On the evening of April Twenty Second, Nineteen Seventy Two, in a city in Colorado, the staff of a renowned but under renovations medical centre would have a shock as they took their evening break. As the two nurses stood under the overhang outside, trying to smoke their soggy cigarettes before going back inside to deal with the coughs and fevers and bandages that made up the night shift, a figure came towards them in the rain.
The water was coming down in sheets that night, and the girl, for she couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen, stumbled up the front steps, her clothes and hair plastered to her. She stood on the steps for a moment, catching her breath and holding her hands over her swollen belly.
Seeing that she was obviously in need of their help, the nurses quickly disposed of their cigarettes and went over to offer supporting arms and take the ratty old bag she clutched in one of her hands. They brought her into the warmth and light of the emergency room, and wrapped blankets around her as she sat in a small exam room.
Annie, who had two kids of her own at home, couldn't help but feel for the poor thing as she sat there, dazedly taking in her surroundings. She was beautiful, in a wistful sort of way, and her long dark hair fell down her back as it began to dry. In this light, Annie was sure she was couldn't be more than nineteen, but her eyes gave her an older, wearier look about her. She sipped the water brought to her gratefully, but she was slow to answer questions, reluctant to give her name, even. She did manage to get out that she was about seven months along, and hadn't seen a doctor for a long time. Annie resolved that she would, soon, but since it was so late and the girl was so exhausted, it might be best for her to get some rest first, and see the doctor on duty in the morning. The girl nodded listlessly at that suggestion, and heaved herself to her feet to follow Annie down the hall.
There was a rooming house next door to the medical centre, run by Seventh Day Adventists, and Annie knew they had beds available that night. This girl wouldn't be the first in her type of situation to be put up there, and it would be a good place for her to rest since it was much quieter than the hospital. The girl stayed silent on the quick walk over to the rooming house, and as Annie explained briefly the situation to the desk clerk. She followed Annie and the clerk down the hall to the room, which the clerk unlocked. Annie nodded approvingly as she led the girl inside. It was small but comfortable, with warm blankets folded on the bed. She arranged the girl's bag on the small bedside table, and the girl sank somewhat reluctantly to the bed, her hands on her belly.
"Well, this should do you for the night," said Annie brightly. "And however long you need it, I'm sure. At least until the little one comes." The girl nodded slightly, but seemed too overwhelmed to respond. "But you can think about all that in the morning," Annie added, arranging an extra blanket on the bed. "I'll send someone to fetch you, bring you over to see Dr. Vincent, and he'll be able to check you out and answer any questions you have, okay?"
The girl nodded, wearily, and reached one hand to clasp at something that was hanging around her neck on a chain. Annie peered at it, trying not to seem like she was staring. It seemed to be a small locket, possibly silver once but faded and tarnished. Still, it had tiny flowers on it and Annie imagined it was once beautiful.
"That's pretty," she said, motioning and the girl looked down at it.
"My mother," the girl said in a shallow voice.
Annie was going to ask if her mother had given it to her or if it contained a picture of her mother, but she stopped as she observed the girl's expression. Her jaw was set, as though she were determined to hold still with her teeth gritted, and her breathing seemed strained. She still held the locket clasped in one hand, and her other she held stiffly against her belly. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, and opened them. Annie could tell she was trying to hide something, but the look in her eyes was pained. She put a hand to her patient's arm, carefully.
"When did they start, honey?" she asked.
The girl looked at her sharply, and shook her head quickly. "I'm only seven months," she whispered.
Annie nodded, trying to speak in a tone that was both kind and firm. "I know, sweetie. When did they start?"
The girl let out a breath and shrugged. "They're getting worse," she said in a strained voice.
Annie nodded brusquely, and in one motion, reached for the bag from the side table and the girl's arm.
By the time Dr. Vincent had been paged, had driven through the rain, and had scrubbed in and arrived in the delivery room, the patient was labouring away, her face as white as a sheet, her breath coming in ragged gasps, punctuated by moans she couldn't restrain. Annie had tied back her long dark hair, and was wiping at her glistening forehead as the doctor introduced himself. One of the other nurses stood by the patient's side, offering her a hand to grip, but the girl seemed to prefer holding her locket tightly in her fist. The doctor performed a quick exam and then went over to the corner of the room to speak in hushed tones with the nurse who'd taken the patient's vitals. He stepped back over to his patient, and looked at her carefully.
"Did you know you were having more than one baby?" he asked.
Struggling to breathe, the girl shook her head. Annie felt a lump in her throat at the panicked look in the girl's eyes.
"It's alright," the doctor said in a gentle voice. "This'll just be a little more...complicated. But we'll take care of you."
"Are you sure there isn't anyone we can call for you?" asked Annie softly, wiping her brow again.
Letting out a shuddering breath, the girl shook her head. Annie took her hand and this time she didn't pull it away.
The night wore on, and the early morning light began to seep in through the windows. The labouring mother and her attendants fought on, trying to bring new life into the world. After much agonizing waiting and pushing, the first baby was born. Annie held her and marveled at her perfectly formed fingers, toes, nose and ears. The girl sobbed, but continued to work at delivering the second. The second was identical to her sister, and just as beautiful.
Annie let out a small chuckle in wonder at the baby, and turned to bend over the young mother. "You're done, honey. And you've done just fine -"
"Uh, Nurse Smith," came Dr. Vincent's voice, steady but with a hint of something Annie recognized. She swallowed and looked over at him. "I believe we've got another on the way," he said.
The girl did not look as surprised as the other occupants of the room this time, just continued to breathe
painfully. She looked up at Annie, and her eyes, though desperate and scared, now held a look of determination.
Annie tried to keep encouraging, telling this girl whose name she didn't even know that she was proud of her, that she would make it, that there was just one more and she could rest. It was becoming apparent, to everyone in the room, that the girl was struggling. The doctor worked frantically, doing what he could to help move the last child along. The mother fought, but everyone could see she was fading. Annie squeezed her hand and prayed.
At long last, the third child, a healthy baby boy, was hoisted up into the air, to the collective sighs and relieved laughs of the entire team. The three babies were quickly spirited away to the neonatal care unit and the team continued to fight for their patient. As Dr. Vincent tried frantically to quell bleeding that wouldn't stop, Annie smoothed back the new mother's hair and whispered to her that she had two beautiful little girls and a beautiful boy. The mother's face was chalk white and a single tear had run sideways across her cheek but she smiled faintly. She reached again for the locket around her neck, her fingers brushing against it, and to Annie's surprise, she pulled the nurse's hand towards the locket, guiding her fingers to the metal. Annie felt the shape of a cross under her finger tips, not flowers as she had thought adorned the locket before.
