I hesitate, not sure if I should tell everyone. The notion of revealing my secret to a small group of my writing buddies doesn’t bother me nearly as much as telling my family did. Maybe because their reaction to the news isn’t going to change my life. At worst, they will find it ironically funny, and I’ve already come to terms with that.
“Earlier this year, I found out that my dad isn’t my dad.” I watch the faces of my fellow authors. They all raise their eyebrows. A couple of them give me openmouthed stares. It’s quiet around the table as they look at one another.
“I imagine that came as quite a surprise,” says Carlene.
“You could say that,” I tell her. “My family is my life. For fifty-seven years, I had a clear and stable understanding of what my family was and what it meant to me. Then those dynamics changed overnight. And since I’m the only one who had a parent switched, it feels like I’m facing the situation by myself.”
How can a man with two families feel alone? It doesn’t make sense. More people means more options. A bigger family means a larger support network and a greater chance that someone within the two groups will understand whatever crisis I might currently be going through. Except that none of them are in this situation—my situation. I’m the only one who knows what this feels like.
“Are you?” asks Jeannie.
“Am I what?” I ask.
“Are you facing this situation alone?”
I think about this. Despite their laughter, I know Mark, Jana, and Dad are concerned. All three of them love me for who I am and not what I am. The fact that my DNA isn’t an exact match for my siblings, or any kind of match for my dad, doesn’t change the way they feel about me. We have shared too much of our lives to think of one another as anything other than family.
“Not really,” I answer. “My baby sister has always been there for me when I need someone to talk with. It doesn’t matter if I need advice or just want to vent. All I have to do is call, and she makes time to listen. I guess it’s only a matter of me realizing that it will take some time to work this out.”
“Is your biological father alive?” asks Anthony.
“Yes.”
“What’s he like?” asks Ruth.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. Curiosity wells up inside me. I should know, but I don’t.
Every day I check for Tammy’s reply. This is different from the time I spent waiting for my DNA test results. A thrill of discovery filled me as I waited for the DNA to return and unlock the secrets of Lindsay family history. Each day brought me closer to those revelations. But every day I fail to hear from Tammy gives weight to the fear that I’ve upset her.
It takes a week before Tammy replies. “My dad was not a milkman.”
I knew it. She didn’t think it was funny. I spend a few moments giving myself mental uppercuts to the head, making sure I feel appropriately stupid.
Tammy’s message continues. “I think he was doing insulation work when he was in Phoenix. He was working in a hot attic and then had an ice-cold drink, which caused a blood clot, which caused the stroke.”
What stroke? The way Tammy mentions the stroke makes it seem like everyone knows about it. As if that one event sculpted the rest of my biological father’s life and the family he raised uses it as a common navigation point for who he is and what they are together.
“My family has been in south Jersey for many years,” Tammy writes. “Dad lived in Phoenix from about the age of nine until a little after his stroke in 1958. My grandmother was living on East Madison around that time. I’m not sure if that is where she took care of him while he recovered.
“Some time after recovering from the stroke, Dad moved back to NJ, and then my parents got married. He worked at the local mill. When I was a baby, he had an accident. He fell off the scaffolding, went through the safety net, and hit his head on the concrete floor. The doctors put a plate in his head. While this is bad, I was too little to remember, and we have always known dad the way he is. If you have any more questions, please feel free to ask. I will answer to the best of my ability.”
First the milkman joke and now reminding her of the stroke. I have plenty of questions to ask Tammy, but I’m not sure how much this might be upsetting her. On the other hand, the only way I’m going to find out more about my biological father is to ask questions, and Tammy said I should feel free to do exactly that.
I imagine this isn’t any easier on Tammy than it is on me. That’s something else the two of us have in common. As I get to know her, I might discover we have even more similarities. That would certainly make it easier to bond with her and the rest of the New Jersey folks . . . if I decide that’s what I want to do.
“I’m sorry about your dad’s stroke.” I wonder why Mr. Petrauschke moved here as a child, and why he and his mother returned to his native New Jersey. He triggered my arrival into the world—to impact my entire life—and then abruptly left. Was it fate that he sired me . . . or just a mistake?
My head is full of questions, but two stand out. “Why did your dad move here? And why did he go back to New Jersey?”
I send the message to Tammy.
The part of the city Tammy’s dad lived in is close to the area where I spent most of my childhood—not living there but visiting my mom’s side of the family in the trailer park where my grandmother and great-aunt lived.
Images of catching toads in Aunt Max’s garden bubble up from my memory. More scenes play out in my mind; exploring the overly large ditch just to the west of the trailer park, walking up to the corner grocery store with my aunt and grandmother, and the laundry room with the old-fashioned washers that had a pair of rollers to wring the clothes dry.
I loved playing with those wringers.
These are good memories. When I think of Tammy’s dad living nearby, he seems less of a stranger. Not only have both of us lived in Phoenix, we shared a common stomping ground. For the first time, I feel a connection with my father.
