Opulence doesn't begin to describe what they see upon crossing the threshold. The clicking of Mrs. Mortimer's heels on the blindingly white marble floor sounds like nails on a keyboard. Above them, a gold and crystal chandelier twinkles from a vaulted ceiling. She bypasses the long hallways that branch off to the right and left. Rose glances down both ways, noting long, stained glass windows casting colorful shadows on the floor. Ahead of them, behind the two curved staircases embracing the enormous foyer, there appears to be a large room of windows and light with a walk-in fireplace visible straight ahead, surrounded by various uncomfortable looking chairs and couches. But that is not their destination. Instead, Mrs. Mortimer leads them up the staircase on the right (Rose caresses the intricately designed banister as they go) to the second level. At the top, she turns left, walking across the landing. Rose stares in awe at the foyer below and the chandelier which is even more impressive this close. The tell-tale clicking halts as Mrs. Mortimer enters a plushy carpeted hallway. They pass three closed doors on the right, one on the left. She opens the second (and last) door on the left and enters.

Frank and Rose follow Mrs. Mortimer into an office almost the size of the foyer, but not particularly bright despite two walls of windows. In front of them, behind an 18th century Louis XV cherry wood desk is a wall of stained glass facing the front lawn. The design is geometric, with an abundance of color. To the right is a bow window seating area with rose-colored velvet cushions and curtains beyond which one can see trees, grass and, extending diagonally back and away from the mansion, multiple brick buildings almost as architecturally pleasing as the one in which they find themselves. A couple of small tables on which sit bowls of pink and white lotus flowers and three overstuffed chairs in the same rose as the curtains complete the scene. To the left is a walk-in fireplace, presently out of use but with wood available and ready for burning. More lotus flowers adorn the mantle and an antique gold-framed mirror hangs above it. Lotus flowers also cover the wallpaper. The floor is shining wood covered by several artfully-placed Persian rugs.

"Please, have a seat," Mrs. Mortimer says, indicating two wing chairs while she sits in a chestnut, handmade Gainsborough leather chair behind the desk.

"Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Mortimer," says Rose.

"My absolute pleasure. And please, call me Evie."

"Then you must call me Rose," Rose says with a smile.

"Let me tell you a little bit about what we do here."

"Adoptions?" Frankie says.

Mrs. Mortimer's smile doesn't reach her eyes as she replies, "Mr. Guyton, we do so much more than that."

Frankie raises his eyebrows and looks at Rose who only has eyes for Evie.

"Here at Elysian Fields, we engineer perfect babies for deserving couples."

Twenty years ago I cried every day on the way to work. My husband finally said I needed to find something else to do and I did and it was good. Until it wasn't. And then I found something else but my husband was diagnosed with Parkinson's and we turned 50 that same year so we accepted there was far more life behind us than ahead and I retired from a six figure job with too much stress I couldn't and didn't want to handle with the new stresses at home and decided to pursue acting, writing and painting - life-long passions I hadn't pursued because of lack of faith in myself and a desire, a need, for more security than life in the arts could provide. And so, here I am, seven years later, happily pursuing my passions yet, again, crying every day on the way to work. Work is great. I love what I do as well as the time it gives me to write and read. But I feel the increasing weight of the world with the earthquake of changes shifting the very foundation of lives across the country and the world in its entirety, and as I drive I am overcome with a blinding terror of what may come given the bleak and long history of man's cruelty to man and a persistent inabilty to learn from past errors, indeed a tendency to repeat, repeat, repeat, to profess love of God yet spread hate. And I bawl as I fret over my son's future, my husband's daily suffering and increasing difficulties, my mother's slow goodbye...life...

Twenty-four years ago

"I can't take this any more, Frankie. I just can't."

"I'm sorry, Rose."

Rose is curled up on their bed, crying. Frankie is standing at the wall of windows, staring into the night sky.

"I though this time..."

"I know, I know. Maybe we just weren't meant to be parents."

"Don't you say that!" Rose shouts, sitting up and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Frankie turns around saying, "Calm down, Rose." He leans against the window, crossing his ankles. I'm just saying, we've been trying for almost eight years now. Perhaps it's time to just live the life we have together. Just the two of us. You can get more involved in my business, or charities, or pick up your painting again. You were really good when we first met."