"Name them...after...today," the girl whispered.
"Sorry, honey? Name them after what?" asked Annie, aware that sometimes people said strange things when they were as far away as her patient was drifting.
"Their day," she insisted, squeezing Annie's hand and the locket in her own. She said something else, but it was so muffled Annie couldn't make sense of it. Whatever she was asking seemed to be connected to the locket, but Annie didn't know the connection. She decided that it didn't really matter, she would figure that out later, and now she would do what she could to comfort the girl who had come in from the rain.
As Dr. Vincent bowed his head and whispered that there was nothing else he could do, as Margie and Linda sighed sadly and looked over at their nameless patient, and Annie felt the strength giving out in the pale hand she held in her own, the girl breathed out and let go.
As Annie stood over the three babies an hour later, holding the locket in her own hands, she puzzled over the girl's wishes. Fingering the small cross on the front of the locket, she flipped it open. There was only a small, grainy black and white picture inside, of a woman with dark hair and bright eyes. The girl's mother, she decided. The nurses from the neonatal unit were filling out some paperwork.
"How are they?" asked Annie.
"Very healthy," said one of the nurses, a veteran in the unit named Joanne. "Especially for such early babies. We'll keep them a while, 'til they're a bit bigger. Then they can be adopted by someone." She smiled down at one of the babies, one of the girls, Annie realized. Both girls had bright red hair and absolutely identical faces. Annie glanced from one, to the other, and then to the boy. He had hair as dark as his mother's had been, and sharp eyes.
"What are we calling them?" asked Annie casually.
"Nothing, yet," replied Joanne. "In case we hear anything from the mother's family in the next few hours."
Annie shook her head. She knew that wouldn't happen, and the mother herself had given some instructions. Puzzled as she was, she felt suddenly a strong need to honour that lost young woman's final wish. "What's the date today?" she asked. She was always thrown off when she started work in the evening.
Marlo, the other nurse, glanced down at her clipboard. "April Twenty Third."
"April Twenty Third," Annie mused to herself. "And a Sunday, isn't it?" As she held the locket adorned with the cross it seemed oddly appropriate. She stepped up so that she stood right between the three baby beds. "I guess we know what your names are then," she said. "Sunday," she looked at the baby girl to her left, "April," she smiled down at the little girl in the centre, "And Twenty Third." The little boy seemed to be looking up at her with solemn eyes, and she had a feeling that was that.
The foundling triplets, or so they were affectionately called by the medical centre staff, grew and developed over the next few weeks. They remained healthy as they progressed, and they were so beautiful and good that everyone working in the centre, from their doctors and nurses to the night custodians, was in love with them. It was a bittersweet mood that hung over the nursery the day they were ready to leave for the good homes that had been arranged for them.
Annie came in the day the social workers arrived with the car seats and addresses, to say her final goodbyes. She'd heard that kindhearted adoptive parents had been found for each of them, and she was glad to see that they were getting the happy ending their mother hadn't lived to see, but she was just a little sad to see them go.
"Take care, you guys," she whispered, reaching to brush a finger along little Sunday's hand. Sunday gripped it in her baby fist.
"Live good lives, have fun if you can," she added, bending over to smile at April, who seemed to be watching her every move.
"And make your mother proud," she finished quietly, looking into Twenty Third's solemn eyes.
When the three social workers came to gather the three infants, Annie had one last parting gift for them. In the weeks since the death of the young mother, she'd taken the locket to a jewelry store and now, she held out two halves, each on their own chain. "One for each of the girls," she said. "So they have something from her." She glanced at Twenty Third, and pressed a baseball cap she'd found at the bottom of the girl's bag into the third social worker's hands. The social worker held it out questioningly. It was worn and had obviously seen its fair share of sweaty summer days, but Annie figured it must have meant something to the girl, if she'd been carrying it around in her only bag. She watched as the three children were carried out of the room and on to new lives, and as she'd done many times over the past few weeks, she said a silent prayer for them.
Each of the children went to a new home, and each received a new last name, though, by the request of the officials at the hospital where they were born, their original first names were kept. Sunday was adopted by a farming couple from South Dakota. They'd already opened their home to seven other adopted children, some of whom had names like Monty and Galadriel, so though they thought her name was a little strange, they promised she would fit right in. The social worker nodded approvingly at the big yard, noting in her file that it would do a child good to have the fresh air and structure of life on a family farm.
April went to a pair of missionaries who had never been able to have children of their own. They'd traveled the world, tending to the sick - for they were doctors - and spreading the good news, and now they were ready to settle down and raise a family. They took care of the people in their own community, a small town in Oklahoma, practicing medicine Monday through Saturday and shepherding souls on Sunday and most Wednesday nights. Though they'd been sad when attempts to conceive their own child had failed, the moment they laid eyes on little April they knew their prayers had been answered.
Twenty Third was also adopted by a pair of a believers, a small town preacher and his wife, who'd also never been able to have children. They'd prayed for a miracle, but had reluctantly begun considering that perhaps adoption was part of the good Lord's plan for their family. Doubtfully, they had gone to a meeting with a social worker, supposedly to talk about a little boy named Matthew, but they'd seen a different picture on the desk: a beautiful baby with dark hair, soulful eyes, and a strange name. Strange, but miraculous. The Twenty Third Psalm was their favourite, and they had known then that it was a sign. The adoption was arranged in twenty minutes.
So it was that the foundling triplets, christened Sunday, April, and Twenty Third, grew up in different families, in different states, unaware that they were not one or two but three of a kind, unaware of each other's existence. Until the day one of them made use of her parents' connections in the missionary world and her newly acquired library card and research skills to see if she had any other family members in the world.
April Hendricks was eleven years, ten months, seven days, sixteen hours and twenty two minutes old when she first discovered she had a sister, a twin, living only a few states, fifteen hours and a thousand miles away. Overjoyed to discover a piece of herself that had seemed to be missing all these years, despite her great love for her adoptive parents and the belonging she felt in their small town, she contacted her sister, Sunday, by telephone and arranged a visit. Her parents proudly waved goodbye as she rode away on her first solo bus trip, headed for a farm in South Dakota.
