Twin

By Zel Rau

"He touched my soul long before I knew what his hands felt like." - Nikki Rowe

The picturesque hills of Manarola, Italy, are where PAULINA leaves her childhood footprints. She seems a happy child but is steeped in the mystical side of existence. Though her presence in two different realities is a rare gift, in her moth

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gold Feather Press, LLC.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781792313295

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TWIN

Zel Rau

Copyright © 2020 by Gold Feather Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact [e-mail].

Gold Feather Press

Valparaiso, IN

[e-mail]

www.ZelRau.com

First Paperback Edition: July 2020

First Hardcover Edition: July 2020

First E-Book Edition: July 2020

Portions of this book are works of fiction. Any references to

historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.

Other names, characters, places and events are products of the

author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events

or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Interior designed by Andrea Reider.

Cover designed by Ameya Ajay and Danielle Goad.

Cover copyright © 2019 by Zel Rau.

ISBN 978-1-7923-1328-8 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-7923-1331-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7923-1329-5 (E-Book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020910274

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1 Paulina

2 Paulina

3 Jimmy

4 Sam

5 Paulina

6 Paulina

7 Paulina

8 Sam

9 Jimmy

10 Paulina

11 Paulina

12 Paulina

13 Jimmy

14 Sam

15 Jimmy

16 Paulina

17 Paulina

18 Sam

19 Sam

20 Paulina & Jimmy

21 Paulina & Jimmy

22 Sam

Acknowledgments

Where to start? How about with my best friend and loving husband Skip for giving me the freedom to jump into such unknown territory and give the writing a chance to tell a story. I will always love you more . . . ;).

To my beautiful girls Marina and Jade:

Thank you for being understanding with my time management and sharing me with this book—you always bring a burst of sunshine to my day.

To my mama, thank you for always being there to listen and give good advice when it's most needed. Thank you for encouraging me always to follow my heart and my dreams.

My creative collaborator Iris B. Willinger: Wow, not only have you become a precious friend through this process, but working with you has been nothing short of a miracle.

Kat Merritt, you came into my life by surprise but a surprise that was meant to be. I do not know how I would have gotten to the finish line with Twin if I didn't have you.

My editors, Chelsea Clammer, Carolyn Mikelson, Rachel Hibbard, Christa Desir, Valerie Brooks, and Kerri Miller for your professionalism and editorial expertise that made Twin what it is today.

To my book cover designers: Ameya Ajay, a rising star whose talent can’t go unnoticed, and Danielle Goad, an old friend that I can always rely on, not only for advice but also her brilliant eye for artistic design.

My book formatting expert Andrea Reider, ha, it's been a ride, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, thank you for putting up with me and all of my changes, you made Twin look inviting and utterly beautiful.

And last but not least, Mary Kritikos and Raylene Nuanes for never-ending guidance; thank you for helping me find my way.

1

Paulina

Manarola, Italy - 1993

When I was young, we lived in Manarola, a small, colorful town on the Ligurian coast of Italy. It was part of the UNESCO World Heritage site of Cinque Terre and a tourist trap, buzzing and vibrant all year round. The village center allowed no cars and could only be reached on foot, by boat, or by train. Only on the periphery of the town, close to the Basilica di San Lorenzo, were there roads, parking spaces, and a bus stop. Everything was on a hill. Our small house was close to the pier, painted in pastel pink with a little walled-in back garden just around the corner from Via di Corniglia. The garden, with its ancient stone tiles, was my playground to practice volleyball. I spent hours out there bouncing the ball off the clay roof. Thankfully, none of the loose clay slabs ever broke off and hit me on the head.

The house had green shutters and a little balcony; instead of cars, we had boats parked outside our front door. The tiles on the balcony got so hot during the summer that you couldn’t walk on them barefoot. Since we were nestled between much taller houses, the shadows of the other buildings and the hill kept the sun away in the morning, so it was nice and cool before everything heated up in the afternoons.

