An Unbreakable Chain
By Patricia Crisafulli
Summer 1973
Born eleven months apart, the sisters tried to pass themselves off as twins, even within the family that certainly knew better. Then came Miranda’s thirteenth birthday, putting her officially in teenage years, while Muriel at twelve kept one foot in childhood. And that was when Aunt Gloria, their mother’s sister and Miranda’s godmother, came for a visit and brought the bracelets.
Shiny interlocking chains—one gold, one silver—encircled nearly identical wrists. At first, Muriel loved the single charm of a bird that dangled from her bracelet—wings spread, its tail long and graceful. Then she looked over at Miranda, fingering her shiny links and saw how much her butterfly charm sparkled.
“Mine’s better,” Miranda said. “It’s gold. Yours is only silver.”
Discontent tarnished the little bracelet, and a week later Muriel opened the catch and let it slip from her wrist while out walking in a field behind their house. Regret gripped her the next day, but her search yielded only tears.
Spring 2025
Muriel backed out of a tight space in the grocery store parking lot, swiveling her head left and right to keep from scraping the cars on either side. At age 64, she detested driving—too many cars, too many pedestrians, not to mention bicycles and those scooters that zipped along the shoulder and cluttered the sidewalks. A horn blared, she slammed on the brakes.
That was when her phone rang, the Bluetooth connection flashing the caller’s name on the screen: Krissy, her niece, Miranda’s daughter.
“Just a sec.” Murial backed the rest of the way out of the space and put the car in gear. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling about Mom’s birthday,” Krissy said.
“Big one this year—65. I’m right behind her.”
“Dad wants to have a party for her. It’s a surprise.” Krissy gave the details—a weekend event at an inn on the shore: dinner Saturday evening, brunch Sunday morning.
As she listened, Muriel felt the prick of jealousy. She didn’t begrudge Miranda for having a comfortable life and a 40-year marriage to Carl who doted on her. But there were times that intensified the inevitable comparison between them, when Muriel felt more disappointment than acceptance of her own life; of being divorced for more than 20 years from a man who had never really been right for her.
“Can’t wait!” Muriel declared, forcing enthusiasm in her voice. “What can I do to help?”
“It’s all set,” Krissy told her. “All the guests are staying at the inn. We’re going to be in a villa—still on the property, but about a mile away. We’ve got to keep Mom from running into anybody.”
Muriel signaled and turned out of the parking lot. “I’ll wear my best disguise,” she joked.
Fall 1986
The wedding was in two days, and the thought terrified her. With a deep breath, Muriel reminded herself that she and Doug loved each other. Sure, they had their ups and downs—didn’t every couple? They’d broken up twice but always came back together.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she saw herself in the mirror over her dresser. Dark hair and eyes, cheeks she wished weren’t so full. Her gaze continued across the pink walls of the bedroom and pictured what had been Miranda’s room next door. They used to tap little messages on their shared wall: two raps for good night, three for are you awake, four for it’s time to get up.
Now they had their own apartments, lived completely separate lives. Each time they were together, a dozen unspoken messages seemed to flutter between them: love and resentment, compatibility and competition, understanding and confusion.
A knock sounded, and Miranda stepped into the room. Muriel waited for her sister to say something, but there was only expectant silence.
“I should have made you maid of honor,” Muriel blurted out. “It’s just that, well, Dotty knew Doug and me in college—and she’s friends with the best man. I think she’s stuck on him.”
Miranda shook her head. “It’s okay. I like being a bridesmaid. Besides, I might lose your rings or something.”
“Best man does that. Hang onto the rings, not lose them. At least I hope.” Muriel got up. “You wanna go for a ride?”
Cocking her head, Miranda looked at her, and Muriel nursed an annoyance that her sister might be weighing other plans.
“Yeah,” Miranda said. “I’ll drive.”
At a convenience store, they bought wine coolers in glass bottles, then grimaced at the fruity taste as they drank them at a picnic table beside a pond in a town park. “You know that sign over there says no alcohol.” Muriel took another sip.
“And no glass,” Miranda raised her bottle in salute. “We get arrested, you’ll spend your wedding in jail.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Muriel murmured.
Miranda tapped the bottle against the wooden tabletop. “You sure you want to go through with this?”
Muriel studied her sister: Miranda with the suntanned good looks, a promising new job, a one-carat engagement ring and a matching wedding band. She dumped the rest of the wine cooler on the grass and headed back to the car, carrying the empty bottle, never giving Miranda an answer.
Winter 1990
“He cheated.”
Muriel leaned over the narrow counter in the apartment she and Doug had lived in for two years of marriage, while saving for a house. The cordless phone felt hot and heavy in her hand; her head pounded.
“Oh, that’s awful,” Miranda said.
The pity in her sister’s voice jerked Muriel back from the edge of her sadness and vulnerability. Why had she called Miranda of all people? “He said it meant nothing.”
“But cheating—it’s a big deal.”
“Happens in at least half of marriage, maybe even sixty percent. I read that somewhere.” Muriel hadn’t; she’d made that up, but it sounded correct.
“You deserve someone who treats you better,” Miranda said.
“Like Carl,” Muriel shot back with more edge than she intended. But she was a little sick of her sister and brother-in-law as the posterchildren for marital bliss. “We’ll put this behind us.”
“Will he go to counseling?” Miranda asked.
“Gotta go,” Muriel said. “He’s here.”
“Call me later.”
Muriel stared out the window; Doug was nowhere in sight.
Spring 2025
The inn sat on an expanse of blue so bright it looked fake. At the registration desk, Muriel picked up her key, a packet of information, and a list of guests—just twenty of them, including immediate family. A small envelope marked “Aunt Muriel” held a note from her niece and a gift certificate for a spa treatment. Booked you a massage for one o’clock Sunday.
