“I’m glad it worked out well for you.” Mark hesitates. I remain silent and give him a chance to find his words. “The economy isn’t as strong in New Jersey as it is here. It’d be tougher for you and LuAnn to find work.”
“Okay.” My mind is spinning in circles, trying to figure out why he’s telling me this.
“The real estate market isn’t as robust either,” he says. “Not to mention, the weather is drastically different from Arizona. I don’t think you’d like the snow.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“I’m just trying to let you know that moving to New Jersey is a bad idea.”
I sit quietly in my office chair. Obviously, my brother has suffered some sort of brain trauma and needs help. Jana would know what to do. As soon as I finish the conversation with Mark, I can call our sister and see what she suggests.
“Got it,” I say gently, not wanting to disturb him any further. “Moving to New Jersey is bad. I promise I won’t do that bad thing. Is that better?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” says Mark.
“What do you want me to do? You’re the one who called with all this crazy talk about moving to New Jersey. Don’t talk crazy, and I won’t treat you like a lunatic.”
“Hey, I’m just worried about you.”
“Probably not as worried as I am about you right now.”
“You shouldn’t move to New Jersey,” he says.
“Why would you think I’m planning to move to Jersey?” I ask.
“You announced it on Facebook,” says Mark, his voice in full sarcasm mode. “It was with that picture of a piece of apple pie.”
Ding-ding-ding. It finally registers.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, suddenly annoyed at the suggestion. “Did you think I was really going to move to New Jersey for apple pie? I’m not going to give up my life here for pie. That’s just food. You’re my family. I’d be a horrible person if I suddenly cared more about dessert than I did the people I grew up with and love.”
“So, you’re not moving out there?” he asks.
“Give me a break.”
“All right . . . good talking with you . . . have a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, I will,” I tell him. “We’re going to have apple pie.”
The smell of Turkey Day paradise fills the house. I cruise through the kitchen to check on the preparations. Subtle hints of woodsmoke drift through the air. A dozen boiled eggs lie split on a cutting board, ready for their deviled topping. LuAnn is in the process of placing mini-marshmallows atop a casserole dish filled with heavily sugared yams. Everything seems in order.
This is the second year in a row the family has asked LuAnn and me to host Thanksgiving. All right, I admit it. What that really means is they asked LuAnn to host the event. My duties are limited to setting up all the folding chairs and answering the door when everyone arrives. And if I’m being honest about it, Thanksgiving is better for that arrangement. The farther I am from the food-prep area, the more likely we are to avoid culinary disaster.
I check my social media accounts as I wait. My oldest sister, Carol, has commented on the picture I posted on Facebook. The picture of me and my biological father. She writes, “Oh, my gosh, Randy. You do fit right in. Wow! I’m so happy you had the chance to see and be with your other siblings. But I’m glad you’re also my brother. Love you.”
Before I have a chance to respond, someone knocks at the door. It’s Mom. She usually arrives early to help LuAnn with the meal. She’s holding a large container with both hands. I hope it’s her potato salad. LuAnn and Mom make the only version of the classic dish I will eat. Even though it isn’t traditional Thanksgiving fare, whenever Mom asks what she should bring, I always tell her potato salad.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Mom cheerfully chimes.
“Let me carry that for you, Mom.” I take the container and escort her into the kitchen.
She gives me a hug and a kiss, then wanders over to see how she can help LuAnn. I take a quick peek into the container to verify that it’s potato salad. Score! I sneak out of the kitchen while the two of them talk about whatever it is they talk about when they’re in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure they’re not talking football.
There will be plenty of time for me to visit with Mom later. I return to my office, intending to dash off a quick response to Carol, but before I can even sit down, there’s another knock on the door.
It’s Dad and Judy. I let them in. Judy takes a bowl covered with aluminum foil into the kitchen and starts talking with LuAnn and Mom. They mention something about cooking, and I immediately tune them out.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.”
He sits on the love seat, and I take a spot on the couch. The Thanksgiving parade is on the television. Dad sneers at the show and then turns to face me. “How was the trip?”
“Good.” How much do I tell him? I don’t want to mention how awesome it was to meet everyone out there because I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings. Sure, I felt comfortable with the Petrauschke clan, but it also feels natural for me to sit in a room with Dad and talk about whatever’s been happening in my life. Especially if it has to do with my writing.
I tell him about Florida. About the miserable heat and humidity. The amazingly beautiful granddaughter. About how wonderful it was to see my daughter Alex. And how I look like my siblings in New Jersey.
He leans forward and fixes his good eye on me.
Uh-oh. Dad must have something serious on his mind if I’m getting his full attention. I briefly consider changing the channel to distract him and thus avoid the possibility of a surprising, or otherwise uncomfortable, discussion, but decide I better listen.
“What’s your father like?” he asks.
The question takes me by surprise. Why does he want to know that? This is the same man who laughed last year when I told him he might have a secret brother the family didn’t know about. This is the man who thought it was a hoot that I really was the milkman’s son. He hasn’t been fazed by any of the events over the last year. Why does he care about this?