"We could adopt."

Frankie grimaces and turns back to the window. "You know how I feel about that. You never know what you're going to get."

"You don't know that if you give birth to your own child either, Frankie."

"Well, you can trace your history more easily is all I'm saying. You adopt and who knows what's in the kid's past."

"There is genetic testing..."

"After you already have the kid and can't send it back."

"It."

"The child. You know what I'm saying."

"I was born to be a mother, Frankie."

"Maybe you were born to be my wife, Rose."

"It's not enough."

"Yeah. You've made that pretty clear."

"You know what I mean, Frankie." Rose gets up and crosses to Frankie. She puts her arms around him though he remains stiff, looking out the window. "I want us to be a family. You would be a great father, Frankie." She squeezes him and says softly. "You'd be nothing like your dad. I know that's what you're really worried about."

He relaxes a little into her. "I don't know."

"I know." He turns into her arms.

"I love you, Rose."

"I love you, too."

Eight months later...

"Frankie, don't be mad."

"What did you buy and how much did it cost?"

"Haha. Nothing. Yet." Rose pauses. "I've been investigating adoption."

"For a while now. I know."

"Well, I found a place. Very exclusive. Very costly, but the cost ensures you know exactly what you're getting - as much as if we were giving birth ourselves."

"Hmmm."

"Will you meet the director with me? She'll answer any questions you have. It's a dream come true. We have an appointment Friday morning."

Frankie shakes his head but says, "Whatever makes you happy, Rose."

Two days later...

"What lovely grounds!"

"They must spend a fortune on landscaping."

"Frankie!"

"What? The forest was obviously designed and is well-pruned and that sea of green just ahead is perfectly manicured. We passed the gate two or three miles ago and I still don't see the building." They turn a curve and he sees a huge structure looming in the distance. "Nevermind, there it is."

As they draw closer, they see a red brick mansion with myriad wings sprawling over several acres.

"Wow."

"This is an adoption agency?"

"Facilitator."

"Right. How did you find this place?"

"I didn't, actually. They found me. I figured Alexa and my search history brought us together."

"Hmmm."

"I couldn't find any information online about them independent of their website which can only be accessed by the restricted link they sent me. But that makes sense given they are both exclusive and expensive."

"Hmmm."

Frankie parks the car on the circle pavement just before it switches to stone in front of the building. The red door opens and a woman exits. Rose notes a navy Palmerston dress with a boat collar, asymmetrical draping and bracelet sleeves showing off a diamond studded gold Buccellati cuff.

She whispers to Frankie, "Apparently they pay the staff well, too."

"Mr. and Mrs. Guyton! I'm Evie Mortimer. Call me Evie. Welcome to Elysian Fields."

Eggs, milk, juice, bread, chicken, potatoes...

Val ran through her shopping list as she merged into traffic. Her eldest, Janie, was in the front seat, while her boys, Jack, 15, and Hudson, 8, were bickering in the back.

Steak for Jim...

"Why do I always have to sit in the back? I'm not a baby anymore."

"Stop whining, runt," Jack said, whacking Hudson's head.

"Quit it, Jack!"

"Quit it, Jack," Jack imitated in a whiny voice.

"Poopie head!"

"Baby, baby!" Jack singsonged, laughing.

"Cut it out, boys!" Val interjected, only half listening but knowing instinctively tears were imminent. "Jack, he's half your age. Set an example. Please," she said looking at him in the rearview.

He made a face and mumbled, "Baby."

"Mommy!"

"Jack!"

"Hudson, don't listen to Jack. You've got the best seat in the car. It's the safest one. Mom loves you the most, that's why you get the special seat," Janie said, twisting in her seat and smiling at Hudson who stuck his tongue out at Jack.

"I love all my kids the same," Val said.

"Keep telling yourself that, Mom," Janie replied, looking out at the rain.

Val glanced at Jack in the rearview but he was also frowning out the window at the storm.

Seeing their exit nearing, she put on her blinker to change lanes. In the sideview mirror she saw a truck barreling down the highway on her right so she waited for it to pass before moving.

"Mommy, can I have a cookie when we get home?"

"May I and no."

"I'll eat my dinner if I have a cookie first. I'm really hungry, Mommy."