Sunday stood at the small bus stop with her adoptive father, and watched the girl with a smile, face, and shimmering head of hair identical to her own step off the bus, lugging her duffel bag and a plastic case Sunday would later learn contained her mandolin. April's clothes were neater and in better condition than Sunday's, her hair cut stylishly with her bangs trimmed, and the way she walked towards the only two people waiting at the bus stop, she seemed to have a different way of carrying herself than her sister. But as Sunday stared at her, it was still like looking in a mirror, and she knew in that moment that she was not a single nobody alone in the world but part of a matching set.
April threw her arms around her sister and sighed happily as tears formed in her eyes. Ever since she had found out she had a sister, she'd imagined what it would be like to meet her. She'd hoped it would feel like finding a missing puzzle piece, and to something much more complicated than the thousand piece Last Supper she'd recently assembled with her parents. She'd imagined that they would spend the visit learning everything about each other's lives and catching up on every little detail they'd missed since their separation so many years before. She hummed to herself as she packed her suitcase, thinking about the late night talks they would have, sitting up in their pyjamas. April would tell her sister about the joys and pressures of being the only child of a pair of such well respected community members as her doctor-missionary parents. They would giggle over the things they would find they had in common, and share their fears too. Her sister would understand, better than anyone else in the world, the strange sadness she sometimes felt on her birthday, or the puzzling question marks that seemed to hover over her imaginings of the future as she thought about growing up and possibly having a family of her own one day. The entire bus ride there, she'd stared out her window, trying to keep thinking hopefully about the possibilities, and trying not to let herself give in to any nervous worries floating through her mind. Sure, her sister would probably seem like a total stranger at first, but they'd shared a womb once. That had to count for something.
As April followed her sister's father to the truck, she breathed a sigh of relief, and tried not to step along too giddily. She could already feel the connection between herself and this long lost sibling. This would surely be a defining few days of her life.
Sunday followed April to the truck, struggling under the weight of her sister's duffel bag. She wondered what she'd possibly packed in there to make it so heavy. As she hopped into the back of the truck beside April, who was beaming as though riding in the back of an old pickup truck was an experience one should be excited about, she gave her new sister her biggest smile she could muster. The truth was, she was quite apprehensive about inviting this stranger with the same face as her to come into her life.
Sunday hadn't longed for brothers and sisters as she sat up by the window late at night, staring out at the stars. The presence of brothers and sisters was a gift she'd gotten in spades. Her parents had adopted their thirteenth child last year, a runny nosed little boy who pulled Sunday's hair when it was her turn to watch him. Sunday shared a bedroom with three sisters, and even had to share a bed with Scrawny, whose real name was Belle-Marie, but whose short stature and low position in the chronological order of the household had gotten her a less 'uppity' name that stuck. In fact, most of Sunday's life on the farm was characterized by sharing. Sharing and fighting over what should be shared. Sharing the chores demanded of them every morning, afternoon, and evening. Milking the cows, feeding the chickens, patching the roof, picking the fruit, pushing wheelbarrows and working in the fields in the hot sun. Fighting over the porridge in the morning, chicken bones at night in the middle of the too small table they'd all squish around. Sharing the same patched dresses and faded t-shirts, from one owner to the next, year to year, and pairs of shoes taped together when the bottoms started to fall off. Sharing the mocking stares they got on the bus and in the halls at school, and fighting over the scraps of their parents' affection that they had to go around.
No, another sibling wasn't what Sunday dreamed about as she sat up on the dresser in the window, wishing on stars and ignoring Betty Ann's snores, Galadriel's mumbled words, and hoping Scrawny didn't wake up and want a lullaby or a story. She imagined a world where she was special. One of a kind, unique, beloved, not for how quickly she could hoe a field, for how fast she could gather eggs, or fix a fence, but for being herself. She imagined that once she had come from somewhere, someone who had thought to give her a unique name, who had expected her to be someone very special indeed. She held onto that hope, from when she was a little girl, that perhaps someone, even that someone, would return to get her one day and rescue her from the chicken bones, duct taped shoes, and loneliness that pervaded her life.
Sunday had made the mistake once of writing a composition about her feelings and wishes as a part of a school assignment. She wrote a piece that described a longing for a home, something she'd never really felt in her own house, her own family. Her teacher, finding Sunday's words surprisingly moving, had her read it aloud, and as a result, the other children caught onto her belief that she was meant for something better, and begun teasing her mercilessly. Before, the only thing that had gotten her noticed was her red hair, which had made her the receiver of many carrot related jokes. Now, she was singled out as the orphan, the nomad who belonged nowhere. Sunday found herself missing the 'carrot-head' days.
Even her siblings caught on, and though they were all adopted themselves, they seemed to find her sense of entitlement insulting. Betty Ann, who was always writing nasty lyrics making fun of their principal at school, was the first to compare Sunday to another famous redheaded orphan with aspirations to greatness. "Will Sunday go home tomorrow?" she would sing as she skipped up the lane from the bus stop to the farmhouse. "Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, she'll be gone."
"I wouldn't bet on that!" someone else would always snicker, and everyone else would take up the chant.
By the time she was eleven years, ten months, seven days, sixteen hours and twenty two minutes old, she had given up hope of finding a new home. That was something that only happened in family movies and inoffensive stage plays. She held onto the hope that she would be special, unique, and appreciated somewhere else, someday. This is why, when she looked over at her sister on the ride home, she felt conflicted. Though she tried to be thrilled to find this actual blood relative who was so enthusiastic to catch up with her, she had a sinking feeling as she looked at April. A feeling that she was looking at a better dressed, better mannered, more accomplished, and possibly, happier version of herself. She felt a surge of envy. And a sinking feeling, again. Though they were twins, they would never be on even footing. April would want to get to know Sunday, and Sunday would want to know how it was to be April. As they neared the farm and April grabbed her hand in excitement, Sunday tried again to smile at her.
Sunday sat in near silence at the dinner table during April's first meal with the family. She felt an awkwardness, a nervousness, a near embarrassment though she wasn't sure for whom. Was she embarrassed for this sister to see the way these people she'd been raised by lived, fifteen baboons fighting over the same bunch of bananas? Or embarrassed for her family to see this prim, proper, overly enthusiastic version of herself sitting there, chattering on about prayer meetings and fracture clinics, politely pretending that chicken livers and watery mashed potatoes were the best food she'd ever tasted? She could already hear the snickering words her siblings would have to say to this girl, and she wasn't sure for whom the pit in her stomach had formed.