From the sea, the town looked like a painting. The stone houses were a patchwork of cheerful pastel colors snuggling against a steep ravine, and some seemed to be touching one another as if ready to indulge in a dance. In this picturesque hill town, the sea was in our blood and in the air we breathed. Rays of the sun melted into our skin; the wind was soft and filled with the scent of wild oregano growing on the ancient stone terraces all around. With every breath, we felt refreshed and cleansed from emotional debris. People were happy and kind. It was a place where everyone had known each other and their families for many generations. It was a special town to grow up in because it felt safe.

Not too far from our house, toward the lookout point, was the cemetery. Renaldo, our postman, often said that the dead had the best view in town, and he was right. It was nice to be in the cemetery because, aside from the great view, we felt as if we were visiting old friends. Everyone seemed connected and had interwoven stories to tell. My mom and I would visit our family graves every Sunday while others went to church. She wasn’t religious, but we prayed together every night before going to sleep. It was an unusual graveyard as the lack of space and the rocky ground prevented much digging. The main structure for this cemetery looked like a house with many compartments, niches for urns and coffins sealed with engraved marble slabs. Most had a photograph of the deceased, and the facades were cleverly designed with a ledge where flowers and candles could be placed. There were only a handful of traditional graves with very simple crosses that looked unsteady in a gust of wind.

My deceased great-grandmother’s name was Julka, and I remember tracing her name chiseled in the weathered stone with my little fingers. My mom was very good at keeping her grandmother’s and brother’s graves neat and tidy: polishing the stone, cleaning the gold-framed photographs, and washing or exchanging the flowers in the heavy vase.

Every year as if by clockwork, the Bora would hit our coast and bring with it an intense and often devastating summer storm. Colossal waves would crash into the pier with such force that it seemed as if they wanted to wash it all away. The boats were hoisted out of the water as soon as the darkness showed itself over the sea. The seawater would engulf even the stairs to the pier, surging as high as a three-story house.

The cemetery lay entirely exposed on a rocky outcrop, so the flowers and vases would fall and fly all over the place. After the Bora, the graveyard looked like someone had thrown a wild party.

The whole community usually came to the cemetery once the storm had died down to help with the cleanup, bringing baskets of wine, cheese, ham, bread, grapes, and almond cookies, which I loved. Even Signore Almetti, who sold ice cream down at the pier during tourist season and was the laziest man alive would come up to help, accompanied by his three-legged dog, Scampi, whom I adored and would share my almond cookies with.

At age six, I enjoyed running and playing between the graves, leaning on the fence and staring out at the sea, mostly singing and being in my own little world, daydreaming but at times also talking to people my mom couldn’t see.

Paulina, are you okay? Who are you talking to? my mom shouted, still focused on her cleaning rather than what I was doing.

Just this nice old lady, I said.

Without even lifting her head, she said, Who? and busied herself rearranging the flowers.

Her name is Julka. Do you know her? She said to tell you that she loves you very much and that she’s around you every time you think of her.

She snapped to attention and stared at me with tears in her eyes. After a pause, she said, You tell her I love her too!

I could sense she was puzzled but also touched in some way. I saw her wipe her eyes surreptitiously with her sleeve, and it made me feel sad. She did not say much for a long time after that. I suppose that she didn’t want to encourage me or acknowledge that somewhere deep down inside her heart, she believed it.

My great-grandmother had played an essential role in my mom’s life. After my mom’s brother had died in a hit-and-run accident, her parents were never the same again. They’d lost their spark and their happiness. My mom was lost as well without her brother, who had meant everything to her. She had looked up to him and admired everything he did.

After the tragic loss, Julka took it upon herself to raise my mother and give her the love and support she craved. Mom’s grandmother even waited to take her last breath until my mom came home from the hospital after giving birth to me. Her grandmother’s last wish was to say a proper goodbye. It was a bittersweet time for my mom—one life ending while another one was just beginning.

Growing up in Manarola, I never felt I belonged and was mostly left alone to my own devices since my mom worked a lot. She worked six days a week and had to leave early in the morning on the bus or by train to get to La Spezia, the biggest town nearby, where I also went to school. She was a young, single parent; work was a must for her. Yet I was never really alone: people surrounded me that no one else could see. I always felt someone was with me, and at night before bed, their presence was even stronger. Sometimes I could see them; other times, it was more of a feeling. At times it would make me a little scared. Some nights I would go to sleep with blankets over my head because I was afraid of what and who I would encounter. But other times, I would notice beautiful orbs circling me as if they were singing me a lullaby.