"The cookies will still be there after you have dinner, Hudson."

"Fine. Can...may we have fish sticks for dinner?"

"Sure."

"Can I have a steak?" Jack interjected.

"You can have fish sticks."

"Why can't I have a steak like Dad?"

"Not in the budget."

"Right," he muttered.

"Mom, can I sleep over at Patty's house tonight?" Janie asked.

"Not on a school night, Janie."

"But we need to study together for our big physics test tomorrow. Mrs. Hanley hates me. I have to ace it to have a chance at a B this year."

"You don't have to spend the night in order to study together."

"I bet she really wants to sneak out to see her boyfriend," Jack said.

"Shut up, dickhead!"

"Language!"

"Nobody else's parents care if they have a midweek sleepover. Patty's the smartest girl in the class. She can help me. C'mon, Mom!"

"Enough! What part of no did you not understand?"

"I hate you!"

"Janie..." Val sighed and put on her blinker to change lanes as the 18-wheeler sped by.

"Mommy!"

"What, Hudson?"

"A truck!!!"

Another 18-wheeler was careening towards them from the other side of the road.

There was nowhere to turn to escape impact.

Val and Hudson were buried together. Janie and Jack spent weeks in the hospital healing.

And years grieving their last words.

They got better.

Eventually.

Mostly.

I was six the first time I met him. My mom had tucked me in bed after making me sit in a tub of ice water to get my temperature down - as my Aunt Mabel had recommended. We weren't ones to go to the doctor in those days.

I was falling asleep, snuggling with my favorite teddy bear, Buster. Apparently, my temperature had barely dropped despite the ice bath and was still hovering around 105. I could hear my mom on the phone whispering outside my door. Sounded like she was crying a little, too.

Then I saw him. He was standing next to my bed, just watching me. For some reason, I wasn't afraid. I just said, "Hi."

"Hi, little one."

"That robe is too big for you."

"It's comfortable."

"Hmm, my purple jammies are comfy, too. So soft. Like Buster," I whispered, pressing my nose into Buster's belly.

"I thought I might take you on a trip."

"Mommy wouldn't like that."

"No, she wouldn't. Fortunately, it seems that an error was made. It happens sometimes. Live well, little one. Be seeing you."

Now, eighty-two years later, he's back.

No mistake; I'll be traveling with him this time.

When he was growing up, everyone used to say, what a strange kid that Robbie Stephenson. If his head wasn't in a book, he was writing --in the margins, on his hand, a napkin, toilet paper, desks, the walls, tiled floors. Yes, he was unusual, but his constant scribbling eventually paid huge dividends. At merely 30 years of age, Robbie is an award winning, New York Times best-selling author of erotic romance novels publishing multiple times a year. He has authored over one hundred fifty books over the last ten years alone. (He published his first novel at 18 through Harlequin.)

As soon as he could string words into sentences, Robbie was making up stories. When he learned to write, he wrote and illustrated stories on the ruled writing paper his mother bought by the pound at the local teacher supply store (anything to keep him from writing on the walls). He wrote about a little boy having adventures in the woods or scoring the winning runs, baskets, or goals in pivotal games, and being celebrated and adored by all. By sixth grade, his main character was a loner who solved crimes the police couldn't, a brilliant boy detective who garnered success and adoration by solving the most difficult cases that would stump even Sherlock Holmes (he'd read the complete collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories by the age of ten).

In middle and high school, Robbie became an avid runner and swimmer garnering several medals for his efforts. He claims he only participated in sports because he got some of his best ideas for stories in the silence under water or running around the track.

Until Alys Duprey.

Alys (whose name has been changed to protect her privacy) invited Robbie to the Sadie Hawkins dance his senior year of high school. Later that night they sneaked into her bedroom and he discovered his greatest inspiration and new (second) favorite past time. It was then that he began his meteoric rise to celebrity status. Apparently, Alice was not averse to giggling about a good time with her girlfriends so Robbie remade his writer's haven in his parents' basement into his personal lab where he began experimenting with willing young women the climactic scenes of his novels.

