It was at roughly this same time that my brother and youngest sister started calling me the milkman’s son. I bore no resemblance to my siblings. They were blond, and my hair was almost black. They shared the same eye color; I did not. They had many Lindsay features, and I had none.
Growing up, the differences between us hadn’t escaped my attention. I often felt like I was the odd one out, even within the safe confines of my home.
What was wrong with me?
Once, I’d even asked Mom and Dad if I’d been adopted. They told me not to be ridiculous. Of course I wasn’t adopted. I’d accepted their answer, but still felt a need to convince myself with a few arguments of my own. Like, it doesn’t make sense for the oldest child to be adopted. Or, the math doesn’t work out. Mom and Dad met in March, married in April, and I was born in the fall. No one adopts a child so soon after marriage.
Besides, no matter how solid the arguments sounded in my head, my heart failed to believe it.
My brother and sister found the milkman’s son bit to be hilarious. I had a hard time understanding why they gained such delight from our differences. Didn’t they know how much I needed to feel like I was an important part of the family? Doesn’t everyone?
Mom and Dad never talked about how different I looked and acted from the others. I didn’t feel like an oddball when I was with Dad. He loved me the same as all the kids who looked like him . . .
Memories of Dad slow the whirlwind of mental chaos blowing through my head. Dad’s DNA may not have contributed to my physical form, I remind myself, but his influence has shaped my life. His natural storytelling skills transferred to me even though I am neither flesh nor blood to him. Long hours of sitting at his side as he spun tales about his youth gave me the skills I needed to tell an entertaining story. But it was his acceptance of my love for writing that set me on the path of an author and the lessons he taught me that gave me the determination to keep writing.
Dad attended an author signing for my first book. He strode up to me, beaming a smile that could light up the night, and said, “I’m proud of you, son.” I cherish that memory. All I had to do to earn my dad’s respect was to march to the rhythm of my own special drummer and work hard to make my dreams come true.
How much of my relationship with Dad is about to change? Will he still love me for just being me?
Chapter 6
Oh, Brother
Does God have a sense of humor? Does He think some things are funny? This situation feels like a practical joke played on a cosmic scale. Only, I’m not laughing.
The Great Lindsay Quest was a sham. I’m not actually a Lindsay. I’m not related to William “The Immigrant” Lindsay, or John Crawford Lindsay, or any of the other family members with whom I felt such an incredible bond through my research.
For a brief moment, I consider calling Mom to find out what she has to say about the situation, but I decide I’m not ready for any more surprises. That task will have to wait for another day.
I occupy myself with housework. It isn’t until everyone has gone to bed and I’m left alone with my thoughts that the hounds of sorrow begin nipping at my heels. I slip on my black trench coat and take a walk through the neighborhood to sort out what I’m thinking—what I’m feeling.
The neighborhood is quiet this late at night. Only the sounds of an occasional car in the distance disturb the silence. Vapor clouds form in front of my face each time I exhale. The cold nibbles at my cheeks in the same way the frost of stark realization gnaws at my soul. It takes a few minutes before I stop drinking in the beauty of the night and focus on the situation.
My concept of family has been ripped in two—literally. The only thing I can think about for the next several blocks is that I don’t have any full-fledged siblings. There isn’t another person in the entire world who has the same mother and father as I do. I feel as though I’m only half a brother, less important than the siblings who share the same set of parents.
I’ve always hated it when my friends refer to one of their siblings as a half brother, or a half sister. Just the mention of the term makes me feel as if those individuals are loved only half as much as the siblings who share a full genetic bond. When talking to my oldest son, I refer to my ex-wife’s children as the other set of siblings. I’ve never felt the need to have my son think of them as anything but his brother and sister.
He isn’t half a brother. He isn’t half a son. He isn’t halfway between here and there in some stupid metaphoric sense. And neither am I.
A gust of wind kicks up, blowing cold air inside my open coat. I take a moment to secure the two middle buttons and then continue down the street.
As I look back on my early childhood, I realize that I didn’t bother then to question why my siblings looked so different from me. It was enough to simply know that my family loved me and I had my place with all of them. High school changed that. I grew increasingly aware I didn’t fit in with the rest of the family. Now I know why.
A wicked thought stalks along the dark edges of my mind. “You’re an intruder. You don’t belong with the rest of the family.”
The rational portion of my brain rejects the idea, but that doesn’t stop the flow of emotional responses triggered by the thought.
I don’t have a regular family anymore. I have two sets of half families.
I’ve missed an entire lifetime of experiences with my New Jersey family.
I’ve been cheated!
Are the differences between me and my siblings a sign that I never fully belonged with them? And how can I ever hope to have more than half a connection with my other set of siblings? Will both sets of brothers and sisters expect me to keep a respectful distance while they share the warm, comfortable bubble of full siblinghood?
