Finding Family

by Richard Hill

  He apologized. Then he explained that most of their business was in paternity testing, where they sometimes got a definitive answer in the first eight to ten markers. In those cases, the extra markers really did not matter.

  “In a sibling test, however, you’re dealing in probabilities. Every marker has the potential to significantly change the overall result.”

  He went on to explain that a standard saliva kit, while easy and painless, might produce incomplete results again. To make sure this re-test would be the final round, he suggested using blood. The cost would be the same, but blood would assuredly capture all the markers.

  Anxious to get this settled, I agreed. They would send Joe and me blood-test kits to be sure they could read all our markers. This kit required pricking a finger and letting a few drops of blood fall on a piece of special paper.

  I paid for two re-tests plus overnight shipping. My total investment in these sibling tests had now climbed to seven hundred fifty dollars. Yet I no longer cared how much I was spending. I had to get the correct answer.

  Hanging up, I called Joe’s number and left a message to explain why a blood test kit was coming his way. He called back later to say that was fine with him.

  “I’m a dentist,” he deadpanned. “I’m not afraid of blood.”

  When my kit arrived, the instructions suggested using a lancet for pricking the finger. I went to the drug store and discovered I had to buy them by the box.

  I only need one, I thought. What am I going to do with all the others?

  Well, I was a little off on that. Although I was able to poke holes in my finger, I could not get any of them to bleed. I had to be doing something wrong, I fumed. This should be easy.

  Eventually, after many failed attempts and more lancets than I ever dreamed I would need, I forced three drops of blood to fall on the card. I followed the packing instructions and mailed the kit back to the lab on the fifth day of September, 2007.

  Instead of comparing me to each man on only eleven markers, the lab would now be able to use all fifteen markers. I realized that the more detailed results could completely revise the order of my scores. Any one of the five men could rise to the top and prove to be my half brother. And any one of their fathers could still be my biological father.

  As we discussed this, Pat raised an interesting question. “Which one do you want it to be?” she asked.

  Her question made me think. At first, I had wanted my father to be one of the two single guys, because I thought it reflected better on Jackie, my birth mother.

  Wayne was one of them and our pictures revealed a strong resemblance. The only thing that bothered me about Wayne being my father was his widow, Mattie. Even though they were not yet married in 1945, the thought of her childhood sweetheart being with Jackie had to be unpleasant.

  One of my search goals was not to hurt anyone…and Mattie was the only spouse around to feel the pain inherent in the truth of my birth.

  On the other hand, I was already comfortable with the idea of Dale as my brother. So my feelings about Wayne as my father were decidedly mixed.

  Joe Sr., the other single guy, had been a Marine. I would be proud to have a Marine veteran as my father. His mental health issues were a product of war and not something genetic. His son, Joe, clearly had his head together because he had become a successful orthodontist. So that outcome would be fine with me.

  I realized that I had become comfortable with Vernie/Jack or Doug/Doc being my father. I now knew that both were highly intelligent men who loved their families and generously shared the fruits of their success.

  Since the family was already aware of their penchant for infidelity, I didn’t think that proof of an affair with Jackie would surprise or upset anyone.

  The passage of time helped a lot. Since these men, their wives, and Jackie had been deceased for so long, events from sixty years ago were viewed as history rather than scandal.

  The only man I clearly did not want to see as my father was Clyde. There was nothing wrong with him and I knew his son, Dave, would make a great brother. But Clyde was the only outcome that would be totally unexpected. An affair would be completely out of character for him, and I did not want my DNA test to sully his reputation.

  Once again, I began to get anxious for the results. On the twenty-sixth day of September, I called the lab. The raw data was ready for analysis.

  I suspect the people who answered the phone were aware of my earlier complaints because the woman I spoke with offered to have someone calculate the five Half Sibling Index numbers and call me back in about ten minutes. I thanked her and waited by the phone.

  In those moments, I reflected back on this eventful year.

  Incredibly, more than five months had passed since I ordered the first sibling tests. More than six months had flown by since I first talked to Gerry. And it was eight months since my Y-DNA test indicated that my biological father’s surname was Richards.

  The phone rang and the caller ID showed it was the lab. One of the five tested men was my half sibling…and his father had been mine, too. Would the results now be conclusive? I answered the phone.

  41

  REVISIONS

  The caller was not the lab guy I usually spoke with, but he had just calculated my Half Sibling Index numbers based on all fifteen markers.

  I knew the earlier scores by heart. How much would they change? “Go ahead,” I said. He began to read the results.

  “For you and Dave, the Half Sibling Index is .049.” Wow, I thought. That dropped from 2.32 in the first test. That’s a lot.

  “For you and Dale, it’s 0.52.” What a turnaround from 4.69 in the first test! The early leader and I must have had awfully little in common over the last four markers.

  “For you and Joe, it’s 1.26.” That was 4.12 in the first test. These three scores all went down. But at least I still had one possible brother with a score greater than one.

  “For you and Vern, it’s 1.49.” Vern’s score actually went up significantly from 0.67 in the first test.