I check my email before I head off to my Tuesday meeting. No response from Tammy. Her messages are friendly, but she seems to be in no hurry to get back to me. I wonder if she’s sharing my emails with the rest of her family and that’s causing the delay in her responses.
Maybe tomorrow.
As part of a community outreach program, I meet with a group to discuss employment opportunities for people in the neighborhood. I arrive at the meeting a few minutes early. The normal crowd of volunteers is sitting around the large sectional table in the conference room of a local church. Old black-and-white pictures of Mesa around the turn of last century adorn the wood panel walls.
“Hey, Randy,” says Tom. “What’s new with you?”
“I found out that my dad isn’t my dad.”
The room is silent. Tom raises his eyebrows. The others all look at one another. Eventually, Tom sputters the question I’m sure everyone wants to ask. “Um . . . How did you find out?”
I tell him about the family history research and my DNA test. It turns out to be way easier than discussing it with my family. No one in the room laughs at me. No one jokes about me being the milkman’s son. And unlike my family, the group has plenty of questions.
“How did you feel when you found out?” asks Tom.
I do my best to imitate the Twilight Zone theme . . . and fail miserably. “I felt as if my whole world dropped out from underneath me. Someone could have told me the Earth was flat and I would have been more likely to believe it.”
“That had to be rough,” says Jeff.
“Yeah, it’s a lot to process,” I say.
“Does the rest of your family know?” asks Scott.
“Unless my sister has spread the word, it’s just my parents and my siblings who know.”
“What about the new family,” Scott continues, “do they know?”
“It was my sister in New Jersey who told m
e,” I say. “At least, she’s the one who figured out the connection. I don’t know if she’s shared the information with the rest of her . . . I mean, our family.”
Does my biological father know about me? The group’s questions reveal how little I actually know about the situation. My situation. Hopefully, Tammy has the answers.
“What did your siblings think when you told them?”
At last, an easy question. “They think it’s funny.” I explain the joke.
“What about the man who raised you?” asks Jeff. “How did he react?”
“He thought it was hilarious too,” I say. “My whole family busts out laughing over the idea that I really am the milkman’s son. I’m not quite as amused as they are, but feel free to chuckle if you find it funny.”
A couple members of the group smile, but at least they don’t laugh.
Tom interrupts the discussion to start the meeting. I only half listen to the employment reports the others give, then I breeze through a quick version of my own. No one shows up for help with job searches, and so we dismiss early. I drive home and let my wife know I’m going for a walk.
It’s warm outside. In another month, it will be too hot to enjoy my nighttime treks through the neighborhood. I let my feet pick the route for tonight’s walk.
My thoughts drift back to how long it takes Tammy to respond to my messages. Maybe it’s an indication that she isn’t interested in connecting with me in any significant manner. Since no one else from New Jersey has bothered to contact me, maybe none of them want anything to do with me.
Even though I have thoughts about keeping the Petrauschkes at an emotionally safe distance, the prospect of them rejecting me leaves an aching hole in my chest. It’s not my fault things are the way they are. I had no part in creating this situation . . . other than being born. I’m their brother, their son. Shouldn’t that be enough for them to want to know me better?
Shouldn’t that be enough for me to want to know them better?
I turn around and head back to the house. My wife looks up from her crocheting as I stroll through the living room. “That was a quick walk.”
Rather than wait for Tammy to reply, I decide I need to let her know I’m interested in getting to know all of them better. A thin fog of darkness in my mind lifts as I accept my connection to them. For some reason I can’t explain, I feel better already.
“Tammy,” I write. “I got to thinking, after I responded to your message, that this turn of events may have upset you and the rest of your family. I’m sorry if that is so. I definitely don’t want to contribute to your sorrows. The news of the test results has impacted my family. They worry I will feel left out, but it hasn’t changed anything for them.
“That being said, I am willing to go along with whatever path you choose to take on the matter. If you would like me to remain a faceless family history contributor, then I’m all right with that. And if you, or the rest of your family, want to take a step toward getting to know each other a little, then I’m all right with that as well. Just let me know.”
I lean back and look the message over to make sure it’s what I want to say and to ensure I haven’t mentioned anything that might upset Tammy. I read it, then reread it, then reread it again. Then I hit the send button. A sense of relief floods through me. The Petrauschkes might not be ready for a relationship, but at least I have acted in the way that’s right for me.
A message is waiting for me the following Monday.
“Dad didn’t meet my mother until 1961,” writes Tammy. “They married in 1962. The discovery isn’t as big a deal for us since it happened before the two of them met. One of the reasons I started on Ancestry was to find my father’s family. I certainly wouldn’t stop anyone else from learning as much as they want to about their family.
“I was a little shocked when I found out. It took a little while to sink in. I was not sure how you were going to react to all of this. I would like to get to know you, but only if you are comfortable with that.”
