“You’re right, but this is big.” Daelyn shakes her head. “I mean, what do you do with that? Where do you go from here? All I can think of is what would I do?”
I just shrug.
“I had a cousin who went through the same thing,” Daelyn continues. “The relationship started off well but then fell apart. Some people don’t want to know the truth if it’s inconvenient. I hope this all goes well for you.”
“Me too.”
I was right. It isn’t funny.
I wake up in a foul mood, which seems appropriate for confronting Mother about my little surprise. I work through the morning ritual, thinking of exactly what to say when she answers the phone. Then I call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, what a wonderful surprise,” she says. The warm greeting and the cheerful tone of her voice rob me of a portion of my anger. Anger that I need to fuel this discussion. I draw a deep breath and continue.
“I know that Dad isn’t my biological father,” I tell her.
Silence.
“Mom, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I want you to tell me about William Petrauschke.”
Silence.
“Mom!”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mom says in the same sweet, calm voice she uses to tell me she loves me.
“This is pretty important,” I tell her. “I think I deserve to know as much about my biological father as possible.”
“I told you, honey. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe we can go to lunch together next week. My treat.”
She isn’t going to tell me anything. If I keep bothering her for an answer, she’ll just turn off her hearing aid. I decide to drop the matter. “Yeah. Lunch sounds good.”
“Okay,” she says. “Love you. See you next week.”
The conversation ends, and I’m no closer to finding an answer about my parents’ relationship than before I called. I know it can’t be an easy situation for Mom, but it’s harder on me. I’m the one left with a tangled family situation and having to deal with a group of strangers who happen to be my relatives.
What can I do about it, though? If Mom decides to keep the information to herself, I may never know what really happened.
Six weeks pass. Lunch with Mom failed to produce any information about the situation. I know she’s not going to tell me anything, so I decide to drop the matter rather than stress our relationship.
A cool breeze blows in through the screen door of my office. In another month, the wonderful spring weather will give way to the scorching desert heat. Until then, the lower temperatures invigorate me, encouraging my fingers to tap dance across the keyboard as I work on book number five.
Two sparrows chirp to one another from on top of the backyard fence. They combine with the coos of an unseen dove to form an impromptu chorus, providing background music to accompany my writing.
The house phone rings. I answer it.
“It’s Mark,” my brother says. “I happened to be in the neighborhood for business and thought I would stop by and visit.”
“Great. I have to stop for lunch soon anyways.”
“See you in a few.” Mark disconnects the call.
I have difficulty pulling my attention away from the computer. My mind is still in writing mode, and I’m in the middle of a chapter. I hate being interrupted when I’m “in the zone,” but this is my brother. And I always have time for my brother.
Mark is rarely in my neighborhood, and he never just stops in for a visit. Six years ago, Dad had a dizzy spell and fell off his horse. Probably the first time he’s been unhorsed since he was a teen. The doctors weren’t sure if Dad was going to recover, but he did. Ever since then, Mark has reached out to the rest of the family more and more. My guess is he senses all of us are getting older and any of us could pass away without notice. It seems like he doesn’t want to miss any chances to visit the family whenever possible.
I have a few minutes before he arrives and make notes on where I plan to go in the story so I can pick up the writing trail later in the day. A knock sounds at the front door. I quickly type a last sentence and hop up to greet my brother.
While the two of us are exchanging updates on our families, it occurs to me that I might as well discuss the results of the DNA test with him. I don’t expect him to be any more supportive than Jana, but the conversation I had with Daelyn weeks ago gave me emotional strength that I hope I can draw from now. Besides, I have to eventually tell Mark and Dad about this.
“Come on into my office,” I tell Mark. “I have something to show you.”
Mark follows me, and I pull up the DNA test results. I point to the screen and explain how the DNA results indicate there is a close relation within the Petrauschke family. My heart beats faster, but so far, Mark has only nodded.
“It appears that Dad isn’t my dad.” I show him the picture of Mr. Petrauschke. “This man is my biological father.”
I brace myself for my brother’s reaction. Of all the family, he can be the most blunt and least considerate of people’s feelings. To be fair, he turns the same critical eye on himself. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me to shrug off his occasional astringent comments.
Mark lets loose with a loud blast of laughter. “You really are the milkman’s son.”
“I’m so happy I could brighten your day with my misfortune. Maybe I can step in front of a moving bus and totally make your month.” To make it worse, I can’t even get mad at Mark. He and Jana are so much alike. I realized I should have expected him to think the situation is funny. Is it too much to expect them to have an understanding word for me? All I really need is for them to give one simple acknowledgment of the complications this has caused in my life.
“Oh, come on,” says Mark. “Get over it. You’re making too big of a deal about this.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone in the family keeps saying.”
Mark raises his eyebrows and gives me a shrug, his way of letting me know he’s right. And the truth is, I’m not as upset about his reaction as I had been with Jana’s. I feel more numb to the situation than pained by it. Maybe even a little annoyed. All this laughter is getting old.
