“I think it’s time for you to know that my dad is in the same situation as you. Twenty years ago, he found out that his dad is not really his dad.”
Chapter 8
DNA Test Round Two: Like Father, Like Son
Give me a break.
I’m the guy who writes stories about people who have incredible, unusual lives and are forced to suffer through ironic situations that seem realistic but should only exist on the pages of a gripping, page-turning novel. That’s known as . . . fiction. Real lives, especially mine, are not meant to resemble the events from one of my books. I resent actually living in one of those absurd scenarios.
Not only am I a milkman’s son, but so is my father. And for an even more surreal plot twist, my father made his discovery at roughly the same age I am now. Even I have limits to what I’ll do to one of my characters, and this crosses the line. I would never put one of the precious products of my imagination into such a cosmically ironic predicament like this.
Okay, I would . . . but I’d feel conflicted about it.
At least the family name I grew up with is easier to spell than my father’s. The surname Petrauschke seems like the universe decided to kick the poor man while he was down. Definitely over the line on that one.
I’m having a hard-enough time grasping the complexities and dealing with the emotions of my own situation. I can’t conceive the level of torment I would have if I learned I have a son in the same predicament. In twenty years, am I going to receive an email, or whatever replaces email in the future, and find out I have a child I didn’t know anything about? Ironic boundaries must have a limit, and I hope a third-generation milkman’s son, or daughter, falls beyond that border.
But knowing Mr. Petrauschke probably went through many of the same difficulties I’m going through now creates an instant bond. I find it easier to accept him as my father because we share a few life experiences. And that’s what family is all about—sharing difficult moments together.
I have to meet this man.
Another look at Tammy’s email and I’m ready to respond. I decide to pass on telling any more jokes that might drag additional skeletons out of the family closet.
“Thanks for sharing pictures of your family,” I write. “It allows me to think of all these individuals as people rather than just a list of names. When I see the pictures of your dad, I can’t help thinking he looks like a nice guy. Isn’t that weird to be in a position where something like that goes through my mind? Where I can only make guesses about him based on old pictures?
“I believe I see a family resemblance between the two of us. Which is unusual for me, because I don’t look anything like my siblings here in Arizona. You might as well know I tend to tell a lot of jokes . . . some of them even funny.”
Hopefully, my warning will be enough to prevent Tammy from being horribly insulted by one of my comments-gone-astray. The family I grew up with find me fairly harmless and know to err on the side of comedy when they’re not sure what I mean. But Tammy isn’t familiar with my sense of humor.
“If you, or any of the rest of the family, have questions about me, or the situation, please don’t hesitate to ask.” I check my comments for potentially insulting overtones. Then I check it again. I consider a third pass, but decide to just send it.
Before I exit out of my email, a notice from Ancestry catches my eye. It’s one of the DNA alerts that inform me about another records match. I receive at least one a week. Most of the time I just file them away for future reference, waiting for the time when I feel like working on my family history again.
My family.
The phrase comes so easily to mind but no longer represents my life. I find it annoying that I have to identify which family I mean . . . even to myself. Do I mean the family I’m emotionally connected to or the family I barely know and who share half of my genetic code?
And does it really matter?
I haven’t done any family history research for months. The Great Lindsay Quest has seemed pointless if I’m not a Lindsay. Almost as if the Lindsay pedigree is none of my business. As I stare at the email alert, William “The Immigrant” calls to me. In my mind, I hear him say, “Find my home. Find my family.”
A part of me argues that I should dive into the Petrauschke line and learn as much about my new family as I can. Whether I like it or not, their blood flows through my veins. The interest just isn’t there, though. I may be part of the Petrauschke bloodline, but the Lindsays have my heart. Besides, the Petrauschkes have Tammy. The Lindsays need me.
The struggle to learn and memorize the previous generations of my New Jersey family can wait until after I know the living ones better. I might even finish the Great Lindsay Quest by then. If technology can reveal the secret of my biological father, it should be able to help me find where William “The Immigrant” was born.
Ancestry is always adding new records to their database. I move the new email over to my family history folder and then start a search for Lindsays in Tyrone County, Ireland. A check on Google Maps gives me towns in the immediate vicinity of Fintona. That still leaves hundreds of results to study for clues to William’s birthplace.
Omagh is the largest town within twenty miles of Fintona. Strabane is only thirty miles away. I know from my previous searches that both towns have numerous records available. If I don’t limit myself to just mentions of Fintona, I might find my William.
Six hours of research fails to give me any new leads. I close the program and amble into the kitchen to start dinner. A quick search of the refrigerator reveals there are plenty of leftovers from the weekend. The kids are more likely to eat whatever my wife makes than my humble culinary offerings. Fried meatloaf, mashed potatoes with cream cheese, and broccoli. I place the meatloaf in the microwave and nuke it. Then I holler down the stairs to the basement. “Get ready to eat.”
“What’s for dinner?” asks my youngest son.
“Last night’s leftovers.”
“Yay,” sounds the chorus of Nick and Rick together.