  My mind raced. Now I had two possible brothers, yet neither one stood out. Would my results be just as inconclusive as before? I said a silent prayer that the last one would settle it.

  “The final index is for you and Doug. The Half Sibling Index is 6.98.” Six point nine eight, I thought. Six point nine eight! That nearly doubled from the 3.80 in the first test!

  Tapping the keys on my calculator, I quickly divided Doug’s 6.98 by the second closest score of 1.49. Doug’s score was 4.7 times bigger.

  Almost giddy with excitement, I rushed to confirm the conclusion that was staring me in the face.

  I told the man on the phone what the other lab technician had said before: that the half brother’s index should be at least three times that of the cousins’ to be conclusive.

  “I use that same rule of thumb,” he replied. “If only one person is tested, I like to see an index number of ten or more. But 6.98 is pretty good when you consider that the only other candidates all scored lower.”

  “So, Doug is my half brother,” I went on, “even though eye color and general physical appearance might suggest otherwise.”

  The technician chuckled. “The markers we test have nothing to do with physical traits. Anyway, appearance is often a poor indicator of relatedness. Look at it this way,” he went on. “DNA trumps physical appearance.”

  I thanked him for taking the time to call me with the results. Then I reviewed my new Half Sibling Index numbers, based on all the markers:

  Doug Son of Doug Sr., aka Doc 6.98

  Vern Son of Vernie, aka Jack 1.49

  Joe Son of Joe Sr., aka Dick 1.26

  Dale Son of Wayne 0.52

  Dave Son of Clyde 0.049

  I immediately shared the good news with Pat. “The results are in,” I said. “They say that Doug Richards Sr. was my birth father. So his son, Doug Jr., and daughter, Elaine, are my half siblings!”

  After several minutes of celebration, Pa
t had a suggestion. “Maybe you should refer to your birth father as Doc like everyone else does. Then you don’t have to keep saying senior or junior to distinguish between him and his son.”

  “Good idea,” I replied. “Doc was my father. Doug is my brother. I like the sound of that.”

  That day, when the last piece of my puzzle seemed to fall neatly into place, was September 26, 2007, twenty-six years after starting my search.

  Looking back, I remembered the many people who helped me. Then I thought of all the crazy, lucky breaks that somehow got me to the next step.

  To say the least, I was incredibly thankful.

  My path had been far from smooth. Family secrecy, the closed adoption file, lies, false rumors, and my own periods of inactivity caused enormous delays. Then I had to wait for the development of a whole new science called genetic genealogy.

  The outcome wasn’t perfect, either. Since both birth parents died long before I uncovered their identities, I never got to meet either one of them. I do know that my birth mother, Jackie, worked for Doc. And I have her coworker Conrad’s recollection that she and Doc went out together a couple of times. But I will never know exactly how their apparent personal relationship started or ended.

  The best news, of course, was that both of my biological families had welcomed and accepted me.

  After twenty-five years of knowing Mike, my mother’s first son, we had become real brothers. Now I had another brother, Doug, and a new sister, Elaine. Someday, I hoped I would be as close to them as I was to Mike.

  Just to play it safe, I decided to wait until the full reports were in my hands before I shared the results. When they did come in, I examined each table closely. I could see exactly why the extra markers made three scores go down and two scores go up.

  The reports also listed a percentage for each combination. It was the calculated probability that each man was my half sibling:

  Doug 87.4 percent

  Vern 59.8 percent

  Joe 55.7 percent

  Dale 34.2 percent

  Dave 4.6 percent

  Naturally, I would have preferred a 100 percent confirmation. But understanding how this test worked, I realized that a completely definitive answer was not possible. This was as good as I could do with then-current technology.

  Sure, there was still a 13 percent chance that Doug was not my half sibling. But knowing that Jackie went out with Doc and he was then prone to extramarital affairs, I felt comfortable with the conclusion.

  The first person I decided to call with the news was Doug. He was, after all, the first-place finisher in the “Win-a-Brother Contest.”

  Doug told me he was not surprised. He’d had a hunch all along that Doc would prove to be my biological father.

  “It just made sense since she worked for him and they were known to have gone out together.”

  “My guess,” I said, “is that Jackie never told him she was pregnant. She just quit her job and left town. She may have honestly thought that Conrad was the father of her child. Or she did not want to risk this affair with a married man becoming public.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Doug said. “If my father had known, he would have taken care of his responsibility just like Uncle Vernie did with Vern. That’s the kind of men they were.”

  “I need to send you a check for my DNA test,” Doug continued.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “No one else paid for their test and I can’t think of any reason why you should. I’m just thankful that you pushed me to include you.”

  Doug said he would pass on the news to his sister, Elaine. He also gave me her phone number so I could call later and introduce myself.

  My next call was to Dale. The only boy in his family, he had been looking forward to having a brother. He was disappointed in the results, but I managed to cheer him up.

  “At this stage in our lives,” I said, “there really isn’t much difference between a half brother and a cousin. We’re still family and where we go with our relationship is up to us.”

  When I notified Joe, he said it was a good outcome for me.

  “Uncle Doc was my favorite uncle. He was the glue that kept the family together.”

