Separated @ Birth: A True Love Story of Twin Sisters Reunited

by Anais Bordier

  Many unwed mothers make it to birth homes where they can stay during the later stages of their pregnancies. After they have given birth and their babies are safely surrendered to foster care, they can escape the stigma and return to their lives because nobody knows their secret. When they are interviewed for the birth record, they can say anything they want, as there is no corroboration required. They could even choose not to register the birth at all, if they were giving the child up for adoption. Many don’t want to be found—with the way society shames them, the price is too high. The more untruths they tell, the less likely they are to be tracked and accountable. Sadly, it is a really dire situation for these women. But I am aware that South Korea is making progress—painfully slow progress, but progress—to accept and support single mothers.

  Besides the problem of untruths, another problem with the birth records is accurate translation. Translating from Korean into English or French is not straightforward, especially because of the different alphabets. Anaïs’s record had inconsistencies from one page to the next. First, it stated that she had been born “full-term, natural delivery.” One page later, it said she had been born “premature.”

  Our mothers’ first names were different. As for our birth fathers, there was a surname on my form, but it had been filled in at a later date by an intake worker, claiming that my mother had come back after some time to provide more information about my father. The space for Anaïs’s father was blank. My form mentioned an older sister, same father. Anaïs’s form said that she was her mother’s first delivery.

  According to Anaïs’s birth record, her birth mother had graduated from high school, was twenty-one years old, and worked in a plant. Her marital status was “unwed.” Her birth father had also graduated from high school and also worked in a plant. He was twenty-eight and “unwed.” The history of the pregnancy was quite detailed. When the natural mother went to a movie, she met the natural father. She was involved with him for about three months and became unintentionally pregnant. The natural father transferred to another job, and then the communication between the natural parents was cut off. The natural mother did not learn of her pregnancy until she was six months pregnant due to her irregular menstruation. She continued to work, but hid her pregnancy by binding her abdomen tightly. She left the plant fifteen days before she gave birth to the baby. As she could not bring up the baby adequately by herself “due to her unfavorable circumstances,” she referred the baby to Holt, an international adoption agency, for adoption in view of the baby’s “optimum future.”

  Other things on our birth records were also different. I weighed 5.3 pounds at birth, and Anaïs was 4.85 pounds. If we were full-term singletons, these would be considered low birth weights, but not extraordinary. Term Asian newborns were typically smaller than term Caucasian babies, and how “full-term” we were had not been established with any accuracy. One thing both records agreed on—we were single births. There was no indication of a twin birth on either record. Still, we had to be twins. We might have sounded like we were teasing when we said to each other, “Dude, we are so twins,” but I think we both felt it without a shadow of a doubt.

  I couldn’t do much about this incredible situation at the moment. But, in these first two hours of contact, everything was beginning to fall into place. It’s funny. In the thick of life, I sometimes think nothing will ever work out for me. Maybe it’s the self-indulgent, feeling-bad-for-myself routine, but finding out I might be a twin changed everything. Maybe everything I had gone through in life so far was leading up to this very moment. If I had gotten bigger acting roles earlier in my career, maybe Anaïs might have spotted me sooner and this moment might have gone down already. But what if I hadn’t been ready and able to handle having a twin? I had to assume timing was part of a master plan. Anaïs and I agreed that we would talk more in the next few days, and that we should definitely Skype!

  Once in the car, I did what every person in L.A. does: started calling people. I called my dad first. “Dad, I’m a twin!” I blurted out when he answered.

  “What?” he asked in dismay, thinking I was probably pranking him on his birthday, something I never fail to do. To convince him I wasn’t kidding about a possible twin, I told him I had pictures of Anaïs to show him my evidence.

  Next, I called my mom, who I knew would be on her way home from work. I shouted into the phone, “I’M A TWIN!”

  “Hold on, I’m pulling over,” she told me.

  I told her not to worry, I’d talk to her more when we each got home.