How is this going to change the family dynamics? I briefly imagine my status switching to that of extended family . . . or honored guest . . . or possibly even fifth wheel. I’d settle for them merely placing me at the kid’s table during the next holiday. At least that way I’d still be considered family.
I’ll find out when I drop the bombshell on them.
Dozens of opening lines flit through my mind as I try to find the right way to tell my baby sister about the situation. It reminds me of my first job interview, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing how I would introduce myself. I figure I can start with Jana because I’m the closest to her and then work my way up the family ladder until I reach Dad.
Unfortunately, sharing the news with my wife failed to give me any insight on how to tell the rest of my family. She barely raised an eyebrow when I first mentioned it. Her response is a great example of why she’s such an ideal match for me, but it doesn’t help in this situation. What is my family going to think when I tell them I have a different dad?
Except, they’re only my Arizona family. I have two families. The Arizona family I grew up with, understand, and love. The members of the other family are complete strangers, living far away. For all I know, the New Jersey family might be members of a bizarre cult who believe Elvis is still alive and operating a soda shop along the Atlantic City Boardwalk.
I sit down at the desk in my office. My hands tremble as I pick up the phone and enter my sister’s number. I run through a couple more lines, hoping one will stand out before Jana answers.
Maybe a funny approach would work best. Like, “You’ve heard of babies being switched at the hospital . . . it turns out the nurses switched dads on me.”
“Hey, big brother,” says Jana over the phone. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.” My voice cracks. So much for the humorous approach.
“Are you okay?” Her voice is instantly filled with concern.
“Uh . . . yeah. I’m not in the hospital or anything. No one over here has died.”
“Then why do you sound upset?”
I take a
deep breath and let it out in a long, ragged sigh. “Ah . . . well . . . it’s about the DNA test I sent in a few months ago. I found out that Dad doesn’t have a long-lost brother.”
“Oh, really?”
My heart pounds so hard against my chest I wonder if Jana can hear it through the phone. I lick my lips. “Um, I . . . I have another family.”
Jana laughs. “That’s so funny.”
The awkwardness of the moment flees in an instant and is replaced by a combination of rage and shock. How can my dear, sweet, little sister laugh at my pain?
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“You really are the milkman’s son.”
“It’s not funny,” I shoot back at her. But I should have expected this reaction. Jana laughs when people slip and fall on their butt. If they happen to struggle to stand back up and limp away afterward, it makes the situation all the funnier to her. The only thing she enjoys more than watching a stumbling display of graceless mishap is performing one. Jana laughs louder at her own accidents than she does at others’. I’ve never been sure if it’s a nervous reaction to misfortune or if she finds pain a laughable matter.
“No. You’re right.” She continues to chuckle, although I can tell she’s trying to silence her mirth. “I’m sure you’re devastated by the news. How . . . how . . .”
“Funny? Is that the word you’re looking for?”
“Noooo.” She snickers. “How . . . did you find out?”
If the situation was reversed, I wouldn’t be laughing. A growling voice inside my head tells me to disconnect the call. Families are supposed to support one another. Each snicker, giggle, and laugh Jana makes drives another jagged spike into my already sensitive psyche. I’m teetering on the edge of a dark place, and my sister seems all too willing to give me a push.
“You have to admit that it’s funny,” Jana says when I fail to respond. “And do you know why it’s funny? Because it doesn’t really matter.”
“It matters to me,” I mumble.
“All right, I’m sorry.” The giggles are gone. “It’s sad you didn’t know you had another family, but now you have an opportunity for more people to love you. All this has done is increase the size of your family—not the quality.”
“I guess.”
“There’s no guessing about it,” says Jana. “My emotions toward you haven’t changed in any way. You’re still the person who looked after me when I was little. You’re still the person who sat with me when we watched scary movies. You are what you are. You are my brother. That hasn’t changed.”
“Thanks.” The heavy darkness in my chest lifts . . . some. She might be telling me all of this just to make me feel better, but I accept it because it’s what I need to hear.
“Now, tell me how you found out.”
“My sister in New Jersey told me I wasn’t understanding the data correctly.” A tiny thrill charges me. It’s the same feeling I have whenever I tell a story, only muted by the negative consequences of my discovery. “The DNA match is for a close relative, not a first cousin. Then she showed me a picture of her dad when he was in high school. He looked a lot like me at that age. Or maybe I look a lot like him. Either way, we look alike.”
“Wow,” Jana chimes in. “That’s incredible. What about your new sister? Do you look anything like her?”
“Yes. We look very similar.” Rather than brood over the reminder that the two of us look nothing alike, an unfamiliar sense of belonging bubbles up inside me. See, I do belong somewhere. I’m not a freak. It feels so good to have a sibling look like me. My eyes water with the threat of tears.
“Send me pictures. I want to see.”
I tell Jana to hold on while I email her a copy of the picture of Mr. Petrauschke.
“Have you told Dad yet?” Jana asks.