That evening the girls lay quietly in the bed, not whispering as April had imagined. Sunday closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, but she was sure April would know she hadn't drifted off yet. She could hear her sister's breathing beside her, and it even sounded like it matched her own. Sunday sighed and rolled over on her side, away from the invading twin. Scrawny lay on her cot on the floor, her thumb in her mouth. She always tried not to do it during her waking hours, for fear the others would tease her, but her thumb always seemed to find its way into her mouth as she fell asleep. She'd be really embarrassed if April saw her, Sunday thought with satisfaction. Scrawny had been upset to be kicked out of the bed, had pouted and whined pathetically, but she had cheered up when April had made up a bed time story for her. It had been a tale of fairies and dragons and good men and women doing kind and noble things. Much more cheerful than the stories of ghosts and stormy nights and little girls getting locked in closets that Sunday usually told her. Scrawny had climbed into April's lap to give her a hug goodnight. Sunday had rolled her eyes.
April felt strange as she pretended to be asleep in the dark. Her sister hadn't been interested in talking at all once they'd changed into pyjamas. She had been quiet, and now was pretending to sleep peacefully. Maybe she was a little overwhelmed, or liked to get an early start on her sleep, considering she lived on a farm and probably got up early. April hoped that that was it. There was something about this sister she hadn't quite expected as she made eager plans over the phone. Sunday seemed a little...sad. April puzzled over this, unable to fall asleep. She wasn't sure yet why Sunday was sad in this place. Her parents seemed friendly enough, letting this identical stranger visit their home and telling her not to help clear the table, since she was a guest. Sunday had many brothers and sisters, all the company anyone could ever wish for. And it was obvious the little one, who was now sucking her thumb on the floor, adored Sunday. She had a ready made group of friends to go to school with, and to run around outside with. Still, there was something wistful about Sunday, and April resolved she would get to the bottom of it and help her sister before the week was up.
Sunday fully expected her sister to meet the full wrath of her siblings over the next few days. To observe her parents' strange behaviour. To run away screaming. But April's week with the Hendrickson household did not go as Sunday expected. Her mother didn't let April help with any of the chores, saying she was the guest and chuckling bemusedly when April insisted on helping with the dishes, learning to milk a cow and making lunch for the whole gang. April was enthusiastic about joining in life on the farm, getting Sunday to explain how she did each task in the barn or in the yard. All of the brothers and sisters left her alone and none of them tried to lock her in the chicken coop, as they'd done to Sunday so many times. In fact, they didn't just tolerate her, they seemed to like her. Galadriel even lent her her bicycle, Bobby, the baby, would curl up beside her on the couch, leaning his head on her shoulder, and all of them listened politely, as though they were really interested, to April's stories of life in Oklahoma, her school friends, the baton twirling troupe she belonged to, her pet bunny, her parents' missionary positions. Sunday listened quietly to these things, trying not to let on the inner turmoil she felt at hearing about all the wonders that made up her sister's life, knowing it was something she would never see herself.
April tried her hardest, all week, to reach a better understanding of her new sister. In the hopes of encouraging Sunday to share her own thoughts and feelings, April told her everything about herself. She tried to turn the conversations to their shared secrets and past as well, pulling out the locket half she always wore around her neck, asking Sunday if she wore hers too. Sunday snorted that such a piece of jewelry would get ruined if it fell into the pig's trough or caught on someone else's shovel handle. Not to mention, if the others saw her bandying such an object about, it was likely to be snatched away. She kept it hidden. She didn't tell April where. April frowned, and wondered what topic would inspire Sunday to be more forthcoming. She was used to trying, and trying, until she succeeded - her mother said it was one of her most endearing qualities - but she was also used to succeeding, soon enough. Most people usually responded to her sunny disposition and charming pluck. Sunday seemed to grow more distant.
The night before April was set to go home, Sunday sat quietly on the bed as April brushed Scrawny's hair. Sunday listened half heartedly to April's prattling as she worked patiently on the tangles and knots that made up the rat's nest on Scrawny's head. April talked about how her mother would comb, brush, and braid her hair at home, how they enjoyed the quiet time together, how it made April feel special and loved. Scrawny sighed that she'd never experienced that - her mother had abandoned her, and no one would touch her set of tangles. Sunday snorted, wondering who could blame them. April chuckled and told Scrawny that she'd never known her real mother either, but that didn't mean she wasn't loved, and that she enjoyed brushing Scrawny's hair. The little girl beamed. Sunday leaned back and tried to ignore them as they continued talking. She noticed, though, after a few minutes, that they were talking about her.
"Why don't you brush Sunday's hair?" Scrawny was asking. Sunday began to object. She'd always taken care of her own hair, pulling apart the tangles with her fingers and forcing a brush through when needed. It wasn't as gleaming as April's was but it certainly didn't need serious attention like Scrawny's. April, however, was quickly insisting she would like to brush her sister's hair, and before Sunday knew it, she was seated in the middle of the bed, April running the brush through her hair and Scrawny watching eagerly.
Her hair soon shone, and Scrawny admired it, as did Galadriel and Betty Ann, who had come into the room as Sunday pretended she wasn't there. "Doesn't she look exactly like April now?" asked Scrawny.
"Well, not exactly. April has bangs," pointed out Galadriel.
Sunday felt all their eyes on her suddenly, and could feel herself beginning to protest before Scrawny even said "April could cut you some, couldn't you?"
April nodded slowly, trying to gauge Sunday's reaction. "I trim my dad's hair. Done it since I was nine. Gives us a chance to bond and talk about what we think of life." She looked pensive for a moment, and gave Sunday a tentative smile. "Can't I do this for you? Please?"
Sunday hid her irritation as the others all chimed in, saying she should do it, she would look just like April, how wonderful that would be.
Ten minutes later, Sunday sat, closing her eyes as her sister snipped away at her hair, wondering to herself how she'd ended up in this position.
When April was done, the others oohed and aahed. She stood side by side with her sister, looking in the bathroom mirror, and thought to herself that they looked so much alike, yet seemed so different. Much as she'd expected to find another half of herself, she'd found something else entirely in Sunday, and though she'd gotten to know about so much of Sunday's life, she didn't feel yet that she had really gotten to know Sunday at all. She felt slightly sad, as she caught her sister's eye in the mirror and smiled, but she resigned herself to make the most of the time she had left.
She tried once more that night to talk to Sunday as they fell asleep. She asked her one question. "Are you happy?" Sunday pretended to be asleep. April thought, slightly guiltily, that she was just a little glad to be going home tomorrow, if only for the chance to lay awake in her own room, free from Betty Ann's snoring and Galadriel's mumbling, and free from this puzzling sister.