  Once at my apartment, I sent the profile picture of Anaïs to my family and friends even before I started on hair and makeup. My dad called me minutes later. He was initially pretty skeptical, especially as he is also a huge football fan and the Manti Te’o catfishing scandal was the hot sports story in the news. My father was worried that the Anaïs person might be an impostor. “Well, Sam,” he said, “you don’t look exactly alike.” But after I sent him the pictures of Anaïs as a baby, he became more convinced. In fact, being an accountant, he came up with a statistic. “Okay, there’s a ninety-one percent probability you are twins,” he decided.

  My mother was supportive, as always, although despite her excitement, her maternal instinct made her want to protect me. She told me not to get my hopes up prematurely, because she didn’t want me to have them smashed if it turned out not to be true. I also sensed sadness in her, but I wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

  My friends were mind-blown by the news, as were my agents. My talent manager, Eileen, went nuts when she saw the screenshot of Anaïs. She had been my manager since I was ten, and she was like a second mother to me. Another of my agents at the time, Domina, didn’t think it was true. When she finally believed me, she told me she knew a producer at The Ellen DeGeneres Show. “Do you want me to contact her?” she asked me. Agents, always working the angles!

  The meeting point for those going to the premiere with me was my place. I lived in an inexpensive, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom apartment in midcity. The half bath was nasty. It had no natural ventilation, and when the vent fan was on, it smelled of mold. Black dust covered the walls of the laundry room. The woman who lived upstairs had a dog that barked every time it heard keys jingle. We never saw her walk it, but the carpet on the stairs going up to her apartment smelled of piss. The stove was greasy, and there were dead silverfish all over the walls. Our landlord was an adorable little old man, like liver-spots old. He liked to tell us romantic stories of traveling around the world to win his wife’s heart. Because of his advanced age, getting him to fix things wasn’t the easiest, so our apartment had a lot of maintenance issues, but we tried not to complain and made it as nice as it could be via Ikea.

  My roommate was named Lisa. We knew each other briefly in New Jersey. We balanced each other very well. She couldn’t cook, so I’d make dinner, and she’d clean up (she was obsessively neat). It was the perfect arrangement.

  By four o’clock, everyone was in my living room—Kanoa, Justin Chon, Kevin Wu, Eileen, and a producer named James Yi. They had all been on the thread of text messages that had been going back and forth all day about the French girl. By the time they got to my apartment, everyone was in a weird state about it, and we couldn’t stop discussing it. “I’m a twin . . . twin . . . I’m a twin,” was all I could say.

  How did I focus? Strangely, walking down the red carpet took my mind off the intensity of maybe having a twin. The thought of Anaïs relieved me of feeling self-conscious in front of the cameras. The awkward feeling I always got on the carpet, that I didn’t belong, was trumped by knowing that across the world, there was someone just like me. Even in all the excitement of the entire evening, I kept checking my phone for messages. I was supposed to be charming and schmoozing, but all I could do was think about this girl, this French entity on my iPhone.

  At some point in the evening, I posted a picture of me with Kevin on the red carp
et. My brother Matt was the first to send a comment, “No, everyone can clearly see that’s not you, that’s @Anaïsfb.” Anaïs commented next. “Oh, wow! I look fantastic in that dress!” I was feeling pressured. It was too soon for a comment like that. For the first time, I felt this was moving too fast. Anaïs’s comment, certainly meant harmlessly, made me feel weird. You’re invading my personal public space! I’m not ready to take this relationship to that level yet. What next? Are we going to confirm it on Facebook? Of course, I didn’t respond. I just held on to my feelings to process them.

  I headed into the theater to watch the premiere, but I kept thinking about Anaïs. I didn’t socialize much the rest of the night. At the premiere party, I tossed back a whiskey on the rocks, my social aid to calm the nerves. Anaïs’s picture, her Facebook message, and the reactions of my family and friends kept playing in my head.

  • • •

  The next morning, I woke up facedown on my bed opening one eye at a time, pretty groggy, slight headache, but that was to be expected after a few drinks. By the time I got my second eye opened, I remembered I had a long-lost twin! I was barely conscious, and she was already on my mind. I reached over and grabbed my cell phone to make sure it wasn’t a dream. It opened up to Anaïs’s Facebook profile. There she was, staring right at me. Her eyes . . . my eyes. Yup, it’s true. She’s my twin.