Food snobs.
At least I don’t have to figure out a menu I think they might enjoy. We have dinner, and I return to my research. I pull up Google and try combining names of Lindsay ancestors with the names of towns around Fintona. Trillick, Dromore, Kilskeery, and Clogher are all close enough to have been William’s home and still be linked to Fintona. Two hours of sifting through the results gives me the name of a book that should provide me with useful information.
The book was published in 1884 and is no longer in print. Amazon lists the title but doesn’t show any actual copies for sale. That figures. The book’s title includes Lisnacrieve, the name of the farm built by the original James Lindsay when he emigrated from Ayrshire in 1678. The extensive farm is only a mile from Fintona, where I suspect William “The Immigrant” was born. If any book has information on my . . . on the Lindsay ancestors, it has to be this one.
It takes another hour to find that none of the online book sellers has a copy of the ancient tome. This is just another dead end. I stretch my muscles, close out my programs, and then drive over to Alan’s house to see if he wants to take a brisk stroll around the block. If I can’t make any progress on the quest, then I might as well walk the neighborhood for some much-needed exercise.
“How many pages did you write today?” Alan asks.
“None. I got sidetracked with family history research.”
“Which family?”
“My dad’s ancestors,” I tell him.
“Which dad?”
I want to load my voice with sarcasm and snap, “My dad.” But it isn’t Alan’s fault I have two men who qualify for the title. I can already tell this is just the first in a long line of conversations that will include that same question.
“The dad who raised me,” I say. “The dad who’s name I can pronounce.”
Alan
chuckles. “You could just call your biological father P-Daddy.”
“I don’t think so.” Although it doesn’t sound half bad when I mentally repeat it to myself. At some point, I will have to decide what to call the two of them. Unless Mr. Petrauschke rejects me as his son. Then the problem is solved. I can just refer to him as the Paternal DNA Donor—PDD for short—and Dad will continue to be Dad.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” says Alan.
I don’t know what’s coming, but I’m sure I won’t like it.
“But isn’t the family history stuff responsible for you finding out you have two families? You start snooping around again and you might find out your uncle isn’t your uncle. Or that your mother isn’t your mother.”
“I suppose you find that funny.”
Alan laughs. “Yeah, I do. Maybe you’ll find out that your—”
“Enough. I get it. There’s a possibility that further research could uncover even more family secrets. Like in your case, you might find out you were given to your adopted parents by little green men from Mars.”
“More like big purple men from Jupiter.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’ve already opened Pandora’s box. My DNA is out there to match me to whatever secret relatives might still exist. It’s not like I’m submitting another DNA sample to be tested.”
Alan snaps his fingers, then points at me. “Maybe you should. Not your DNA. Have your dad take the test and send that in.”
“Which dad?” I ask.
“The one who raised you. Isn’t it his ancestral line you’re researching? Use his DNA to find the right Lindsay family in Ireland.”
“Not bad . . . for an adopted space alien.” All I have to do is convince Dad to spit into a tube and I’ll be right back where I left off when I decided to test my DNA. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
A new email is waiting for me the next morning. It’s from my sister Jana. “Just opened the email with your dad’s picture. Yeah, I think you look like him. That’s so funny. But it is nice to see that other people look like you. I think it’s awesome to see these people.”
I’m not sure how my looking like the siblings in New Jersey is funny, but at least it doesn’t bother me that she thinks so. It is nice to feel that I belong somewhere. I’m glad Jana is happy to see me fit in with my new family. At least I don’t have to worry about her feeling jealous over the situation. My Arizona family tends to avoid bouts of trivial drama.
Jana’s comments brighten my mood. I send off a quick thank-you. Then I switch over to Facebook to find out what’s happening with my author buddies.
I have a new friend request. It’s from my brother Joe . . . in New Jersey. The level of my internal bliss meter soars. I realize it’s only a friend request. People send them to me all the time—people I don’t even know. But this is different. A friend request from a member of my new family is a sign of acceptance. Or at least a first step in establishing a relationship with another of my New Jersey relatives.
Even though it’s a tiny step, it creates an emotional connection. As the fear of rejection fades, my desire to love these people grows. The reaction confuses me. How can I start to love people I don’t even know?
I accept the friend request. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I try to figure out something appropriate to say to Joe. Since these will be my first words to a new family member, they have to be just right. They have to be clever. And maybe even wise. Like Neil Armstrong as he prepared to walk on the moon. I consider using a horribly cheesy spoof of Mr. Armstrong’s quote that immediately comes to mind, then reject the idea. There will be no “One small step for Randy—one giant leap for Petrauschke-kind.”
Ten minutes pass. Nothing clever, wise, or remotely close to being just right comes to mind. I settle on something safe and dull. “Hey, bro.”
Then I look through the pictures on his account. The first is the old-time photo of him, his brother Bill, and our father. They are dressed in Civil War–era costumes, and the photo is black and white. This is the same picture Tammy sent me when she was trying to convince me Mr. Petrauschke was my father. Sort of a guilt-by-family-resemblance tactic.