His draw was more than the bedroom gymnastics, however. Each of his paramours received her own story written with a feathered pen--that served other purposes as well, of course-- anywhere and everywhere he felt inspired to write on her person. No longer limited to paper, napkins or his own hands, Robbie expanded his writing surfaces to include flat backs, warm bellies, firm thighs... For him, it was fulfilling a need to write when inspiration struck without having to disengage from his second favorite activity. For her, something to remember him by...at least until the ink finally washed away.

Robbie Stephenson is one of the greatest erotic romance novelists of our time. His dedication to his craft is commendable.

It's rather disconcerting to wake up and realize you are not in your bed, indeed, all signs point to your being dead. You remember going to sleep, maybe. Or were you driving down the highway? Was there an accident? Or perhaps you were in the hospital with pneumonia again? Did you drive off that narrow mountain road while on vacation? Was the tumor not benign? Was the surgery unsuccessful?

All those moments when you cheated death are a tangled mess as you wonder which one did you in.

And as you wonder, you wander.

No fire. That's good, you think. I wasn't that bad. Really, I was quite good, all things considered...but there is also a dearth of clouds and angels singing joyously...so not as good as I thought.

You may be wandering, but you realize you are not walking...or flying or floating or crawling. You may have cognizance of your existence, but you are no longer within that aging body that had begun to fail you more often than not.

Ah yes! You had begun to age...perhaps you died peacefully in your sleep...home in the arms of those you love...or alone. That sounds rather sad and all too true. You remember the acute pain of loss.

As you remember, you become aware of something appearing...a door? A black hole so devoid of light you realize you are in a place of pure light. Indeed, you are an infinitesimal part of the light.

But you are moving towards the door. Towards the darkness that seems to whisper come. And you seem to know that way lies oblivion. And you want to reverse course, stay in the light where you still are, where you still know, and you can remember. But you realize you have no control of anything. The movement is chaotic, perhaps, but ever forward, towards the door that is a hole that leads to...to what? You don't know. You'll never know, you think.

And so, you spend what moments remain remembering the days of your life, that autobiographical movie people say you relive just before you die.

It might be seconds or minutes or hours or days or centuries -- for time does not exist in this place of light.

You are filled with peace as the door draws nigh.

You needn't knock. The door is open.

The movie becomes a swirling kaleidoscope before it all goes black.

But you are not afraid...because you no longer are.

"We have a situation in the safe room, Mr. Samuels," says Peter Miller, security technician to the head of security, Adam Samuels.

"Who's in the safe room?"

"Lily Guyton and her identical twin brother, um," he checks a document on a different monitor. "Louis Guyton."

"Really? I think she's an only child. Check the file. She's been here seven years and I can count how many times she's had a visitor. Usually the mother, though. And not in the last five years. What's the problem?"

"Weird. He looks exactly like Lily but with a military buzz cut. Anyway, sir, I've been monitoring the room and the picture just went out."

Mr. Samuels leaves his desk to stand behind Pete. He cocks his head, puzzled. "Probably a short. I don't think that room's been used in years. Did you try starting and restarting the feed?"

Pete flips the switch on and off. A green light comes on.

"Sir, it looks like the camera is filming but the picture is still black."

"How long have they been in there?"

He looks at the timer. "Fifteen minutes, 33 seconds."

"So they have 15 minutes left." He pauses, staring at the screen. "Kind of weird she hasn't had a visitor in years and he requests the safe room. Did it look like she was in danger?"

"No sir. At first she just stood next to the door and they were chatting."

"Did Lily seem afraid or angry? I mean, I'd be angry if my family left me here for years without so much as a how are you sweetheart?"

"No, sir. She just seemed, I don't know, wary I guess."

"I get that. I wouldn't rush into what amounts to a stranger's arms either."

"It's her brother."

"So he says. Where's he been?"

"School? If he's her twin..."

"I get it, Pete. Might be the first opportunity he could get here. Okay. So, what was happening when you lost the picture?"

"She'd just sat down and taken her brother's hand and..."

"And?"

"Well, it makes no sense, but there was a kind of bright flash and then everything went dark."

"There you go. The light fixture must have gone out. I told you that room hasn't been used in years. Call custodial services."

"Well, yes sir, but the flash didn't come from above."

"What? Where did it come from?"

"As close as I can tell, the table."

"The table?"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe?"

"Yes, well, the alternative is that it came from them and that doesn't make sense. After the flash of light, the screen went dark."