My dreams were very vivid and real. They would take me to another world that I often wished I could stay in, but on some occasions, they would leave me shivering in a cold sweat. Some nights I would have the most amazing dreams filled with love, and some nights I would be afraid to even enter the dream world because of what could be waiting for me on the other side. Often, they continued where they had left off, like a movie that was on pause, and I was somehow in control of the remote but confused on how to use it.

By the time I turned eight, my mom had noticed some of my dreams were becoming very disruptive, especially the ones with men in black. In her eyes, I needed help. In my eyes, they were just experiences I was having, part of my other world I spent so much time in. I sensed that my dreams were full of messages and there was a deeper meaning to them, but at the time, I didn’t know what that deeper meaning was. Some of my dreams left me tired during the day, which mainly affected me at school.

Paulina, wake up, wake up . . . My friend would pinch me to wake me up quickly before the teacher noticed.

Oh, wow, I did it again . . . Thank you, I whispered back.

I couldn’t concentrate, and my grades started to drop. Eventually, my teacher called my mom to talk about the issue. I remember her coming back home looking very sad and disappointed.

Lina, darling, what am I going to do with you?

Her disappointment boosted my motivation to at least get my grades up, but as for taking little naps here and there during class, I felt that was out of my control.

My mom didn’t know what to do with me, and the dreams were happening more and more often. I never understood why she would focus on the nightmares only and not remember the pleasant dreams. Either way, they were all very vivid to me, and in some bizarre way, I felt connected to them. But she didn’t see it that way and took me to a variety of doctors, who couldn’t find anything wrong with me. Then she decided to try a very different approach.

After lamenting to her friends over many glasses of wine, she got the name of a lady called Mara from her friend Emma. Mara had special abilities, my mom told me. Emma offered to go with us to support my mom but also to satisfy her curiosity.

During the drive to Mara’s house, I questioned my mom and Emma about this lady.

What special abilities does she have, Mama? I asked, excited and curious. Can she do magic?

No, she can’t do magic; she just knows how to help people who have bad dreams, and she can talk to the ones who are . . . you know . . . no longer with us. She stretched her chin in my direction as if she were pointing a finger at me.

But I like talking to them. I don’t want Mara to take them away. They’re not all bad, I said, worried. I was no longer impressed with whatever abilities this woman might have.

Paulina, it’s not like she can select whom she’ll take away. I’m sure it’s all or nothing, my mom said, blunt and emotionless, not realizing how much I would miss their company when I was alone. How much I would miss those pleasant dreams that I thought about during most of my waking hours. I wasn’t excited to meet this lady anymore, not at all!

Once we arrived at her house, it was apparent that other people wanted to see her as well. There were many cars parked in front of her small, spooky home, and that instantly gave me goosebumps.

Inside, we were greeted by another woman who told us Mara would be with us soon and to have a seat. The other people waiting were mostly women who looked sad and spoke in hushed voices. A lot of them wore the traditional black of widows. I could sense how pained they were, and it made me feel miserable. Their emotions clung to me like a wet T-shirt—heavy and cold. I shivered and longed to go out into the sunshine.

Not long after, the same lady who greeted us came back and took us to another room. The room was dark and furnished with a couch, a small table with two chairs, and a wooden stove. Soon, Mara walked in.

Hello, beautiful ladies, she welcomed us. I see we have a special someone here to see me. She looked directly at me.

Yes, this is Paulina, my mom said.

Something told me Mara already knew that.

As my mom explained her version of what I was going through, I couldn’t help but stare at Mara. She was old—I guessed maybe in her seventies. Her face showed extensive wrinkles, and her eyes were small and deep, like the deepest part of the ocean. They were eyes that had witnessed many secrets and had seen many things not of this world. Surprisingly, I liked her presence: it felt as if she picked up on what I was feeling and could see what I was seeing. We were somehow similar. At one point, with her finger gesturing at one of the orbs floating about the room, she looked at me as if to confirm that it was okay. You’re fine; I see them too, Mara whispered quietly and smiled at me.