The next morning, both sisters sat cheerily at the breakfast table. Everyone exclaimed that they couldn't tell the difference between the twins, though Sunday knew this was ridiculous. April's neatly coordinated top and shorts set her apart from Sunday, in her faded t-shirt and cutoff shorts, before anyone could examine them any closer and see the real difference between them. She resolved to be nice to her sister for the rest of the time she was there, finding it easier now that there was an end to their visit so clearly in sight.
April had also resolved to continue trying with her sister in the time she had left. It didn't seem very difficult, considering she knew she could get on the bus in a few hours and go home to a place where, though none of her family shared her blood, she knew exactly where she fit in and didn't feel confused over things like love and understanding. She offered to help Sunday with her morning task of gathering eggs.
The twins gathered eggs mostly in silence. April stole glimpses at her identical sister, wondering how her face could seem so familiar, yet be so difficult to read. Sunday glanced around at the walls, the manure stained floors, the feathers floating through the hazy squalor, and thought of how many times her siblings had locked the doors, barricading them from the outside, ignoring her pleas from the inside. April would get to leave the chicken coop in a few minutes, and the farm, in a few short hours. She would get to escape. Sunday pulled back her hand as Bessie, her least favourite chicken, pecked at her. It wasn't fair, she thought. She would never escape the chicken coop. Why was it that April would? What did she have that Sunday didn't? They'd shared the same womb after all. They had the same face. Suddenly, an idea sprung into Sunday's mind. An awful idea. An awful, yet irresistible idea.
April finished scooping up the last egg, giving the hen sitting over the nest an affectionate pat. She handed it to Sunday, who deposited it in her basket with a quick 'thank you', and then began following her twin out of the darkness of the chicken coop and towards the light.
As they neared the door, Sunday dropped the basket of eggs. A crunching noise was heard. At her horrified look, April couldn't help but try to console her. "It's alright, Sunday," she said, bending over quickly to assess the damage. "Only a few are broken." She began scooping up the unbroken eggs that had slid sideways from the basket. "No use crying over broken eggs, my mom would say," she continued with a chuckle. She glanced up. Sunday had vanished.
"Sunday?" asked April hesitantly.
The door swung shut, plunging the small room into near darkness. April could hear someone shuffling something around on the other side of the door, even as she tried the handle, tried to put her weight against the door. It wouldn't budge.
On the other side of the door, Sunday finished laying the board into place across the door frame, and walked away, brushing her hands off.
Elmer Hendrickson drove a quiet April Hendricks to the bus stop around midday. His adoptive daughter had not come when he'd called her, shouting it was time to drive her sister home. He knew she'd probably be upset later, but he didn't have all day to go scouring the barn yard for her. April told him she'd already said her goodbyes, and sedately hopped into the back of the truck.
When Walter and Rose Hendricks met their daughter at the bus stop in Oklahoma, she seemed different. Quieter, more worn out than they'd expected her to be. When she'd gotten home from baton twirling camp, she'd talked excitedly the whole car ride home, but this time, she was tight lipped about her experiences. Her parents assumed, and agreed when they discussed it later, that she was busy thinking about whatever profound, life changing things she'd figured out about herself and her past, and was happy just to get home.
They were further surprised when she left her mandolin case in the car. Her father brought it in, and instead of being overjoyed to see it and relieved she hadn't left it somewhere, or somewhat troubled at her own unusual carelessness, she just nodded dully, not even thanking her father for rescuing it. Instead of asking for a late night cup of hot chocolate and some cookies, as they had expected April to do, she agreed compliantly to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Her parents were a little disappointed - their late night hot chocolate and cookie talks were something they'd missed while she was gone. They were further puzzled when she went upstairs and turned in the wrong direction, left to the linen closet, instead of far right to her bedroom. Her mother chalked it up to exhaustion from travel and whirlwind bonding. Walter and Rose both came in to kiss April good night, and she didn't call out an extra good night as they stood in the doorway, as per their tradition. Her father chuckled at how glad she must be to sleep in a quiet house again, after all those nights in the crowded farmhouse.
Over the course of the next day, Walter and Rose became concerned that something more than exhaustion was affecting their daughter. Rose noted how quickly and quietly she scarfed down her breakfast, including a banana she grabbed from the centre of the table. She hadn't known April to eat a banana since the unfortunate time she'd left one in her schoolbag for too long and it had smushed onto all her notebooks and gym clothes, leaving a bad association and smell in its wake. Walter noticed April standing awkwardly at the edge of the third graders' field in the playground after he dropped her off before school. He couldn't remember the last time he'd dropped her off and not seen her surrounded by her gaggle of friends before she could cross the playground, but now she wasn't even standing in the right spot. Next, April didn't show up for the lunch time program at the community centre across from her school. She almost always came on Mondays to help her parents run the free lunch program, handing out pieces of bread or helping someone choose which soup to try. Her mother called the school, and learned April was just fine, but claimed not to have remembered her volunteering commitment. Privately, Rose thought to herself that her daughter was not fine. Was not herself.
The end of the following evening, after April had gone to bed, Rose and Walter had a frantic discussion. They had become certain, over the course of the day, that their beloved April had not returned at the end of her week away. The girl sleeping in April's bed at the moment was an imposter. She hadn't remembered how to say grace at the table, she hadn't offered to clear the table before dessert, and, her mother had noticed when she sat down at the table that her fingers and palms were grubby. April had been careful, vigilant even, about washing her hands since she was three years old and her parents had explained, using their best simple yet medically accurate descriptions, why one should avoid contamination. Faced with overwhelming evidence, they concluded that their daughter was out there in the real world, and they had been softly encouraging a look-alike to talk about her week away from home. It was troubling, and unexpected.
"She must have had her reasons, though," said Walter thoughtfully. "For switching places with her sister."
"Something she wouldn't talk to us about?" asked Rose. "But she always comes to us with everything. It's not like her to pull something that would make us worry."
They decided to go straight to the imposter to find out more. Knocking on April's bedroom door, they entered when the redheaded girl, so like their daughter, called that they could come in. The fake April sat cross legged on the bed. Walter stood over her, folding his arms and clearing his throat gruffly. Rose sat gingerly on the bed beside her, worried for her own child but thinking, in the midst of all of this, how much the girl seated beside her could be her child. She was wearing April's plaid skirt and knit sweater, her hair brushed back neatly, and those eyes were so familiar. And the locket dangling from her neck was just like April's. Rose reached for it, grasping it between her fingers, looking down at the black and white photograph inside it. Her own daughter's locket had no picture, just the shape of a cross covering the front of it. The girl who was not April looked up at her, questioningly.