Mr. Samuels curses, grabs his gun and his phone pressing a single button as he runs out the door.

"Yes, Samuels?"

"Mrs. Mortimer, we have a situation."

I fe like I'm looking in a mirror except his hair is a buzz cut. Identical twins? My memory of biology would say it is impossible since the same fertilized egg would mean the same sex. Right? Right?

"Hey, Lily."

"Um, I'm afraid you have the advantage." I don't move from the door.

"Louie."

"Louie what? Clearly you introduced yourself as Louie Guyton. A lie. Who are you and why are you here?

"Louie Starr. It would have taken longer even if it appears obvious we are twins. And I only lied about my last name."

"I don't have a brother."

"Do you look anything like Frank or Rose?"

I don't, but they always said I looked like my mother's great grandmother who died when my mom was 15...and of whom there were no pictures. Of course. Okay...

"You know my parents' names."

"We're connected, Lily. I started feeling it when I turned 14. I saw your face. I knew your name. You talked to me at night when we'd meet in our dreams amongst the stars. Then one day I couldn't feel you anymore. I went from feeling completed to halved.

"I didn't know what had happened. I thought I was losing my mind. I finally had to move on and act like it was just some late stage imaginary friend thing so my parents wouldn't listen to the therapist they made me see and send me away."

"Lucky you. I couldn't forget what I knew and I couldn't, can't pretend. Hence, my home for the last seven years," I say, looking around the room. I pause. "But I don't remember you."

"What do you remember?"

I think back to seven years ago. My awakening to life before and subsequent institutionalization.

"I remember before. I remember being nothing yet everything, at one with all that is and ever will be. Stardust and music."

He smiles. "Yesterday afternoon for maybe half an hour I felt you again. I knew where to find you, finally, and I came."

I frown. "Late afternoon?"

"Yes!"

"I was walking in the forest. Further than I've ever ventured before, actually."

"Something about this building must block my ability to sense you. Even sitting here I can't feel you," He pauses a moment, looking at me intently and then says, "Come. Sit for a moment."

I walk the few steps to the table and sit. He reaches a hand across to me. It is my hand. Poor guy I think. I take his hand.

I close my eyes and then open them wide. I glance at the camera and then back at eyes I see in the mirror every day.

"You're..."

"Yes."

I hear a loud knock. I've been in my room listening to music since I left Dr. Phillips' office. I shut off my iPod as I say, "Come in," and pull out the earbuds.

My favorite orderly, Jerry, cracks the door. "You have a visitor."

"I don't get visitors, Jerry. You know that."

"Yeah, well today's your lucky day. Your brother is here."

I'm more than a little freaked out although I just nod and follow Jerry. I grew up the only child of Frank and Doris Guyton. I have to wonder who I'm about to meet and why Elysian Fields is allowing it.

This isn't subterfuge, is it? You're not just taking me to solitary because I went for a long walk and I hate meat?"

"Nah."

We get to the visitor room but Jerry keeps walking.

"Um, Jerry...the visitor's room is right here?"

"Your brother requested the safe room."

"The safe room?"

"Yeah."

I follow Jerry through the doors of a restricted hall. He turns left into what is a small room. He opens the door to a closet and says, "After you."

"I'm claustrophobic, Jerry. Am I being punished?" I ask, stepping backwards.

"No, Lily. Trust me."

I step in and Jerry follows me, closing the door. A light comes on and the wall in front of me moves. There's a steel door with a number pad. Jerry steps around me and presses in a code. The door opens and Jerry enters. I follow. Slowly.

It's an elevator.

There's one button and Jerry uses a key to access it. Then we are going down. It feels like we've passed the basement, a sub-basement and a plethora of negatively numbered floors before the doors open.

"Let's go."

I follow him down a steel walled hallway to what looks like a wall but which slides open when he touches a panel next to it.

Secret elevators? Hidden doors? Where am I?

"Mr. Guyton, you have half an hour. If you're finished before I return, just press that red button next to the door. Also, although there is no audio recording, to protect your privacy, the camera up there," he points towards a back corner of the room,"is recording to ensure the safety of both you and our patient."

"Understood. Thank you"

Jerry steps aside and I walk into the room.

The door closes behind me and I am locked in a room with a young man who is undeniably my brother.

He looks exactly like me.