Terry replies, “My grandfather seems to have had a child with her as well. He was a widower at the time, and the story of how they met and why they never married is lost to the ages. My granddad remarried and that is who I remember as my grandmom.”
That confirms my theory—at least in my mind. All the evidence points to my grandfather having an affair with this woman while she lived in Phoenix. I call my dad and tell him the name of the person I suspect is his half brother. Dad thanks me again but shows no interest in finding out any more. He isn’t interested in meeting or even contacting his newly discovered brother.
I don’t get it. How can Dad be so cavalier about the news?
It seems strange that a man who was visited by his dead ancestors is not interested in meeting a live sibling. I don’t press the matter. The question of why Dad isn’t interested in reaching out to his brother creeps around inside my head for days.
I call my brother and youngest sister and ask, “What’s up with Dad?”
They both give me the verbal equivalent of a shrug and quickly move on to other topics. Neither of them is interested in the discovery of a new family member. My sister suggests I drop the matter and tells me what time I’m supposed to arrive at her house on Christmas Day. We say goodbye, and I let loose a long, deep sigh.
I log back in to Ancestry and look through the list of DNA matches. John and his brother both show up as being my first to second cousins. Another result suggests an even closer relationship. I realize that if this isn’t a big mistake on Ancestry’s part, my long-lost uncle is John’s parent. It might be better for everyone involved if a DNA mix-up is the case. Unable to leave the matter alone, I compose a message and send it off to Tammy. She’s the person who owns the Ancestry account for the closest DNA match and is likely the mother, sister, or daughter of the person who took the actual test.
The message states, “I just got the results of my DNA test, and it shows a first cousin connection to a person listed in your family tree. That doesn’t seem likely, but I would like to discuss the matter with you if possible.”
She responds a couple of days later. Her brother provided the DNA sample for the test. They live in New Jersey . . . although her dad lived in Phoenix from 1947 until about 1956. She is using the DNA test to establish a link between her dad and his biological father.
I struggle to make the information fit my theory. Tammy’s dad is old enough to be my uncle, but he wasn’t born in Phoenix. As far as I know, my grandfather never set foot inside New Jersey. This doesn’t exclude the possibility that Tammy’s grandmother may have been in the same place as my grandfather at the time of Mr. Petrauschke’s conception.
But it doesn’t seem likely. I’m missing something.
I decide to switch gears and focus on preparations for Christmas. The Great Lindsay Quest can wait until after the holidays. Or even longer.
My wife is in charge of most of the decorating. If it were up to me, I’d cut a three-foot branch from one of the pine trees in the neighborhood, tack a wooden stand to it, and let the kids go crazy hanging tinsel and bulbs. If it’s good enough for Charlie Brown, it’s good enough for me. The same thing goes for holiday cooking. Ask me to prepare the Christmas feast and I’m happy to fill the table with heaping bowls of microwave popcorn, platters of toast slathered with butter, and jars of red and green jelly beans.
Fortunately, for the kids, I married well.
As family tradition dictates, we spend most of Christmas Day at my sister’s house. Jana is running around the kitchen like a spastic Chihuahua because she stayed up all night cooking and cleaning. My brother, Mark, shows up late. And the oldest of the sisters, Carol, shows up even later.
Christmas is usually the only time I see Carol. The two of us lead different lives and are content with exchanging a few posts on Facebook. I love Carol. She loves me. And I think we love each other best from a distance.
Once everyone has eaten and the presents have been opened, I sit at the dining table with my siblings and Mom.
This is always my absolute favorite part of the entire year. Me and the sibs talk about anything and everything . . . and sometimes, like Seinfeld, about nothing at all. The conversation flows like a lazy river twisting through the beautiful countryside. I lean back in my chair and enjoy the comforting eddies of a discussion that isn’t in a hurry to reach a conclusion.
I soak up as much of the family water as I can, needing it to sustain me during the long drought between our visits. When I’m here, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I feel loved. And I know that I am loved. The frustrating confusion of my ancestral quest is forgotten . . . for the moment.
Frost covers the now-dormant, yellow yard. The heater kicks on to fight the February cold and fills my office with a smell that makes me think of toasted mittens. I wrap a blanket around me and sit at my desk.
An email notice advises me I have a message waiting for me on Ancestry.
It’s from Tammy. She writes, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to write this message to you.”
I stop reading. Why would a stranger have a hard time writing me a message? A prickling sensation runs down my spine. I can already tell I’m not going to like whatever message follows the ominous opening sentence. Part of me screams to close the program and not read any farther. Deep inside, a premonition whispers that beyond this point lies the horrible, uncomfortable tendrils of change.
The rational portion of my mind rejects the idea of me having any ability to sense a pivotal moment in my life before it happens. Something that happened when my grandfather was young certainly doesn’t have the power to shatter my life. Those kinds of things only happen in the movies.