  Dave congratulated me. He described Doc as being in overdrive with lots of energy and ambition.

  “I remember Uncle Doc once had a Cadillac with the horns of a bull mounted on the front.”

  I smiled at the image. It was the classic stereotype of a Texas rancher.

  Then I called Vern, the earlier surprise addition to the family. He said he only met Doc once…and it was just a couple months before the man died.

  “I was working at an Austin restaurant when Doc came in and asked for me. He introduced himself, his wife, and the man with them. I did not recognize the other man, but a coworker informed me that it was the attorney general of Texas.”

  Doc knew people in high places.

  Gerry, my supporter from day one, was mildly disappointed in the outcome. “I was kind of hoping my father was the one,” she said. “I enjoy having Vern as a brother and I wanted you to be my brother, too.”

  Now that the DNA test had pointed strongly to Doc as my father, she had something for me. The next time we met, Gerry presented me with a cowboy hat.

  “Uncle Doc forgot this on one of his trips to Michigan and I was unable to return it before he died. I want you to have it.”

  I was thrilled to have something that belonged to my birth father. Besides being a personal item, the big hat was an instant reminder of Texas, where my paternal ancestry had been firmly rooted since 1859.

  Trying the hat on, I was amazed to find it a perfect fit. Although Doc and I did not look a lot alike, at least we shared the same hat size.

  I did not call Dale’s mother, Mattie, since Dale was going to tell her the results. Though she never admitted it, the thought of her Wayne being my father must have bothered her. I later heard that she was relieved by the new result.

  Adding up all the names I had encountered over the last few months, I counted two siblings and at least twelve cousins. Since most lived in Texas, Pat and I quickly agreed on what to do next.

  We were going to Texas.

  42

  JOURNEY

  In late October 2007, less than four weeks after the revised sibling DNA test positioned Doc as my birth father, Pat and I headed south. We were going to visit my new siblings and as many cousins as possible.

  First, we drove from Michigan to Kentucky and spent two nights with Pat’s brother. From his place it was only a four-hour drive to Cousin Vern’s home in Alabama. We had already met Vern and his wife at the Richards reunion, but we looked forward to seeing them again.

  Upon our arrival, we were pleased to discover that Vern’s wife was a gourmet cook. She fed us a fabulous dinner.

  Vern told us what it had been like to discover his own family’s secret: that his biological father was Vernie Richards and not his mother’s husband. He also showed us a photo of Livonia Boy, a highly successful racehorse Vernie had owned. Another prized possession was a textbook on industrial geography that Vernie had authored while teaching at the Henry Ford Trade School.

  The next morning we said our good-byes and Pat and I drove farther south to meet one of Dale’s sisters at a restaurant near her home. Another Alabama resident, she turned out to be a charming lady. We were sorry we couldn’t spend more time with her. But she had to return to work and we had a lot of miles to cover that day.

  From there, we turned west and drove the rest of the day, stopping for the night at a small town in Louisiana. The following afternoon we found our way to Cousin Dale’s ranch in East Texas. Located in a region known as The Piney Woods, Dale’s ranch looked more like Michigan than the vast plains I had imagined.

  We stayed two nights with Dale and got to see how this rancher cared for his far-flung herds of cattle. Moving from place to place in a large truck one day and an all-terrain vehicle the next, we watched in amazement as D
ale walked fearlessly among the huge beasts. Knowing exactly why he was there, they rushed to consume the pellets of food he spread on the ground.

  Not far from Dale’s modern log home, he showed us the ruins of our great-grandfather’s 1860-era cabin. Seeing the site provided a solid sense of place that had been missing from my family history.

  Dale also took us to the local cemetery, the resting place of my father, Doc, and Dale’s father, Wayne. Nearby were the headstones of our paternal grandparents and great-grandparents.

  Due to his position on the local school board, Dale had to attend a political function for a couple hours. So he gave us directions to his mother’s house out on the paved road.

  Mattie was expecting us. Now that everyone had heard my father was Doc and not Mattie’s husband, Wayne, the meeting was far more relaxed than what I once imagined it would be.

  Then Dale’s other sister—the one who had prepared the photo album of their family for me—stopped by for a brief introduction.

  Wayne’s premature death had left Mattie and her three children to run the ranch alone. A huge scrapbook told of Mattie’s accomplishments, including various awards like “Rancher of the Year.”

  Dale was divorced and Mattie had invited Dale’s ex-wife to meet us. When Dale returned from town, Mattie treated us all to a home-cooked Texan dinner.

  The following day, Pat and I left the ranch and drove toward Houston to meet my cousin, Joe.

  Joe introduced us to his wife and daughters at their home in an upscale suburb. Then he gave Pat and me an after-hours tour of his huge orthodontics office. We were impressed with the equipment, the décor, and all the little things Joe had thought of to make getting braces a positive experience for children and their parents.

  Even though my rancher cousin, Dale, and my orthodontist cousin, Joe, had picked completely different careers, I could tell that each was an expert in his chosen field.

  Joe and his wife took us out to a restaurant where Joe’s younger brother, Greg, also a dentist, joined us for dinner and a long evening of storytelling.