You have a wonderful life. You’re a success. Everything makes sense to you.

Then one day the phone rings, and the caller asks for your help. What happens next turns your world upside down, as you will see in . . .

Repairing The Terrible Twos

     My name is Tom Archer and I’ve been working for Jefferson, Martin, and Smith for twelve years. As an advertising firm, we have become a leader in assisting private companies to increase sales. Our success in marketing hard to sell products has become legendary in the business.

     I gazed out the window of my sixth floor office of the Keesler Building, located on the corner of Third and Madison, just across the street from “Heaven,” when the phone rang. I reached for it and said, “Archer speaking.”

     No answer. I began to hang up, when a soft, pleasant voice murmured, “Mr. Archer, Tom Archer?”

     “Yes, this is Tom Archer. How can I be of assistance?”

     “You don’t know me, Mr. Archer, but someone who you have done work for referred me to you.”

     “That’s great. But who are you?”

     “The man who suggested I give you a call, Terrence Harper, said you had the expertise to make things happen.”

     “You didn’t answer my question.”

     “And I’m in need of some serious help.”

     “Why do you keep avoiding my very simple question?”

     “Let me outline my problem. Two years ago, I started a business to pair people up with a significant other they had lost.”

     “Oh, matchmaking, like eHarmony.”

     “Well, no. I don’t think you’re following me.”

     “Then what? You help them cope with death or divorce?”

     “No, no. Nothing like that.”

     “This is getting very frustrating. Stop being so elusive and get to the point.”

     “Be patient. This is not easy for me. I think I may have to call you back.”

     She hung up without saying good-bye. Just slammed the phone down. I didn’t know what to make of it. So I stared out the window, looking toward “Heaven.”

     Then I heard someone enter my office. I swiveled around in my chair to see who it was.

     “Tom, what are you staring at?”

     “Oh, Jason. Nothing really. Just got off the phone with a crazy woman. I couldn’t even get her to tell me her name.”

     “I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do unless she calls back.”

     “ Yeah, I know. But . . .  “

     “No buts, just leave it alone.”

     Before I could utter another word, Jason, Jason Martin, one of our managing partners, turned and exited my office, leaving me with thoughts of the strange woman still lingering in my mind. Thinking I needed to get some work done, I turned and hit the keyboard and my computer screen came alive. As I looked through my emails, the phone rang. Grabbing it, I sputtered, “Archer, speaking. May I help you?”

     “Tom, it’s me, Melanie Warren.”

     The voice, sounding feeble, was that of the woman who had hung up on me. “Okay, Melanie Warren. Are you going to hang up on me again?”

     “I apologize for the abrupt end to our call, but I got cold feet. I began to think I was wrong for calling you in the first place.”

     “But why?”

     “Well, it’s complicated.”

     “How so?”

     “Not quite three years ago, I received an anonymous call. What the caller told me rattled my peaceful world.”

     She paused. My impatience got the best of me, so I pushed her to continue. “In what way, Melanie?” I asked in a somewhat abrupt manner.

     “He told me I had a twin brother. Thirty-seven years ago, my mother gave birth to a baby boy, named Samuel, and me. My parents were very poor. Caring for two babies seemed like an impossibility, so they turned to the church in their small country town for help.”

     The phone went quiet. “Melanie, did you hang up on me again?”

     “No, I’m still here. This is hard for me to talk about. What my parents had to do blew me away. Apparently, twelve pairs of twins had been born during a sixteen-month period, all to families struggling to survive. The church labeled the epidemic, “The Terrible Twos.”

     “That’s pretty harsh.”

     “Not as harsh as telling these beleaguered families they must give up one of their twins. They weren’t given any other option. So, my parents, fearing they would lose the church’s blessing, gave my brother up for adoption. They, and the others in the same position, were ordered never to tell the child chosen to remain with them that they had a twin sibling, or the wrath of ‘Heaven’ would fall upon them.”

     “So, who was the caller who told you about your twin brother?”

     “I have no idea. But that’s when I began thinking of ways to find Samuel and the other missing twins. And out of this need came the birth of my business, “Repairing the Terrible Twos.”

     “Okay, but I don’t know why Terrance suggested you call me? What can I do? Our agency does advertising for companies trying to sell products. We don’t find babies. Hire a private detective.”

     “I did. Three of them. All proved to be unsuccessful in finding my twin brother or in providing me with any helpful advice. When I mentioned this to Terrence, he told me to contact you. He said, through your vast array of nontraditional advertising techniques you might catch the eye of one or more of the separated twins.”

     “Hmm, I don’t know what to say.”

     “This must be hard for you to understand, coming from a normal family. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

     “No. I’m an only child.” I paused for a second. “I’m adopted,” I replied, my voice shaking.

     “Do you know anything about your birth parents?”

     “Nothing. I’ve been too busy to look into it. Or, to be honest, too scared.”

     “Well, maybe working with me will help you uncover the secrets of your own past.”

     Reluctant to respond, I just shook my head.

     “Are you still there, Tom?”

     “Yeah, I’m still here. By the way, do you happen to remember the name of the church?”

     “Yes, it’s now embedded in my mind and soul. It’s called, ‘The Blessed Heaven Sanctuary of God.’ Most of the townspeople referred to it as just ‘Heaven.’ And others called it ‘Hell.’”

     “My God, there’s a church called “Heaven’ across the street from my office. I see it every day from my window. Do you know if your parents’ church has branches?”

     “I believe so.”

     “Did the detectives visit the church to try to get the information you needed?”

     “Well, first they tried the county and found out all records were sealed, so they had no way to gain access. Then they approached the church, but the priest and nuns just stonewalled them. Told them the records had been destroyed in a fire in an outbuilding, where old records were stored.”

     “Okay, let me go across the street and see if I can gather some data from this branch of the church. Maybe I can find out something that will help me identify a focus for my advertising. You know, in my thirty-seven years on this planet, I’ve never played detective. This’ll be interesting. Let me have your number and I’ll get back to you.”

     “May I ask what this will cost me?”

     “Uh, nothing, right now. If I uncover something, then we can discuss setting up a contract. This part is on me.”

     “Oh, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

     “You’re welcome.”

     “My number is 900-653-2960.”

     “I’ll let you know if I can get any information out of the church in a few days.”

     I hung up, leaned back in my chair, and speculated about how to present myself to the priest at the church. I also thought about what Melanie looked like. As she spoke, I became intrigued by her enticing voice.

     The next day I went directly to the church from home. As I opened the large brass door and entered a long hallway decorated with ornate religious artwork, an old, bent over man pushing a broom glanced up at me. He had a weird look in his eyes, as they moved up and down my body. I stood there unable to budge. I didn’t know why, but I let him peruse me. And then I saw tears in his eyes. I started to speak, but stopped as he put his index finger to his mouth.

     “Young man,” he gasped. I knew your father. You look just like him.”

     “You couldn’t have. I . . .” Again his finger crossed his lips.

     “I met him thirty-seven years ago in our small town church. Times were hard for families then. He didn’t want to give you up, but he didn’t have the money the church elders required for your mother and him to keep both you and your twin sister, Melanie. I remember him, with tears running down his face, as they took you from him, Samuel.”

     “But that’s not my name.”

     “Yes, it is, Samuel. You must believe me.”

     This information boggled my mind. But, at the same time, it provided me with answers to the questions that have plagued me for as long as I can remember. With thoughts of my twin sister racing through my mind, I left the church, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and called the number Melanie had given me. 

 

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.