  I jumped into the shower with just enough time to get ready for my first audition of the day. It was a dramatic part, and I had to be prepared to shed some tears in the third scene. After everything that had happened the day before, my emotions were free-flowing, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Besides, I had a lot of energy that needed to be released. Sometimes, as an actor, you just have to take all the crazy energy and use it.

  I truly was an aspiring actress in L.A. Part of me was really uncomfortable and annoyed with how seriously other actors took their “craft” and lifestyle. But the other part of me secretly enjoyed it, even if it was just because I got to make fun of it. People in L.A. could be so insanely pretentious—hiking in the hills around the city with full makeup and short monologues tucked into their yoga pants; green juice refrigerators in organic clothing stores; vegan/gluten-free substitutes available at every restaurant; and community tables at Starbucks packed with skinny vanilla latte–drinkers reading screenplays on their open laptops. These were not stereotypes, they were fact. I didn’t mind it, because I had made some great friends in Los Angeles, and I was pursuing my dream. And for the record, I have never hiked with full makeup and audition lines tucked into my yoga pants, and if I ever do, punch me in the face.

  I climbed into my car and headed for the audition, alternating my memorized lines and my twin’s face/my face/my twin’s face in my head. When I got to the casting office, I ran up the stairs to the audition waiting area and took a seat. No sooner was the audition over than I headed home to prepare for my next audition. For this one, I had to change my hair, makeup, and wardrobe to look older. When I was ready, I drove toward Santa Monica, again mixing the lines I had memorized with thoughts of the French girl and what I would say the next time we communicated. Should I “poke” her? Is there a three-day rule, like with boys? The ball was in my court. The audition in Santa Monica went well, but I wouldn’t hear for a few days.

  I wasn’t obsessing over the auditions. I just wanted to sit behind the wheel, listen to music, get home, get into bed, and stalk Anaïs on Facebook. No sooner had I turned on my phone when up popped a message from Anaïs. Weird, she was already reading my mind.

  “Hey Sam, how are you?” it read. “Hope everything is fine! I’ve seen some pictures of your premiere, you were super pretty! Can’t wait to see the film now, haha! I’m going back to Paris tomorrow for the weekend for my mum’s birthday. I’ll try and find a few more documents, but my mum scanned pretty much everything already of what I’ve sent you.” A few seconds later another message that included her Skype name popped up. “Whenever you want a little Skype session HAHAHA.”

  Ha ha ha, ugh! I wasn’t sure I was ready to Skype yet. Time to drive home in traffic, which was the perfect excuse not to message her back immediately. I had to think this all through. I called Eileen to talk about how the audition had gone, but we talked about Anaïs instead. When I told her that Anaïs and I might Skype, she told me to hold off, to give it the weekend. She wanted to talk to some people first. I could tell she was already angling to control the story, with my best interest in mind, of course.

  I actually felt a little relieved that I could postpone the Skype session with Anaïs, not sure if I was ready. Back home, my friends had all sorts of opinions about the inevitable Skype call. The consensus was that I should do it, and I should tape it. At first, it sounded like a great idea. But the more I thought about, the more I felt as though it would be exploitive for both Anaïs and me. This was very private, and it was really only about the two of us. Why was I waiting to talk to her? Why was I letting other people weigh in? She was my twin! Not anybody else’s! This was my life. On the other hand, it might be good to have it documented for posterity’s sake. We would have it forever.

  Conflicted, I called Kanoa to talk it through. When I told him that a lot of people had business suggestions for me about this story, he told me to think it through and do what I thought was right. He was spot-on, and I really needed to hear someone I trusted say it. Yes, the story could be a great business opportunity, but I had to make my own choices. I decided I was going to Skype Anaïs. I just couldn’t do it tonight. My life had me working a full shift at the restaurant after a full day of auditions.

  When I finally got home from the restaurant, I sat down at my computer to compose a message to Anaïs.