"Where's April?" asked Rose quietly.
Surprise momentarily flashed through the girl's eyes, but then something else took its place, something determined and almost smug. Not like April, the few times she ever tried to hide something. It made Rose shiver.
"She's fine," said non-April.
"Why didn't she come home?" asked Walter.
"She decided to stay a little longer," shrugged non-April.
"Without talking to her parents?" asked Rose, unable to keep the note of emotion from rising in her voice. "Well, we're going to be talking to her about it. Walter, let's go get the Hendricksons' number."
"No! You don't have to call her," non-April said quickly, arranging her face to appear nonchalant too slowly for April's parents not to catch the panic in her voice. Without another word, Rose and Walter left the room and headed downstairs to their rotary phone.
The next morning, the Hendricksons' yard was filled with people: police officers from Oklahoma and South Dakota, a few local reporters, all the Hendricksons and Rose and Walter Hendricks, who stood with their arms wrapped around their daughter, the real April Hendricks. The facts, as they learned over the next hour, were these:
Trapped in the chicken coop by her own sister, April had at first panicked and then, after counting to five, she spent some time sitting on a scrap of wood, wondering to herself what had gone so horribly wrong in her relationship with her long lost twin. Waiting to see if Sunday was simply playing a horrible trick on her and would come back soon, April passed a few hours patiently. When it became apparent rescue was not on its way, April climbed to the beams near the ceiling, pried some loose roofing apart and escaped the chicken coop herself. She found Sunday's siblings nearby, but no Sunday herself. The others told her that April had gone home, intoning that they wished she could've stayed. April informed them that she herself was April, and was greeted with howls of laughter and teasing. They had all seen April riding in the back of the truck an hour ago, and how could she be April, the neat and tidy girl who cut hair, twirled a baton, and played the mandolin? Her hands were dirty and her arms bore scratches, and her hair was a mess. April explained that Sunday had locked her in the chicken coop, she'd gotten her battle wounds escaping, and she showed them her locket, with the cross on it, as proof of her identity. The siblings realized it was her, but realized almost as quickly that their wishes had come true. The real April was there with them, and Sunday had finally gone away. They expressed their joy at the switch. April was not as thrilled.
That night, as she had continued to insist to Elmer and Inez Hendrickson that a terrible mistake had been made, the brothers and sisters around the table had insisted the opposite. She was Sunday, up to her usual tricks because she wanted to go to Oklahoma, and shouldn't be paid any attention. Sunday had claimed often enough that she didn't belong in their house, and though she'd never invented such an elaborate story, it didn't seem out of character, so the parents shrugged it off and reminded her it was her turn to fold the laundry.
Throughout the next day, the siblings kept the secret so that they could keep their favourite twin, the parents kept ignoring April's pleas to send her home to Oklahoma, and April learned, first hand, what a day at Sunday's school was like. Wiping the fruit punch off her shirt in the bathroom after someone had knocked it over on her lap as they walked by, she thought bitterly that she would almost feel sorry for Sunday if she hadn't pulled such a scheme of betrayal on her. She resolved that if she couldn't convince the Hendricksons of her identity that night, she would telephone home herself, while they were out doing evening farm chores. Her own parents would surely know her the moment she spoke with them.
An hour before she was set to put her plan into action, her parents telephoned looking for her. The next day, Elmer and Inez Hendrickson fell over themselves in guilt and embarrassment, apologizing to April's parents, the police, the reporters, saying that they had no idea Sunday was capable of such a stunt. Overjoyed to be reunited with their child, Rose and Walter ignored the cameras and got her home as quickly as they could. Sunday was also sent into the house with an ominous "You'll be dealt with later," by her parents, who were soon handed a summons for her court appearance.
After a good night's sleep and a talk with her parents, April decided not to press charges against her sister turned identity thief. She was hurt by Sunday's actions, but still felt for her. Her memories of her time in South Dakota left her with conflicted thoughts and feelings. She felt a deep sorrow for her sister - the life she was living and the way she had treated her - but she didn't have any desire to fall victim to her again. In the end, the Hendrickses got a restraining order against Sunday, and the judge let her off with a warning, saying she was to listen to her parents and she was never to contact her sister again.
Sunday abided by the rules that had been imposed on her, and April didn't hear from her sister again, though she thought of her often as she grew up. Going through middle school and adolescence, she wondered sometimes if her own sister was experiencing the same things she was. Her first date, first time voting, and the day she got into medical school, she imagined what it would have been like to tell her sister about these things. Her first big breakup, the first time she saw someone die in the emergency room where she interned, and the night her parents were both killed in a hit and run, she sat alone sobbing, and wished briefly that her long ago dreams of having a sister to lean on, understand her, had come true instead of being dashed.
April made do without a sister, even after her parents died. She had been taught so many things, they'd given her so much, she felt strong and able to cope with life herself. But she sometimes felt so strongly that something was missing, she would clutch her locket in her fingers and try not to think of that long lost sister. Even when she felt she'd found a new family to belong to, the Greens of Jericho, as she fell in love with their son Eric and became engaged to be married, she wished she had family of her own to invite to the wedding. That was why, in a fit of nostalgia and deep longing one night, when she couldn't sleep, she sipped a glass of chardonnay and addressed a wedding invitation to Sunday Hendrickson.
She didn't hear from Sunday as the other RSVP's started to come in, and she hadn't really expected to. She didn't even tell Eric she had invited Sunday. He didn't need to hear the whole sordid tale of their strange shared past and one time meeting, especially since it was unlikely they would ever cross paths with her again. Better to let the sleeping dog lie. April put aside thoughts of her estranged twin as the wedding drew nearer and she became consumed with the more pleasant thoughts of all the last minute preparations, like where to get her hair done and what they'd do for a backup if the photographer really had mono.
The wedding took place on a beautiful day, and the photographer had recovered from his flu in time to photograph the bridal party before the ceremony. April smiled as she held her bouquet, thought happily of the vows she'd practiced, waved at her mother's cousins who had made it in from Colorado, and didn't find herself worrying about anything else.
In the corridor of the church, a woman with beautiful red hair stood awkwardly clutching the locket around her neck. "April, aren't you supposed to be getting your picture taken?" asked Shep Cale as he struggled by with a part of an archway he'd been cajoled into setting up.