My lips tremble as I read the message. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My new sister wants to get to know me. She hasn’t rejected me. I’m engulfed by the warm, comforting blanket of acceptance. Hopefully, the rest of the family will want to find out more about me as well.
“Tammy,” I type. “I have to admit this has really been a weird experience. You see this sort of thing in the movies and scoff at the situation as being unrealistic. Or, at least, I do. Then all of a sudden—boom. I have three new siblings. I don’t suppose anyone in the family is a successful Hollywood director looking for a talented author to write the next big mega-hit?
“How many in your family know about this situation?” I share a couple of paragraphs of information about myself as part of the getting-to-know-you process and end with, “If all of that doesn’t scare you off, then I’d be happy to tell you more.”
Send.
Tuesday passes.
Wednesday passes.
Most of Thursday passes. No response . . . so far.
I fix a quick dinner of tuna-salad sandwiches and sliced apples for the kids. We eat together and discuss which of the candidates is our favorite for winning this season of The Great British Baking Show. As usual, the two youngest boys wait for me to state my pick and then agree with me. A quarter to seven rolls around. I kiss my wife goodbye and make the five-minute drive over to the monthly book club meeting.
My friends Dave and Deb host the meeting at their house. Other than the three of us, the attendance varies from month-to-month. Charlie, their big white poodle, greets me at the door. I can expect him to spend most of the evening with his chin resting on my lap. Dave will try to keep Charlie from bothering me during the meeting, but I’m all right with the attention. The arrangement gives me all the benefits of having a dog for two hours a month without any of the responsibilities.
A win for me. A win for Charlie.
The group engages in a discussion about an upcoming writer’s conference while we wait for everyone to arrive. Deb looks over at me and asks, “Everything all right? You seem kind of quiet.”
“Nothing major,” I say. “Just a few things on my mind.”
“Oh, really? Like what?” she asks.
I can already picture the expressions on their faces when I tell the group about my secret DNA discovery. My previous tellings of the story have given me a few clues about how to add some dramatic touches to make it even more interesting than it already is.
First, the power punch to get their attention. “I found out this year, at the not so young age of fifty-seven, that my dad is not my dad.”
I wait for the ripples of shock to circulate through the room.
“No way,” says Deb. Her eyes look like they’re going to pop out of her head.
“What?” Dave sits up straight in his chair.
“That’s right,” I tell them. “For years, my brother and sisters have teased me about being the milkman’s son, and it turns out they were right.”
I shake my head as if it’s all a grand joke, letting the group know I don’t mind if they find the situation funny. None of them laugh. The women in the group give me their unique versions of the you-poor-thing look. I find that with a little sympathy from my audience, I don’t mind revealing the intimate sentiments of my soul.
“Are your parents still alive?” asks Deb.
“Yes, they are,” I reply. “All three of them.”
“Have they said why they never told you the truth?” asks Dave.
“I’m not sure who, if any of them, knows the real situation,” I tell him.
“Then why did your siblings call you the milkman’s son?” asks Rebecca.
“Because they have a sick sense of humor,” I say. “And because they’re little brats. I mean, what do you expect from younger brothers and sisters? You’d think they would eventu
ally grow up, but they don’t.”
“Have you met your biological father?” asks Deb.
“No,” I say. “Not yet. I’m not even sure if he wants to meet me.”
“Of course he will.” Deb waves her hand as if batting away the suggestion like an annoying fly in the room. “You’re his son.”
But will he? Tammy hasn’t given me any sort of indication that the members of my New Jersey family want to meet me. None of them, besides Tammy, has reached out with an email or a text message. How hard is it to add me to their list of contacts and send a text that says, “I hear you’re my brother”?
“Enough about my surprise family,” I tell the group. “Let’s talk about books.”
We switch topics. I try to focus on the book discussion, but my thoughts drift back to the Petrauschkes. If they aren’t interested in getting to know me better, then why did Tammy contact me about the DNA results? Is there something wrong with me? Did I say something that made the majority of the family flinch at the idea of establishing a relationship?
Eventually, the meeting ends and I go home. I check my email and my inbox on Ancestry, but there are no messages waiting for me in either place.
The weekend passes.
I wake up and start my Monday morning ritual. Shower. Breakfast. Check my email. A message is waiting for me. It finally clicks for me. I see a pattern. It doesn’t matter what day of the week I respond to Tammy, she usually writes to me on Mondays.
Maybe, like me, that’s when she schedules a block of time to answer emails. But another idea sticks in my head. What if she meets with the rest of her family on Sunday and shares my messages with them? I can almost picture the family gathered around the kitchen table, anxiously waiting to hear from the long-lost son/brother.
Nah! That’s just wishful thinking on my part.
Her message reads, “It’s been weird, and I’m not sure it has all sunk in yet. We do not have any directors in our family.”
I scan the rest of the message. Then I stop. What did I just read? I go back to Tammy’s last paragraph.
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