I mean, if I were in his position, I would want to know about the other father figure in my child’s life. I would want to be comforted in the knowledge that my child is loved, nurtured, guided, and protected by the other father. But that’s me, and this is one of the ways where I’m different from Dad. The emotional stuff seems to roll off him like bad whiskey poured over a duck’s back. Dad just shrugs and keeps doing what needs to be done.
“He’s your age,” I tell Dad. “About the same height as you. He had a stroke in his early twenties, so he doesn’t talk much. Oh yeah. He is a big John Wayne fan. He might be an even bigger fan than you.”
“Is he a good man?” Dad asks.
All of a sudden, I understand what he wants to know. He’s not worried about me loving Father Petrauschke more than him. Dad is calculating whether I would have been better off if I had been raised with my biological father.
“He is a good man,” I tell Dad. “And if he had raised me, I have no doubt that I would have been sufficiently provided for and felt loved. The funny thing about the situation is the ways in which I’m different from Mark and Jana and Carol are the same traits I share with my siblings in New Jersey.”
Dad nods but says nothing.
“Meeting the family in New Jersey answered a lot of questions I had about myself. Questions that have been lurking in my mind since I was little. Now I know why I don’t look like the rest of the Lindsay kids. I know why I have a more sensitive nature than Mark, Jana, and Carol. I know where my interests in dinosaurs, aliens from space, and monsters come from. And knowing all of that has brought a great deal of peace to my soul.”
I take a breath, hoping I’ve said the right thing. Dad will understand that even though I’ve embraced my new family, I still love him as much as I eve
r have. In fact, I love him even more because of what I’ve learned.
“Well, good,” Dad says. “When’s dinner going to be ready?”
On Christmas afternoon, LuAnn loads two large casserole dishes into the back of my van. The dishes contain her famous and much-demanded corn pudding. I load the children, a task that requires me to stand at the front door and holler, “Get in the van!”
At first glance, my task looks easier. All I have to do is tell the children it’s time to leave. But the corn pudding doesn’t roll its eyes at me, hide out in the bathroom for ten minutes while everyone else is waiting, or run back inside the house twenty times because it forgot something. After telling my youngest, for the fifth time, to get into the van, I’m wondering why we had children.
Music full of jingling bells plays on the radio all the way over to my sister’s house. We arrive early and let ourselves in. Jana is running around her kitchen like an insane monkey, trying to put the finishing touches on her part of the meal—two large roasters filled with brisket. I know from past experience she’s been up all night getting ready for the events of the day.
The rest of the family trickles in and deposits their contributions to the feast, lining them up along the breakfast counter.
As soon as Dad and Judy arrive, they make a quick circuit through the room to hug the family and then make their way through the food line. It doesn’t matter if everyone has arrived or not. There’s food, and they plan to eat.
Jana announces, “Mark is on his way.”
Several members of the younger generation have grabbed plates and joined Dad and Judy. Jana looks at the food line and sighs. “I guess everyone might as well eat. You never can tell how long it will take Mark to get here.”
The first container of corn pudding vanishes within minutes. All that is left of LuAnn’s tasty offering is the casserole dish, the serving spoon, and a few scattered crumbs. I decide Mark can fend for himself, and I dive into the second casserole dish before all the pudding is gone.
Things settle down after lunch. The children go outside to play. Dad finds a spot in front of the television. I grab a spot between Jana and LuAnn. Mom, Judy, and Carol take the other side of the table. Along with Mark and his wife, this is the usual Christmas Day discussion group. We visit for hours. Most of the conversation is inconsequential, but there is plenty of finding out what everyone else has been doing since our last gathering.
Mom doesn’t do much talking when there’s a crowd. She sits at the table and follows the discussion everyone else is having. I’m not sure if it’s a matter of her not being able to hear people talk when there’s so much noise or if she would just rather listen to what’s going on in her children’s lives.
Jana gives us an update on her grown children. I listen to the long list of current events, happy just to be with my family no matter the topic being discussed. Problems shared with family feel more like life being lived to me. I ask questions to keep her talking. Each story fills me in on another chunk of my sister’s life. A section of life I missed while I was too focused on my writing to pay attention to anyone else.
Despite the bleak nature of some of the events Jana describes, I enjoy the process of reconnecting. I always do. I never feel as complete as when I’m with my family. Just like every other Christmas, I wish this day could go on forever.
“Randy,” Jana says.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s stopped telling stories and is asking me a question.
“Yes,” I respond with only a slight hesitation.
“How’s your family in New Jersey?” she asks.
Looks like it’s my turn to share. I recount all the details of the trip out East. This has to be the fiftieth time I’ve told the story since I returned from New Jersey. I explain how the crazy parts of my life finally made sense once I met my Petrauschke siblings. How amazing it felt to look like part of a family for the first time in my life. And how even though I know I’m loved here, I feel as if I fit in with the Jersey crew.