Tammy continues. “So many things are rolling around in my head about what to say, but nothing sounds right. After receiving the message from John, I went back and checked my brother’s DNA test. There’s a symbol of a lowercase i on the result and it tells how much DNA is shared. It took a couple of weeks for the information to sink in. I am still confused and was not sure you really wanted to hear from me. Not sure where things will go from here, but if you have any questions please let me know.”
What is she talking about?
I reach for the mouse. My hand hovers over the top of it. Do I really want to know?
It was better when everyone was asking me, “Who are you?” I push away from the desk and wander into the kitchen. The sink is full of dishes. Some of the groceries from the morning shopping trip are still on the counter. There’s plenty to do. I don’t need to be paying attention to some crazy lady.
Of course, I don’t really know if she’s crazy until I take a look at the DNA information.
My pacing around the kitchen counter turns into a slow, ambling march toward my home office. Her message is still displayed on the computer screen. All I have to do is click the DNA tab and it will take me to the same information that put Tammy in an obviously agitated state. Why does she have to be so vague about what she discovered? Why doesn’t she just come out and tell me what she found?
I read through the message again to make sure I understand her instructions and then switch to the DNA results. Under her profile it lists our connection as “Close family—1st cousins.”
Is that what it said before? I don’t remember any mention of close family?
A white question mark inside a black circle sits next to the relationship tag. My cursor hovers over the question mark for a brief moment. Then I click on it and bring up a chart that explains how statistical variation makes it impossible to identify the exact relationship between DNA subjects. Ancestry believes Tammy and I are close family and could be as distantly related as first cousins. Somehow, I had missed that important detail the first time I studied the results. Only the part about being first cousins had caught my attention before.
Ancestry bases its estimate of family relations on the amount of D
NA two people share. The higher the number, the closer the relationship. Tammy’s brother and I share more than 1,700 centiMorgans of DNA.
A “What does this mean?” option on the information box opens another chart. I study the chart to understand what 1,700 centiMorgans means for Tammy and me. The amount is lower than the DNA shared between parent and child, and it’s lower than the amount shared between full siblings. But the amount lands right in the middle of how much DNA I might share with a grandparent, an aunt or uncle, or . . . a half-sibling.
A half-sibling.
Based on the information from Tammy’s family tree, I run the numbers and figure out her brother is close to my age. Maybe even younger. This rules out the possibility of him being my grandfather. It also makes it unlikely for him to be my uncle. That leaves only one alternative.
My dad doesn’t have a long-lost, secret brother. I do.
A chilling sensation washes down my back. My head snaps back, and my body stiffens. I stare at the computer screen without seeing it. My mind moves slowly from one thought to the next as I slog through a mental bog of discovery. None of the unwelcomed revelations brings me joy.
If Tammy and her brother are my siblings . . . then Dad is not really my dad.
I shake my head in defiance of the unwelcome thoughts. I try taking a deep breath, but that does nothing to soothe my agitated mind. Because, if Dad is not my biological father . . . then my brother and sisters are only my half-siblings.
And if Dad isn’t my biological father . . . that means I have a father I don’t know.
No! Absolutely not.
It can’t be true. It has to be a mistake. Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t want it to be true. I want to go back in time and refuse to read Tammy’s message. Then, even if all of this is true, I will be blissfully unaware of the facts.
No! No! No!
I love my family. They are the foundation of my life. I don’t want everything to change. Why did I have to take that stupid DNA test? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I let the tears flow. The light in my office dims from bright sunlight to gray dusk. All I can think about is how I don’t want this to be true.
What do I do now?
Chapter 4
I’m Not in Egypt, So This Can’t Be Denial
An emotional lake builds inside me, held back by a weakening dam of denial. I return to the idea that this whole thing is merely a DNA testing error. It isn’t a matter of simply wanting to believe that—I have to believe it. The alternative will leave me stranded in a strange familial landscape.
I go to bed and try to sleep but toss and turn most of the night. One disturbing scenario after another plays out in my head. My active imagination, which I regularly rely on to create fantastic tales of adventure, works against me. In my mind’s eye, I see Dad staring down his nose at a six-year-old version of me, his lips curled back in disgust. “You aren’t my son. Get out of here.”
The image fades. In its place, I see a massive dead tree, its branches groaning and swaying in the wind, near the front of a creepy house. Curls of paint adorn the house’s outside walls, showing years of neglect. The front door creaks open, but it’s too dark inside to see what awaits me. I follow a dirt path carved between tall, brown weeds and step up to the front porch. My new family.
A sinister voice cackles from inside, “Hello, Randy. We’re so glad to finally meet you.”
Sunshine pours through my bedroom window to announce a new day. I drag myself out of bed, kiss my wife goodbye, and then move through the morning routine like a hungover zombie. Pack the kids. Hug the lunches goodbye. I forget to tell them to have a nice day, which is probably for the best. Who knows what I would have actually said or if they would have even been able to understand my mumbling.
A hot shower wakes me up. A breakfast of peanut-butter toast stops the rumbling in my stomach. I trudge to my office and sit at the computer. The monitor is dark, and I wonder if I dare wake it. The infernal piece of technology has already thrown my emotions into turmoil. What’s to prevent it from sending another zinger my way?