“All right,” says Mark, “I think this is funny. If I hear something crazy I’m going to laugh, but we live in a day where crazy is normal. And if you don’t laugh it off, the crazy can drive you insane.”
“That’s crazy talk,” I tell him, but at the same time it makes sense.
“Whatever.” Mark grins and shakes his head. “You’ll have to do better than this if you want to blow my socks off. I mean, it’s not even a negative thing. Nothing changes the situation here, and you have more family in New Jersey. Boo-hoo-hoo. Randy has a whole new batch of people to love him. They might even be rich.”
“I don’t care if they have money.” I roll my eyes. Why does everything have to be about money? It can’t buy happiness, and it doesn’t determine a person’s worth. “I’m worried about how Dad is going to react to this.”
“Ask him and find out,” says Mark. He looks at the picture of Mr. Petrauschke and snickers. “It’s funny how much he looks like you. Now we know where you got those lips.”
Everyone who looks at the picture notices the lips. And it isn’t funny that I look like Mr. Petrauschke—it’s tragic. Why isn’t anyone dealing with the elephant in the room? I’m not the person everyone thought I was. Or at least I’m not the person I thought I was.
The only thing left to do . . . is to tell Dad.
It takes a month to work up the courage to make the trip to see Dad. I wait for the next school holiday and load up the kids in the van. I’m hoping Dad will take the news better if I’m surrounded by his grandchildren. He might have his reservations about me, but surely he can’t say no to the lovely, lovely grandchildren.
/> Dad offers the kids Popsicles as soon as we arrive. I give him and my stepmother a hug and walk inside the living room. Dad and Judy each have an easy chair with a prime view of the television. Everyone else sits on the visitors’ couch. If more than three people come to visit, the rest have to sit on the floor.
A western is on the television. I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of a cattle stampede. “Can you turn off the idiot box for a few minutes? I have something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” says Dad. “Is everything okay?”
“I guess that depends on your definition of okay.”
He turns off the television and sets the controller down on the cluttered table next to his easy chair. His expression is all business. I can tell he thinks something bad has happened, which makes it harder for me to start talking. How do I tell the man who has been my dad for all these years and is sitting across the room from me worried about whether I’m all right that he isn’t really my dad?
I think back to my calf-riding days. As much as I dreaded giving the okay to open the chute, I found it easier to get it done with than to wait in fear. I stare straight into Dad’s eyes and, in a single rapid-fire blast, tell him, “The DNA test results I told you about don’t show you have another brother; they indicate I have a different biological father.”
The worried expression on Dad’s face fades immediately. He claps his hands together and laughs. “Yeah, isn’t that a hoot?”
A hoot? No, it isn’t a hoot!
I sit on the sofa, staring across the room at him. My mind is frozen in place. This not the way any of the scenarios that have run through my head over the last few months played out. He hasn’t rejected me. He hasn’t asked for any details. He isn’t even upset.
Dad thinks this is funny.
This is unreal. Laughter is not a viable option for my dad, or any dad, in this situation. He’s supposed to be shocked—not me.
“You guys hungry?” asks Dad. “I’m thinking of ordering pizza.”
“Pizza’s good,” I say, but my mind still stumbles along, looking to make sense of Dad’s response. How can he be thinking about food at a time like this? I’ve just dropped the biggest family-relation bomb of all time, and he wants to order pizza. For the amount of emotion he’s showing over this, I might as well have told him the weather in Phoenix was going to be warm and sunny over the next few days.
If I were him I . . . I don’t know what I’d do. Fifty-seven years is a long time to think someone is your son—or father. Is it even reasonable to expect those feelings to go away, immediately and completely, as soon as you find out the truth? Do fifty-seven years of hugs, kisses, and family events blow away on the breeze of a few words?
Isn’t there an element of feeling cheated, like I felt cheated when I heard the news? Then again, that isn’t the way Dad operates. He taught us to focus on what’s important. I remember him telling me, “It does no good to worry about things you can’t change.”
It isn’t as if I want him to be upset. I love this man. Dad raised me. He protected me. He supported my decisions to be different from the rest of the family. I’m glad I didn’t hurt his feelings with the news, but even with his philosophy on life, it doesn’t make sense. He isn’t even surprised.
Ah! That’s it.
He isn’t surprised because someone already told him. I feel better . . . I think.
“How’d you find out?” I ask.
“Jana and her family came over a couple of weeks ago to help me clean out the barn. She mentioned you told her about the DNA results, and I about died laughing.”
“You thought it was funny?” I ask. No . . . not Dad. Why would he think it was funny?
“It was hilarious,” says Dad. “Then I asked Jana what she said to you when she found out, and she told me what a good time she had harassing you about being the milkman’s son. The same thing happened with Mark. We just sat around laughing about it. You want pepperoni on your pizza?”