As I’m scouring my brain for any details I might have left out, Jana asks another question. “So what’s up with all the social media posts the New Jersey folks make?”
“What?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“You know,” she says as if it should be obvious to anyone who hasn’t suffered severe brain trauma. “All the mushy, lovey-dovey stuff. Do they really need to go on and on about how much they love you and can’t wait for you to go back there?”
Is she putting me on?
I look for some sign that she’s kidding around with me, but I can tell she isn’t. Besides, the Lindsays aren’t big on practical jokes. We prefer to employ biting sarcasm as our weapon of humorous choice. She actually seems upset over the public displays of verbal affection. Which is strange since she was the first member of my immediate family to suggest I embrace the Jersey clan.
Apparently, there’s a limit to how much I am allowed to be loved.
“What’s wrong with them expressing their feelings?” I ask.
“They can,” she says, “but they don’t need to go overboard with all the posts.”
“I don’t think they have,” I say.
“Well, they have.” There’s no hint of a smile or anything to indicate she’s kidding. She isn’t angry, but she sure isn’t happy about the situation. “You’re our brother. Not theirs.”
I want to tell her that I’m a brother to all of them. It doesn’t seem fair, after everything I’ve gone through on this journey, to have my baby sister claim me for the Lindsays. As if they have some exclusive right to be my brother. Then I stop to think about it. Maybe instead of letting it bother me, I should be grateful she and Mark have been resistant to my efforts to insert myself into another family. It makes me feel loved.
“Take a moment and put it into perspective,” I say, hoping to quiet her concerns over the matter.
She arches an eyebrow, daring me to continue.
“You, Mark, and Carol can see me anytime you want. All you have to do is call me on the phone and we can arrange to have lunch together. During the holidays, like today, we sit until late in the evening and share our lives with one another. We see each other at family birthdays, weddings, and funerals. Those things have already created a special bond that I may never have with people who are as equally related to me as you are.”
Jana folds her arms and turns her head away. She looks less upset.
“Social media is the only way my New Jersey family has to love me. It’s the only medium I have to connect with them. Maybe they have been overly expressive of their feelings during the last couple of months. And maybe I have too. So what?”
I pause, searching for the words to express my thoughts. “As good as the Jersey folks have been to me, I think a little Facebook loving is the least I can do for them. They didn’t have to accept me. They didn’t have to love me. But they did. Come on . . . you have me. Let them have my social media specter.”
To drive my point home, I lean over and give Jana a hug. “Isn’t this better than swapping Facebook posts? I don’t know about you, but it sure feels better to me.”
“Okay,” Jana says. Her shoulders relax. “Point taken. Let’s have dessert.”
“Do you have apple pie?” I ask.
“Oh, shut up,” she says.
I smile as I watch her head over to the prep counter and start slicing pies. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. Catastrophe averted . . . at least for the moment. Jana’s outburst leaves me wondering how much family drama still lies ahead of me.
Chapter 19
The Dreaded Call
The holiday season is over, and the first blooms of spring are only a few weeks away. Birds sing outside my office window. The cat is on the back porch, curled against the night’s chill in her fuzzy pet bed. I spend a couple of minutes enjoying the morning before I start on t
he mountain of author chores needing my attention.
My cell phone rings. It’s Joe. A good night’s sleep and the ideal weather outside has me feeling pretty good. I decide to answer the phone and surprise Joe.
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you, the peanut butter Tastykakes are superior to all other flavors?”
“Dad’s in the hospital,” says Joe. “He had a stroke.”
My heart drops into a dark pit of fear and doubt. Strokes, even minor ones, could be deadly to Father at his age. I just met the man. It isn’t fair to take him away so soon. A small part of my brain whispers, “At least you had the chance to meet him,” but I don’t care about that right now. I want to see him again. I have to see him again.
“What did the doctors say?” I ask.
“They don’t know yet.” Joe’s voice has the same gruff sound as it always does, making the news all the more ominous in this situation. “Dad’s still unconscious. I’m going to stay with him at the hospital. I’ll call you when I find out more.”
“Let me know as soon as anything changes,” I tell Joe.
“Later.” Joe disconnects the call.
I’m not sure what to do. If any of my family in Arizona were in the hospital, I’d put on my shoes and drive over and stay with them. Even if the person was unconscious, I’d still be with the rest of the family, lending our loved one emotional support with our presence. At least, I would feel like I was doing something to help. But in this situation, all I can do is wait and worry . . . by myself.
A little over a year ago, I found out P-Dad was my father. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want it to be true. In those fourteen months, I’ve had a chance to find out what kind of man he is and how much his genetic legacy has affected who I am as a person. I don’t want the news of his stroke to be true. I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want him to die.
Minutes pass as I brood over the news. I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. A quick glance at my computer gives me an idea. I log in to Facebook and post a request for those who know me to keep my father in their thoughts. Maybe the combined will of many people can make a difference in whether my father recovers.
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