"Oh, yeah, will do," she said distractedly. A second later, she turned to him, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. "And where am I supposed to be doing that?"
He paused, flustered, and merely pointed to a doorway. As he left and she found herself alone in the hallway, Sunday Hendrickson let out a careful breath. Glancing at the door a few feet away with the piece of paper, marked 'Bride's party' taped to the door, she stepped over. Taking one more breath, she knocked hesitantly, and hearing a "Come in! If you're not the groom, that is," followed by laughter, she opened the door slowly.
April stood in the centre of the room, decked out in a satin, flowing wedding dress. When she saw who stood in the doorway, she sloshed the glass of champagne she was drinking right down the front of her. "Sunday?!" she sputtered.
The woman with short red hair, who had been standing beside her, fitting the veil on her head with an almost motherly affection, quickly moved to wipe the front of the bride's dress with a napkin, muttering words of comfort. The other two women in the room, bridesmaids by the look of them, were also distracted by the dress mishap, but April's eyes were still locked with her sister's. "Why don't you get out of the dress, honey, and I'll see what I can do?" the motherly woman was saying. April nodded, still solemnly, and then the other three turned to look at the identical stranger in the doorway. "You do that, and we'll...leave you to catch up," the woman added.
A few moments later, April was standing there in yoga pants and a t-shirt, her dress draped over a chair as the woman she'd introduced as her mother-in-law to be sponged at the champagne, and she was grabbing Sunday by the arm and leading her into the hallway. "So," she said when they were finally alone. "You're here."
"Well, you invited me, didn't you?" smirked Sunday.
April gave an odd shrug. "Didn't know if I should."
"Didn't know if I should come," returned Sunday. "So why'd you invite me then?"
"You're my family," said April. "And it's my wedding."
"Happily ever after, right?" asked Sunday with a wry chuckle.
"I hope so," said April.
"Who's the lucky guy?" asked Sunday.
"Eric Green."
"Doctor?"
"Lawyer. Someday."
"And his parents? That was his mom, right?"
"Yeah. His dad's around somewhere too. He's the mayor. They're great." April gave a small smile, and couldn't quite hide her own anticipation to be a wife and daughter-in-law. Sunday caught it quite clearly.
"Well, I'm happy for you," lied Sunday.
"Thanks," whispered April. After a second's hesitation, she asked "Are you happy?"
"Sure," lied Sunday.
"Good," said April. For a strange moment, the sisters stood, face to face, in an awkward silence.
"I guess I should get back in there," began April, motioning to the room, and adding "And you can go in and have a seat, the ushers will -"
She didn't get to finish her sentence. As Sunday glanced furtively around, noticing no one else was in the hallway, she made a sudden move. She grabbed April by the arm, yanked her towards an open supply closet, and before April knew what was happening, wrestled her inside and shut the door, pushing a heavy table covered in biblical brochures in front of it. It was a heavy door and April's cries and poundings from inside the closet were muffled. Sunday stood still for a moment, and turned, going back to the bridal party preparation room.
"Dress is ready," Gail Green said, looking up, just a little surprised to see the April look-alike there, without April.
"She asked me to get it for her," supplied Sunday. "She's in the bathroom, washing her face. Pre-wedding emotional stuff. Happens, especially to people like us, with sad family backgrounds."
Gail gave a slightly surprised but understanding nod. "Does she want me to come help her?"
Sunday shook her head, already gathering the dress in her arms. "Nah, I'll take care of her. She's my sister. You just make sure everyone else is ready for when she comes back, okay?"
Gail nodded, worried for her beloved daughter-to-be, wondering why she'd never spoken of her sister in the long talks they would have over tea, and trying to clear her mind of such troubling thoughts given the joyous occasion which was about to unfold.
A few minutes later, the bride returned to the room, wearing the barely stained dress and veil. She assured Gail that she was alright, in fact never better, and explained that her sister had gone to take her seat already, since the ceremony was about to begin. Gail nodded, and since it was that time, handed her her bouquet and shepherded everyone out into the hallway, which was crowded now with last minute stragglers headed towards the main room.
As the music began to play, Gail squeezed the bride's hand and went in to take her place. The first bridesmaid began her march down the aisle. The second followed soon after. The bride stood hesitantly in the doorway for a moment, looking into the sanctuary and down the aisle for the first time.
She hadn't been certain that this was what she wanted, until moments earlier, standing opposite her sister. Seeing the woman her sister had become, and imagining her future falling into place after the festivities were over. She had never considered marriage seriously before, never known if she believed in it or if she should dare to hope for it. But she had wanted it so much, in the moment, and knowing she could have it, so easily, was enough to push her right into her snap decision.
She paused now, as she saw the roomful of people stand, the heads swivel back to look at her. Their smiling faces were all pointed in her direction, a whole room of people giving her undivided attention. It was suddenly overwhelming. Her eyes flitted across the groomsman standing in the front, the groom's parents, smiling broadly, the bridesmaids already nearing the end of their walk. And then the groom. Eric Green. Looking at her with a big grin on his face.
A few things happened in quick succession. The bride stood still for a tense moment, turned, and gathering up her skirt, ran down the hall, away from the smiling faces. At the other end of the hall, Phil Constantino, the sheriff of the neighbouring town of New Bern, heard a strange commotion coming from a closet as he was attempting to sneak in late. He pushed aside the table barring the door, and registered an expression of shock as the woman he knew as Dr. April Hendricks, soon to be Green, tumbled out of the closet. Equally shocking was the moment a second later when a woman in full bride regalia, who also seemed to be Dr. April Hendricks, soon to be Green, rushed down the hall and stopped, standing a foot from the first April, her expression one of shock. Meanwhile, the mother of the groom, seeing the bride's sudden disappearance, had dashed down the aisle, shouting over her shoulder at no one in particular to wait. The father of the groom had dashed after her. They arrived, breathlessly, a few moments after the second April, and Constantino took this as his cue to nod hello to Johnston Green and then slip past the entire scene and take his seat in the sanctuary.
By the time Gail and Johnston had arrived on the scene, April, who had emerged from the closet, was staring at her sister and two time identity thief with a look of rage, her hands balled into fists by her side.
"Go take that off," she said in a low, dangerous voice, nodding at the wedding dress she had lovingly picked out months earlier. "Before I rip it off you."