Does anyone in my family not think this is funny?
“I don’t get it, Dad. I thought you would be upset.”
Dad leans forward in his chair and turns his head so he can look at me with his good eye. “What do you want me to do? The situation has reached a point in time where something like that isn’t important in my life. You were my son. I loved you. And that was all that mattered. And as far as getting a DNA test done . . . Who the hell cares? Nothing changed in my life. I raised you, and that’s all that really counted. You are still my son. It’s never been a big deal. It’s just a fact.”
Tears fill my eyes. How could I have thought Dad would react any differently? He has always been there for me. It was stupid to worry he might possibly stop loving me. And in that light, with the knowledge my family doesn’t care because nothing has changed, I finally see how the situation is funny.
I am the milkman’s son. Apparently God does have a sense of humor.
Chapter 7
The Milkman’s Family
Tammy’s latest message sits in my email inbox. I still haven’t dealt with what it will mean to have a new family. As long as I focus on my current novel, I can block out the emotional bugbears that keep flitting around inside my head.
Unfortunately, it’s late in the afternoon and my brain is mush from writing all day. I save my file, lean back in my chair, and close my eyes. Hollywood thrives on weird situations and abnormal families. The stranger the better. That’s why Jerry Springer has been on the air all these years. But I don’t enjoy having my life turned into a drama-filled reality show. If I don’t like what’s going on, I can’t change the channel or fast-forward to the happy parts. There isn’t even background music to advise me of the appropriate mood for whatever situation in which I might be involved.
The part of my personality that flinches at the thought of being rude tells me to respond to Tammy. I want to believe it won’t bother her if we stop exchanging emails, because that means I can stop right here. If she doesn’t care whether we’re family, then I don’t have to either. But I’m not feeling it. Her previous messages have been considerate of my emotions. The least I can do is return the courtesy.
Then again, I’m not sure what to say to Tammy. I don’t know anything about the woman other than we share the same father. Is that, by itself, enough reason to move forward from here and work toward a meaningful relationship? I already have a family I love. I don’t need another one. I don’t need the Petrauschkes complicating my life. I’m not sure I even want to learn how to spell their name. Or pronounce it properly.
I recoil from the prospect of emotionally embracing a clan of strangers who live on the other side of the country. I try to picture myself casually walking up to Mr. Petrauschke to give him a big father-son hug, like I do my dad, and find the idea a bit creepy. It feels wrong.
Not that I think there’s anything wrong with Tammy’s dad. But even if he is the greatest father in the world, how would I go about blending in with a new family this late in my life? Do I want to be related to these people? What if I don’t like them? What if they don’t like me? What if they’re weird? I mean, weirder than I am.
Too many questions bounce around inside my head to make a decision. And I know this is too important of a matter to hide from. My best bet is to continue the casual conversations with Tammy. Uncomfortable with the seriousness of the situation, I decide to start my reply to Tammy with a joke, to break the tension I’m feeling.
I switch to my email and write, “Thanks for the pictures of your dad and brothers. That certainly helped confirm the DNA tests were correct. My family has always kidded that I’m the milkman’s son . . . I don’t suppose your dad is a milkman, is he?”
I hit the send button.
Doh! I slap my forehead.
I instantly regret not taking a moment to consider if what I wrote was appropriate. Tammy may not think th
e joke about the milkman’s son is funny. This is her dad, the one she’s known all these years. She might think my comment is making fun of her father being overly friendly with the ladies. Tammy might take the comment as an insult to his character. And what if it brings up uncomfortable memories?
Having her think I’m insensitive to the delicate nature of this situation is probably not the best way to start a relationship with my new sister. But the message is already on its way, and all I can do is wait for her response.
A new sister. When I refer to her that way it sounds as if my mother just gave birth. Tammy’s not new. Just the connection. I’m not even sure what I think about having another sister. The relationship doesn’t feel real at this point. If I were asked to talk about my sisters, Tammy’s name wouldn’t come to mind. I suspect that over time my feelings about the situation will change.
My knees crack as I rise from my desk. A series of pops from the left one, a single pop from the right. Then I stroll into my bedroom and change shirts for my Wednesday critique group. The comfortable, worn, bright-green Grinch T-shirt goes into the clothes hamper, and I don one of the Hawaiian-style shirts my wife made for me.
The group holds our weekly meetings at a local bookstore. I hurry inside and admire the massive number of books that fill the shelves. The path to the group weaves through the romance section, past the overstocks table, and on to the back of the store. I love meeting in a place where I am surrounded by books. It seems almost karmic to discuss my writing in a setting where people come to buy the finished works of accomplished authors. I hope some of the skill and success of those famous writers rubs off on me.
Most of the group is already there, sitting around a white, plastic fold-up table.
“You ready to be roasted?” asks Jeannie.
“Sure,” I say. “The criticism will be a welcome diversion from real life.”
The grin on Jeannie’s face fades. “Are you all right?”
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