The second image is of a younger man I don’t know. Maybe his son. And finally, there is a picture of Joe, wearing a T-shirt with a crudely humorous cartoon and tagline. He’s a rough-looking character with dark, uncombed hair and a salt-and-pepper ten o’clock shadow. But he has a smile that says, “You’ve got to love me.”
I shake my head and laugh at the T-shirt. From just that one picture, I feel I know him already. Not intimately, but at least a little bit. I write another message, “Love the shirt.”
A single click of the mouse, and my message is on its way. I lean back and study Joe’s picture for a few minutes. This is my brother. His image gives me the impression of a gruff, uncultured sort of fellow. Am I going to like him?
As an author, I like to drive over to the shopping mall, find a seat by the high-end soda vendor, and then watch people as they walk past. I develop descriptions of the shoppers to sharpen my writing skills. I imagine interesting character relationships between couples, or groups of friends, as they stroll along the shops.
But that doesn’t work with the picture of my brother. It only works for passersby at the mall, who I have no connection to. I can’t invent personality traits for Joe based on the impressions I receive from looking at his photo. I don’t know how he is going to act, how he’s going to sound, or whether I will feel at ease around him. I will have to spend time with him to know any of that. All I know at this point is I like his smile.
I shake myself out of reflection mode and call Dad. With all of the positive energy being generated from my social media exchanges with Jana and Joe, I’m ready to ask him about taking the test. He answers on the third ring.
“Que pasa, amigo?” he says.
“I hope you’re staying out of trouble.”
Dad laughs. “I’m too old to have any fun, so you don’t have to worry about that. Besides, Judy keeps me on a short leash. If I cause any problems, she beats me.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” I wait for him to finish his chuckle. “Dad, would you be willing to take a DNA test for me?”
“No,” he says in an extra-firm voice.
That wasn’t the answer I expected. I struggle to think of a reason why he would refuse such a simple request. It’s not as if I’m going to discover he isn’t really my father. The chance has already passed for keeping that skeleton hidden in the closet.
“When are you and the kids going to come out and visit?” Dad asks.
“Probably next week,” I tell him, then switch back to my original topic. “The DNA test is super easy to take. All you have to do is spit in a tube. I’m even going to pay for it.”
“Not interested,” Dad replies, his voice gaining an uncommon firmness to it once again. “Those grandkids of mine are growing like weeds. It’ll be good to see them. What day are you planning on coming out?”
His response catches me by surprise, leaving me too shocked to ask why. I mumble, “Monday. They’ll be out of school for the holiday.”
“Good. I’ll make sure to stock up on Popsicles. Love you,” Dad says. Then he terminates the call.
This is just a guess, but I think he doesn’t want to take the DNA test.
Halfway through Thursday, I check and find an email from Tammy. Her messages have gone from simple dialogues with a stranger to much-anticipated discussions with someone I like. It takes a moment to remember she usually writes to me on Mondays. I hope the change in her regular routine isn’t an indication of a problem.
“After I sent the last message,” writes Tammy, “I realized I should have explained more about the situation. Dad grew up, for the most part, without a father. He thought Frank Petrauschke was his dad. Then in 1996, my grandmom finally told him t
he truth. His real father was a Lodge. The other family name would have been a lot easier to spell.”
Even though the two of us were both milkman’s sons, my father had gone through a much different experience than I had. I’d grown up with a dad who loved me and took care of me. Mr. Petrauschke had not. Instead, he had two men, his father and his stepfather, who had failed to provide for him. If that had been my childhood, I would have wondered what I’d done to drive away my fathers. It would have crushed me.
Is that the way my father felt about the situation? And if so, does it still bother him?
“My grandmother remarried and moved to Arizona,” Tammy continues. “I don’t think my dad and his new stepfather got along very well. Then, like I mentioned before, Dad moved back to New Jersey sometime after his stroke.
“As for your comment, Dad is a nice guy. Although, when we have parties, he is usually in the living room away from the noise. I too find the situation weird. I’m thankful that you have a loving dad who raised you . . . and yet it is a little sad that we didn’t get to know you before now. I don’t think my dad knew he had another child. He seemed a little confused when we talked last night. I’m sure it will take awhile to figure things out.
“We can be pretty goofy too. Laughter is the best. And we did get a laugh at the milkman comment. It would have been funnier if he actually was one.”
I feast on the information Tammy has given me. It helps dull my hunger to know as much about my New Jersey family as I can. There are a lot of lost years to cover. I reread the section about my father hiding away from the noise at parties. That’s me. Even when I’m with the family I grew up with I tend to find a corner and let people come to me to visit. Every message from Tammy seems to reveal another way in which my father and I are alike.
A warm fuzzy settles in my chest. It isn’t as though I’ve ever felt unloved by the dad who raised me, but being able to see the similarities with my biological father makes me feel like I belong in a way I never have before. I have to meet this man. I have to find out what he thinks about me.
The Milkman's Son Page 9