The first time Sunday had attempted to steal April's place in her own life, April had been devastated. She had spent many nights crying over the bizarre, traitorous behaviour of her only known blood relative. After years of trying to understand what had gone on that strange week, adult April was merely furious. Her sister, finally showing a sign of being interested in having a relationship again, only to attempt to steal the most important day of her life from her, was simply too much to bear.
Johnston, not having a clue what was happening but sensing an altercation of catastrophic proportions, tried to step in. "Now, ladies, how about we just take a second to catch our breath, and April, why don't you..." He trailed off, looking from one woman to the other. "Which one is April?" he whispered to his wife.
Before either could respond, Gail motioned to the redhead in the yoga pants. "That's April, of course."
Johnston looked back and forth between them, uneasily, and without him saying anything, Gail rolled her eyes. "I think I'd know which one was my daughter-in-law. And I was with her at the salon this morning." They all glanced at April's shining curls, and then at Sunday's hair, straight as a pin underneath the veil. Gail wordlessly took the veil from atop her head. "Why don't you go get out of that dress," she suggested, in a tone recognized by all who knew her as a dangerous warning. "I'll be right out here," she said, motioning to the single bathroom reserved for parishioners with disabilities. Without a word, Sunday went into the bathroom. A few moments later, Gail had retrieved the dress, Sunday had changed into the clothes April flung into the bathroom, and the sisters stood in a tense standoff again. Before anyone could say anything, a bridesmaid had appeared behind the small group. "Reverend Young wants to know what the hold up is," she said.
Gail gave an impatient sigh. "It's going to be fine, just give us a moment." She sent April a bracing smile. The bridesmaid continued to stand there awkwardly. "Oh, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Gail, ushering the bridesmaid back towards the sanctuary and following closely behind.
Johnston watched her go, and then turned back to the sisters, unsure which one looked more likely to erupt with whatever emotions he could see brewing in them. He folded his arms uncomfortably. Neither woman seemed to notice him, however.
"How dare you!" April spat out. "The one day that's supposed to be about me. The one day I get to be special!"
Sunday finally seemed to gain her composure, enough to scoff. "Every day is about you. You're always special!"
April seethed, but narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"
Sunday folded her arms. "Don't think I've kept track of you all these years? I've seen the pictures of you, the articles. In the college newspaper, the hospital newsletter, The Jericho Record. Always doing something special, aren't you? Making the Dean's list, saving the world, living happily ever after!"
"You don't know me," said April.
"Yeah, I do," said Sunday. "You're me, but better. Everything you do is better, everything around you is better. Everyone loves you better."
"I'm not you," April said in a shaking voice.
"You could have been," said Sunday. "I've asked myself a million times. Why you, and not me? Why me, and not you? We're the same, except for where we ended up. How's that fair? You're me, but lucky. That's all."
"Don't put your life onto me. I am who I am because of the choices I make. And your choices are your fault!" April exclaimed. She really couldn't believe she was having this conversation with the estranged sister she'd escaped from years ago, on her wedding day, but she was so furious now she couldn't keep her voice from rising. Luckily, as per a request from Gail, the organist was now playing a rousing rendition of When The Saints Come Marching In.
"Don't act like you're so high and mighty, Saint April," scowled Sunday. "Am I supposed to be impressed with you, inviting me to your wedding after banning me from your life?"
"So what, you try to take over my wedding instead, make that all about you?" asked April, her eyes flashing.
"I was going to. 'Til I saw your groom and realized what a bore that would be. Your life's boring, for everything you have, isn't it?" asked Sunday. "What's the use of having everything if you can't even have a little fun?"
"I don't have everything. You don't know what you're talking about," said April, stepping closer to her sister, staring her down.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Your life must have been so difficult. Must've been so hard, having a nice house and nice things and nice parents -"
April lunged at her sister then, and for the first time in her life, April Hendricks unleashed her wrath upon another human being. "Don't you talk about my parents!" she shouted as she tackled Sunday to the ground. The sisters struggled, Sunday caught off guard by the force of April's rage, April giving in to the fury she felt but not knowing how to hurt someone in a fight, swinging at Sunday any way she could. "Don't talk like you know me! You are not me!"
Johnston took this moment to intervene. "Take it easy there, girls," he said gruffly, gently grabbing April's arm, pulling her off of Sunday, pulling them both to their feet. April continued to swing at her sister, Sunday continued to struggle back, and Johnston said firmly "That's enough."
Furious still at everything Sunday had said and done, and more furious at having to be reprimanded by her father figure, April spat out "We are nothing alike."
Sunday took a step backwards, and for the first time ever, April saw tears forming in her eyes. Her hand had gone to the locket half, the one with the black and white photograph, around her neck. "We're two halves," she said quietly, holding it up.
April glared at her for a moment, reaching for the locket around her own neck. Hesitating for a moment, her hand closed around it, and in one movement, she tore it from around her neck and flung it to the ground. "We're not!" she said. "Ever again." She turned her back, and started to walk away.
Sunday looked down at the locket on the ground. "I hate you," she whispered.
April turned. "Get out," she whispered back. She turned to look at Gail, who had reappeared just as Johnston had pulled the sisters apart and was now looking at the true bride with concern. "I need a new 'something old'."
"Okay, honey, let's get you into your dress," said Gail, taking charge of the situation and leading April away from the scene, turning back to exchange a glance with Johnston.
Johnston turned back to the imposter who had almost married his son. He intended to give her a good talking to, with a warning, when he escorted her outside, but he was distracted by a voice.
"Mayor, everyone wants to know what's happening," said Shep Cale, panting as he jogged up to them.
Johnston gave a quick nod. "I'll go tell them to hold their horses. Will you escort this young lady off the premises please?"
Looking rather perplexed, Shep agreed.
The rest of the wedding was mostly free from crises, with the exception of a disappearing act from the best man and his friends, some confusion over the speeches, and an incident where the groom's brother swore he'd seen the bride kissing Shep Cale. April forced herself to put aside her anger and sadness at the loss of her sister and the last of her childhood illusions about where she'd come from, choosing to focus on her future and the happiness she felt as she spent that day with her new family and her old friends.
April still thought of her sister from time to time over the years that followed, but began to let go of the hurt and anger, resigning that the relationship was dead. She sometimes wondered, none the less, if she would ever catch a glimpse of Sunday again. Whether she should be nervous, angered, or intrigued should it ever happen. She needn't have worried, it turns out. April Green would never again lay eyes on Sunday Hendrickson, for the rest of her life.