Jeannette & Loretta

Aug 5 | Written By American Baroness

Photo of Jeannette (Left) and Loretta (Right) on the steps of their high school in Stoneham Massachusetts, 1950s.

My mother, Jeannette, had a twin sister, Loretta, who died almost exactly 20 years ago, on August 11th, 2000. She was 63. We all still feel her loss, deeply; she is always included in our liveliest family conversations, as any story in which she figures will be witty, warm, engaging, even a tiny bit off-color. Like Loretta.

Jeannette and Loretta were storybook twins: identical, beautiful, compatible, inseparable. Growing up, we kids had two Moms, ironic since, at 3 years of age, the twins lost their own mother. Their parents were immigrants, from Italy, who settled in Massachusetts and, with grace and determination, made their way in the new world.

When I was really little, I couldn’t tell them apart. But later, it got easier. My mother was the thinner of the two. And Loretta had a slightly crooked front tooth, and a barely detectible lisp. I inherited that subtle speech impediment from Loretta. My sister got her excellent taste in home décor and her sparkling hostess skills.

Jeannette had 4 kids, got her master’s degree in her late 30s, worked full time as a Special Ed teacher, played tennis and always won, got her hair done, wore Woodhue perfume, dressed well, adored her husband (still does) and didn’t admonish or discipline us unless we were real shits. She loves her kids and her granddaughter with absolute ferocity and she’s incredibly adept, as is my Dad, at making each of us feel special.

Loretta’s life followed a similar trajectory, though she had only 2 kids, both boys, and had wanted a girl. For as long as Loretta lived, the twins did almost everything together. They even shared clothes—and I don’t mean as girls, which was also the case, I mean as women; and I mean, on the regular. Together, they went back to school to get their master’s degrees. They married men who had been friends before they met the twins. We lived in Reading, they lived in Stoneham, a stone’s throw by any suburban measure. They even worked in the same school system, post-master’s degrees. It’s just that Loretta developed a brain tumor, and Jeannette did not. That’s the main difference.   

Personality-wise, though, it could be argued that the twins were like two halves of a whole. Loretta was outgoing, bubbly, and optimistic. My mother was, and still is, shy, naïve and, sometimes, cautiously pessimistic. Though I noticed in the years following Loretta’s passing, my mother took on some of her twin’s qualities, becoming a bit more buoyant, a little less leery. I sensed that Loretta’s spirit might’ve moved into Jeannette. As if, her own house having burned down, she seamlessly packed up and went to live in her sister’s. And anyway, if your twin dies, are you no longer a twin? That doesn’t seem right. I say: Twins forever, corporeality be damned.

Jeannette and Loretta have always been more than role models or mentors—though they are actively labeled in both of those ways by me, obviously, but also by my younger sister and a slew of our friends, male and female—anyone who met either or both became an instant, devoted fan. How often, still, do I hear, “Oh my God, I love your Mom!”? And over the past 20 years since Loretta passed away, I have been reminded, by my childhood friends, neighbors, even an occasional stranger, of her special qualities and undemanding influence. Loretta had a particular way of listening: it was total, but never intense, leaving space for the speaker to spread out and maybe even embellish or go on a little too long. My mother, too, has this rare quality which is why she is so often on the phone with friends or, pre-pandemic, out and about with them, finding out whose kids are doing what and making sure everyone knows what hers are doing, too. I swear those lovely older ladies know more about me than I know about myself. Which is fine by me. I’m happy to be articulated by Jeannette’s perspective, knowing Loretta’s is in there too.