. Remembering childhood photos, I could now understand why Stephen and I looked even more unalike than most fraternal twins. Besides having darker coloring, I was shorter than my brother and had more delicate features.

***

At Christmas time, we learned that Stephen’s father had passed away. Stephen wrote our mother and asked if he could come for a visit in January. Since I was now living in a small studio apartment near campus, he’d stay with her. Delighted that she’d finally get to see her son after so many years, she did some major clutter control and spruced up my former bedroom.

The Wednesday after New Year’s, I left for the airport. I’m not always punctual, but I was concerned about traffic and didn’t want to be late. When I pulled into the short-term parking, I was half an hour early. As I grabbed a book and walked toward the terminal, I was already feeling anxious about this reunion.

Checking the arrival board, I saw that Stephen’s flight was delayed by twenty minutes. I found an empty seat and opened my book, but was too distracted to read. A vague memory of our childhood visit to Disneyland surfaced and I remembered how we rode on the Jungle Cruise. Stephen was always the more rough and tumble sibling and a bit of a cut-up. Even in old photos, his extroverted personality shone through. Would he still have that love of the spotlight?

“Does he have any clue why his father cut off ties?” I wonder. It was right when we were both entering adolescence and I was having my identity crisis. I remember Mom discussing my situation on the phone, and sensing a lack of acceptance on the other end. Even in laidback California, some choices are controversial. On the east coast, too.

So now the moment was approaching: two people meet, come together, and possibly forge a relationship.

“What will that be like?” I ask myself. “Will Stephen be surprised, or does he already know? How will he react when he sees that I’m no longer Michael, but rather Michaela?”