The bed calls to me from the other room. My eyes burn, and I know if I close them I’ll be out cold within seconds. I could sleep most of the day and avoid facing any more shocking revelations, but the one I already know about will be waiting for me when I wake. I hit the power button on my computer. Something in the pit of my gut flutters as I watch the screen light up.
There’s another message from Tammy. A jolt of energy courses through my chest.
Maybe I should go back to bed. I definitely need the sleep. Whatever life-disrupting message the crazy lady has for me can wait until later. I shut down the program and then spin my chair around so I can stand up.
But the notice nags at me. I know that no matter how tired I am, I won’t be able to sleep. My mind will focus on the message waiting to be opened. I will imagine one bad scenario after another until it drives me back to the computer to find out what Tammy wrote. I shake my head and turn to the keyboard. A few keystrokes are all it takes to open the note.
She’s sent pictures of her family.
Among the pictures is her dad’s senior portrait from high school. Icy droplets of dread drizzle down my back. I slump in my seat. An undeniable resemblance exists between the young man in the picture . . . and me.
Undeniable!
I move to the next picture, hoping the resemblance is a fluke, perhaps something to do with the lighting used on picture day. The second picture is of Tammy’s mom and dad standing together. They look to be in their forties. Her mother is tiny. Her dad, I decide, doesn’t look that much like me after all. The tension in my shoulders lessens as I sigh in relief.
There’s another picture of her father; he’s standing in front of a door decked out with Christmas decorations. There might be a bit of similarity in the eyes and around the mouth. I quickly move on.
I look at a picture of Tammy. My shoulders slump. This is how I would look if I were female, I imagine. Or close enough, anyway. I study the picture for a moment and decide she looks like a nice person, the kind of person I’d like to meet.
The next photo confirms what I’m already thinking. A strong family resemblance exists between me and Tammy’s brothers. My brothers.
Tammy. Joe. Bill. Mr. Petrauschke. No matter how many times I cycle through the pictures, my resemblance to them doesn’t change. For years, the brother and sisters I grew up with have teased me about not looking anything like them. Before my hair took an early trip to the gray-side, it was dark. My siblings are blond. They are trimly built, and I have the barrel chest that is common on my mother’s side of the family. For years, my siblings have frequently called me the milkman’s son. And it appears they are right. I am the milkman’s son.
Do they already know I’m only their half brother? Have they known all along? A conspiracy to keep me in the dark about my origins seems out of place for my family. But it doesn’t matter if my family knew about this. The damage is done. Their taunts that I’m the milkman’s son echo in my head, stabbing me through the heart because they’re true.
“It’s not funny,” I tell the specters of my siblings.
My wife isn’t due home from work for several more hours. It’s no use trying to write. The creative muse is silent whenever I’m upset. I decide to work on researching agents and publishers for my next novel. It’s busy, repetitive work that keeps my mind from dwelling on the disastrous family news.
Eventually, I hear the garage door open. My wife is home. I rush into the kitchen to greet her. “Honey, um . . . I found out that Dad isn’t my dad.”
“Wow,” says my wife.
I wait for her to say something else, but she just gives me a hug.
“The DNA matched me with a half brother in New Jersey,” I tell her.
“Cool,” says my wife with a smile.
“What?” It appears that Tammy
isn’t the only crazy lady running around.
LuAnn puts her lunch bag away and then turns to face me. “You can’t make this stuff up. Not even you. This is better than one of your fictional stories.”
“Sort of like the whole life-is-stranger-than-fiction thing,” I say.
“Exactly.” She wraps her arms around me. “I like when a story has a twist. I think it’s great that your real-life story has the best twist of all.”
“But . . . my life isn’t a story.” This must be what it feels like to be a character in one of my books. I silently vow to take it easier on my protagonists from now on. “And what’s so great about my situation anyways?”
“I think it’s kind of neat that you have more family.”
I stare at her, unsure about what to say.
“Enjoy the new diversity of your family.” LuAnn kisses me. “Family is good.”
Late the next morning, the door at the front of the house opens and closes. A few seconds later, my oldest son strolls into my office. “What’s up, Pop?”
Roger is from my first marriage. He’s over thirty and has a barrel chest like me, but he sports a full beard I could never hope to grow. His eyes are an icy blue, and his hair is already turning gray even though he’s only in his midthirties.
“Do you remember me telling you about the crazy lady on Ancestry who thought we were siblings?” I motion him over and point to the picture of Mr. Petrauschke. Even though I know it’s useless, my mind strains to find a way to deny the evidence. Maybe my son won’t think the picture looks anything like me.
Roger peeks over my shoulder at the old black-and-white photo. Barely a second passes before he laughs and says, “There’s the proof.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because he looks just like you. The lips are the giveaway. You have his lips. Lucy and I have your lips. The lips don’t lie. I guess the DNA test wasn’t wrong.”
The Milkman's Son Page 4