She was very calm and moved slowly like there was no rush, nowhere to be but here, right now in this moment. Her calm was soothing. It made a strange feeling of timelessness wash over me—mysterious, but very pleasant.

Without any further conversation, she put a pot of water on the stove. There was a black stone inside the iron pot. As the water was heating up, she gently covered my head with a red veil that came down to my chest. The room was silent, and all I could hear was the clicking of the stone against the bottom of the pot. Mara motioned me to bend forward and, with no hesitation, started pouring the hot water into another bowl that she held over my head.

She mumbled continuously. I didn’t understand the words, but she kept repeating them over and over again. Then she took the bowl and showed it to my mom.

See? That is what was scaring her, Mara said.

The look on my mom’s face wasn’t easy to decipher, but she did see something in that water.

Mara pulled my mother to a far corner of the room and whispered. I couldn’t hear or see much, but Mara gave my mom a piece of paper with special words written on it, like a prayer. Mara instructed her to stitch the paper in red fabric with a white thread and put it in my pillow to keep the dark shadows away at night.

After our session with Mara was over, my mom joined Emma, who had been waiting patiently for us, and they went into another room.

The door was open, and I could see them in there with other people talking to Mara. I wasn’t interested in what they were doing and instead watched the kids play outside in the sunshine, wishing I could join them.

I started to daydream. Daydreaming was my specialty. I did it all the time and wasn’t even aware of it. Most of my daydreaming would take me into the world of love and music. I envisioned that I was a famous singer and had long, beautiful hair, a desire that came from my mom cutting my hair super short throughout my childhood. Her excuse was that she didn’t want to deal with me crying while she tried to comb my curly hair.

My daydream was interrupted when I heard people leaving the room and talking about the information they got from Mara.

I told you he wouldn’t leave me; how could he leave this? Emma pointed at her curvy body.

My mom laughed, but her eyes were serious, and she didn’t say much about her experience or what Mara had whispered.

The drive home was long, and at some point I fell asleep. Eventually, I half woke up and heard my mother say in a hushed voice, I know it has to be her. Mara said a woman with long, dark hair put a curse on Paulina. It has to be her!

She shook her head in dismay and held the little piece of paper Mara gave her close to Emma’s face. Emma huffed and shrugged. It has to be her!

Overhearing them made me a little scared. Had someone put a curse on me? That was all I could think about during the rest of the ride home. Seeing how concerned my mom and her friend were freaked me out. My mom really believed I was cursed, and she even seemed to know who the culprit was. But I was okay now, right? Mara had taken the curse off me, right?

To my surprise, many months after our visit with Mara, most of my bad dreams did go away, but the dream with the strange men in black did not. Mara got rid of most of the nightmares but opened a whole other world for me to see. My dreams were still very vivid and real, maybe even more real than before.

2

Paulina

Marion & Adrian

Manarola, Italy - 1964

As the bell rang to announce the end of the school year and the beginning of summer, everyone grabbed their stuff and ran out into the sunny Italian day. Outside, Marion stood with her friends, making plans for the night ahead, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the new guy who had relocated schools a few months earlier. She had been secretly watching him and wondered whether he was doing the same. Marion felt pulled toward him, and every night before she fell asleep, she could see the image of his face.

In the few months since Adrian’s arrival, he had already become very popular, due in part to his good looks and fun personality. He had dark, sun-kissed skin, dark-brown hair, and bright blue eyes like a summer sky. He had a sincere smile that Marion couldn’t get out of her mind. Everything about Adrian was attractive, down to the way he walked. He was simply perfect to Marion. She always wondered how it would be, the first time they said hello or even exchanged a few words. Would the connection be even stronger? Little did she know that the evening ahead would be one of the most memorable nights of her life.

Marion, what time will you meet us at the beach? Anna glanced down at her watch, then back at Marion.

Around seven. Is that okay? Marion was already thinking about which dress she would wear.

"Yes! Yes,