Her question stops me cold. That’s really the purpose of all this, to start with the family member I have the easiest time talking to and then work my way up to Dad. I’m not ready to share this with him yet.
“Of course not,” I say. “Based on the way you reacted to the news, I’m not sure I want to tell anyone else. Everyone will laugh at me.”
“Oh, come on,” Jana says, all traces of mirth gone. “This doesn’t change our family dynamic. I love you. Mark still loves you. Dad loves you.”
“They love me now,” I say, “but what’s Dad going to think when he finds out?”
“He’s going to think the same thing he’s always thought—that he loves you. And so does everyone else. Don’t let this bother you. It’s nothing.”
“Okay. Thanks. I love you too.” A mental numbness sets in. The conversation has simultaneously gone better and worse than I expected. I end the call.
Jana laughing at the situation is better than most of the scenarios I had played out in my head, but it isn’t what I need right now. Then again, the Lindsays are not a touchy-feely bunch, quick to lend their limited talents at empathy to those in emotional need. The family tends to use more of a kindly phrased “get over it” when dealing with tragedy.
I sit at my desk for a few minutes, deciding whether I should tell anyone else, when my fourteen-year-old daughter walks past the office door on the way to her bedroom.
“Lucy,” I call out. “I need to talk with you.”
She steps into the room and motions with her head for me to speak—one of those what-do-you-want gestures.
“I’m pretty sure grandpa isn’t my biological father.”
Her eyes widen. Then I show her Mr. Petrauschke’s high school picture.
Lucy puts her hand over her mouth and laughs. A short laugh. Like a laugh that escaped before she could close the inappropriate-emotion gate.
“Tell me what you think,” I ask her.
I can tell from her face she’s struggling with her response.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me what came to mind. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“That’s funny.”
I close my eyes and sigh. After a few moments I open my eyes and ask, “What do you find funny about it?”
“It’s ironic that you really are the milkman’s son. That picture is evidence. You can’t deny the two of you look alike.”
“I don’t think it’s funny,” I say.
“Yeah, and that makes it even funnier.”
“Go do your homework.”
I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands and then rest my elbows on the desk. How can my baby girl think the situation is funny? Doesn’t anyone care how I feel? Can’t they see the pain this revelation is causing me? A single thought echoes in my mind.
It’s not funny!
My wife and I drive over to my friend Alan’s house for dinner and game night. We are having Hawaiian haystacks. I load mine up with coconut, pineapple, almonds, and plenty of crunchy chow mein noodles.
The women gather around the kitchen table and talk as they munch on their own special mix of the available ingredients. Black olives, chives, and cheese seem to be the popular choices. Alan’s wife, Daelyn, looks up at me and says, “What’s going on with your DNA test?”
I groan inwardly. The guys and I want to play our guy games. What I don’t need right now is to have a room full of my friends laugh at me like my sister and daughter did. But if I don’t answer Daelyn, the women are going to keep asking me to share the DNA results. I brace myself for a round of uproarious laughter with the thought that the sooner I tell everyone my secret, the sooner I can get on with the purpose for which I came here tonight . . . to mete out death and destruction to imaginary beings on a game board.
With my haystack still in hand as a sort of food-shield against the inevitable guffaws, I address the table full of women. “The DNA test matched me to my biological father in New Jersey.”
The women release a collective gasp.
“No way,” my friend says.
“Does your family know?” asks Stacy.
“I keep telling him,” says my wife, “that you can’t make this stuff up.”
Daelyn leans back in her chair and sits taller. Her eyes are wide and her eyebrows knitted together in an expression that’s half shock and half curiosity. “How sad for you.”
Finally. Someone understands the tragedy of my situation. My heart goes out to my friend, the only person besides my wife who hasn’t laughed at my misfortune. Bless you, kind lady.
“Are you okay?” Daelyn asks. “Are you okay with this?”
That’s what I wonder every day. Am I all right with having another family? But so much of my answer depends on how Dad is going to react to the news.
“No,” I tell her. “Not really. For fifty-seven years, I lived with a stable concept of what is family. Then overnight, I find out my family image is wrong. Rather than being a part of two families, I feel I don’t belong to either.”
“I still think it’s funny,” says Alan.
“Eat your haystack,” I tell him. “The adults are talking here.”
Alan chuckles and wanders off to the front room, where the rest of the guys are setting up tonight’s guy game. He joins the casual debate already underway . . . what color playing pieces do you want?
“I thought you were going to tell me what country you’re from,” says Daelyn. “Then you tell me this. That isn’t at all what I expected. I feel for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It means a lot to have someone care about my feelings.”
Daelyn’s words are a soothing balm to my chafed emotions. Her comments won’t change the situation, but knowing someone recognizes my pain gives me strength to face the unknown road ahead. Why couldn’t everyone react to the situation this way?
“How could this happen?” Daelyn asks me.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It doesn’t really matter how it happened—it happened.”
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