  Anaïs! I am doing well (kind of true). Still processing all this crazy information (yeah, that’s true). The premiere was great! It was definitely a crazy day [smile] (input smiley face because you’re uncomfortable and don’t know what else to say) it’ll be weird when you see the movie . . . cause it will be you . . . but not . . . cause it’s me . . . but you . . . (input humor because you’re uncomfortable, and it makes it better.)

  Ok! Great! I’ll have my mom and dad take pictures of my baby stuff. They live in New Jersey and I’m in Los Angeles, so it’s a bit far . . . but I’ll get it to you! (well . . . you made the effort. I should, too.) Yes, please! Let’s Skype! We will have to figure out a time because of the time difference.

  How are you? How is your family processing this information? Are you doing okay?

  Love Sam

  After I sent the message, I plopped onto my bed, curled up under the covers, and logged on to Facebook. I looked at Anaïs’s pictures again and again, going back into her past as recorded by her and her closest friends. It was literally a timeline of all these years apart, up until the very moment she made first contact. I could see the moments right there in the palm of my hand.

  5

  ANAÏS

  nothing is like family

  Growing up, I wanted for nothing. I attended some of the best schools in Paris, traveled around the world, summered in the South of France, learned to play the piano, and had years of classical dance and horseback riding lessons, as many other kids from the wealthy suburbs of Paris do. But there was always a curiosity, a secret longing, to find another person who looked like me.

  I can’t say I didn’t struggle with being of Korean heritage in a community as déconnectée, “disconnected,” as Neuilly-sur-Seine. When I was a baby, a doctor who lived in our apartment building asked my mother what language I would be speaking when I started talking. My mother was appalled at his ignorance. “French, of course!” she told him, asking him what language he thought I would be speaking. Even though he was a doctor, he assumed I would miraculously know Korean just because I was born in Korea. My mother was right to think he was awfully narrow-minded.

  When I was in kindergarten, my family was living in Belgium. I would go to friends’ h
ouses for playdates, where I would find myself being served white rice by mothers proud that they were “accommodating” me. This was well-meaning but insulting at the same time. Even now, people in my town who don’t know me assume I must be a maid or house cleaner when they see me in the elevator of my parents’ apartment building, where they have lived only a couple of years. In Neuilly, a lot of the household help comes from South Asia, and there are not so many Asian-looking people in the area. But I am not foreign. I speak French, I eat French, and I dress French. France is my homeland, and I am as French as my parents.

  February 22 was my mum’s birthday. I really wanted to see her and my dad. I just wanted to be with them. Sam had posted a few more images on Twitter and Facebook, and it was all becoming real. She was there. She was tangible, and we had exchanged messages. Some of her Facebook postings were mentioning her father’s birthday, so even he was becoming real. How cool was it that her dad and my mum had almost the same birthday! Just one day apart.

  During my first call to them since the discovery, I had been almost crying, because I had finally made contact with Samantha. During the second call, I had been shouting at Mum to send my birth records as fast as she could, so I could send them to Samantha. Sam had sent me hers, and I wanted to send her mine. By the third phone call, I was out of my mind with glee. I told Mum to send me some of my baby pictures, so I could share them with Sam. My father was becoming quite moved by the whole thing, even though he had been the last holdout. I was his little girl and his only child, so he was having a hard time imagining two identical “me”s.

  My father had come from a large family. He grew up on a small farm in the central Loire Valley in a tiny village between the cities of Orléans and Chartres. My grandfather, Gaston Bordier, was a wheat farmer. With his wife, Madeleine, they had five children, my father being the oldest boy. He had an older sister, two younger sisters, and a younger brother. He loved growing up on the farm, and he worked alongside his father wherever he needed help. He wanted to go to university, travel, learn languages, and maybe become an academic. He was a bit of a perfectionist. Everything he undertook, he wanted to do well. His first job was with Air France, but he went to school at the same time. When he finished his studies and passed all his university exams, he held various executive positions, which later gave him the idea of having his own business. He finally took over a leather goods company, which he positioned in the luxury segment.