Muriel smiled at Krissy’s thoughtfulness. After driving for three hours, though, she really wanted to take a walk, then get a massage. She’d be completely relaxed before the party. At the concierge desk, she called the spa and changed her appointment to a 60-minute treatment at three o’clock.
Strolling along the beach, she saw seals sunning themselves on the rocks and birds circling the waves before diving into the water. The beach ended at the town pier, and Muriel headed toward the tiny downtown where she found two charming boutiques. She made it back to the inn just in time for a quick shower, then a sprint to the spa which was farther away from the inn than she’d expected.
Rushing to relax, Muriel thought, the story of her life.
A quiet knock sounded, and a masseuse in dark blue scrubs entered the dimly lit room. She asked about body aches, chronic pains. “My right shoulder,” Muriel said.
Strong hands went to work, kneading muscles, relaxing knots. Muriel exhaled through the pain that wasn’t really pain, felt her body release.
The masseuse pushed the bony point of her elbow into a muscle. “Right shoulder pain might mean you’re hanging onto something that you should let go of.”
“Ahhh—huh,” Muriel replied.
The masseuse applied pressure on Muriel’s left side. “This is where your emotions sit.”
Another guttural response escaped her.
Winter 2005
Muriel carried a box up the sidewalk toward the front door of her new townhouse. At age 44, she was on her own again. After nineteen years of marriage, three separations, two reconciliations, and instability that had kept them from committing themselves to having children, this final split had been inevitable. But that didn’t make it any less sad.
In the galley kitchen, Muriel wondered where she’d put all her stuff—the stockpots and roasting pans, pasta maker and bread machine. Maybe she’d minimize and downsize, donate the rest.
The doorbell chimed, sooner than Muriel expected. The movers had been packing the truck when she’d left the house for the last time. Instead of two husky men in matching “Get a Move On” shirts, she saw a floral delivery person bearing an enormous bouquet in a blue glass vase. She signed for it, pulled a five dollar bill out of her purse by the door, and opened the card, knowing it would bear Miranda’s name and a cheery message. New Beginnings! XOXO – M.
A half-hour later, the doorbell rang again. Muriel looked out the window for the moving truck but saw only a van: “Eddie’s Edible Treats.” She accepted fruit on skewers made to look like a bouquet of flowers. Plucking a piece of pineapple, she read the card: Life is sweet XOXO – M.
She stuck it in the refrigerator, thinking she’d offer some to the movers. Otherwise, she’d have to eat five pounds of cubed fruit by herself.
Fifteen minutes after that, Muriel was back at the door. A young man with a bewildered expression stood there with five mylar balloons—two teddy bears, two smiley faces, and a giant #1. “I work at the grocery store. Some lady paid me to bring these here. She told me to tell you something.” He paused. “Doug was an asshole.”
Muriel sputtered with laughter and called Miranda. “You ever hear of overkill?”
“I had to make up for the flowers that probably pissed you off. Not to mention the fruit.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do with these balloons.” Muriel held the strings tightly; she was afraid they’d get loose and drift up the narrow staircase to the second floor.
“If that’s the biggest problem you have right now, I’d say you’re doing just fine.”
Spring 2025
The tension drained out of her body, Muriel poured herself a tall glass of water from a pitcher filled with slices of lemon and cucumber. She drank deeply.
It was just after four o’clock, and cocktails started at five-thirty, but she just couldn’t hurry. Sitting down in a wingback chair in the spa’s waiting area, she closed her eyes, just for a moment.
Someone called her name.
Fluttering her eyes open, Muriel surfaced through a moment of disorientation. Her sister stood in front of her chair.
Suddenly, Muriel realized what she’d done by veering out of Krissy’s carefully planned schedule. “Oh, geez,” she said. “Can we just pretend I’m not here?”
Miranda laughed. “It’s okay. When Carl insisted that I buy myself a new dress for my birthday, well, I knew something had to be up.”
Muriel groaned. “I’m so sorry. Krissy is going to kill me.”
Miranda batted the air with her hand. “Like I said, already suspected. But I better get going. We’re supposed to be going out for dinner.”
“Stop by my room.” Muriel gave her sister the number. “Just give me a minute to get there first—see if the coast is clear.”
Hers was a large corner suite at the end of a hall on the second floor, with a balcony where she waited for Miranda to approach. Waving over her head, she pointed her sister to a side entrance and scurried down to meet her.
“Feels so clandestine,” Miranda giggled as they walked quickly up the stairs.
Inside the room, Muriel handed her sister a bag from one of the boutiques in town. “I have another birthday gift for you. I’ll bring that tonight. But I saw this today and, well, you’ll see.”
Miranda lifted the lid of a long, narrow box. Inside was a length of gold links, dangling with charms. “Oh, it’s lovely.”
Muriel opened a second box and extracted an identical piece of jewelry she’d bought for herself. “You remember those bracelets Aunt Gloria gave us?”
Miranda reached over to help Muriel fasten it. “How could I forget? And I was a brat who told you yours wasn’t as good as mine.”
“It wasn’t,” Muriel said, cocking an eyebrow along with her smile. “You’ll notice these are both gold. No more coveting your bracelet.”
Reaching over, Miranda clasped both her hands with Muriel’s. “I love you—you know that.”
Tears flooded, blurring Muriel’s vision as she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror on the wall. Same size, hair tinted within a few shades of each other, faces bearing the lines of laughter and worry in equal measure. Close enough in age to be twins, entwined enough in heart to be friends. Though stretched and frayed at times, theirs was a lasting bond—an unbreakable chain.