The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  “Your story really connects us,” I tell her. “Both of us are late arrivals to this family, and we both have DNA surprises that changed our lives. I want to hear more about what happened to you. That is . . . if you’re comfortable discussing it.”

  She waves her hands as if shooing away flies at the suggestion that talking about this will bother her. “My family now is the one sister who I talk to on a regular basis. The others know about me, but we don’t talk. They know the DNA test came back positive. It links me to my grandmother on my father’s side.”

  “What was your like life before that?” I ask, wanting to compare our situations.

  “My mother was married to my sisters’ father. I thought he was my father too, but he was abusive to me. I always felt hated. I always wondered why he didn’t like me. I never knew. He treated my sisters completely different. Completely different.

  “Like Cinderella?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” says Tammy-P. “And I never knew why. “I mean, he had some deep issues, and I think he took a lot of his anger out on me. Anyways, my mom and he split up, she took me, and we lived in an apartment.”

  “Just you?” I ask. “Not your sisters?”

  “I think it was a matter that my mom could only afford a two-bedroom apartment,” says Tammy-P. “She had to take me. I wouldn’t have been safe with my stepfather.”

  The conversation around the table has taken a decidedly somber turn. Tammy-P’s perpetually sunny disposition prevents this from becoming an angst-filled gripe session. Instead, it feels like the sharing of an intimate portion of her life. A vulnerable section of her emotional center. Something a person would share only with family or a close friend.

  “Mom finds an apartment across town,” Tammy-P continues. “And I’m thinking he hates me, he doesn’t want me. I was thirteen going on fourteen, and I guess it bothered me. Even though he’d been abusive, that rejection hurt. I was a good girl, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want me. Why didn’t he love me?”

  My heart goes out to her. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have lived in that sort of environment. To have felt unloved by the man she thought was her father. The pressure of self-doubt during the troublesome teenage years had to have been crushing. Even though both of us have fathers who turned out not to be blood relatives, our experiences are complete opposites.

  “Finally, Mom told me that my real dad was deceased. She didn’t have any pictures of him. The only information she had about the family was a few names for his other children and a couple of siblings. That’s all I had to try and find them. I looked for years and found nothing.

  “Tammy—”

  “You mean Old Tammy,” I interrupt.

  “Yeah. Old Tammy,” she continues. “Tammy was just getting into genealogy, and she helped me look for my biological family. She found a link on Ancestry, just based on the names. I knew my dad’s family was from Camden, so Tammy searched in that area for other people with the same last name. Then she and I went to the library and searched the city directories. Eventually, we found one of my cousins.”

  Tammy-P pauses to take a drink, giving me a moment to connect her story to mine. She too had a quest, but unlike my search for William “The Immigrant” Lindsay, this one had real consequences. She was searching for living members of her family. Success in my quest simply put another name on the ancestral tree. A failure on her part would prevent her from ever meeting and knowing the close members of her family.

  “I wrote my cousin a big, private message on Facebook,” Tammy-P continues. “Just asking questions. I told him I was trying to find out who I was. He gave me information on my father’s brother that included a phone number.”

  Trying to find out who I was. Her statement hits me emotionally. Is that what this trip is all about for me? Am I looking to find out who I am?

  Nah. I’m a Lindsay. For me, this trip is about finding out who the Petrauschkes are.

  “I called my uncle, and he gave me the number of my sister, Debbie,” says Tammy-P. That was six years ago. It took from the time I was thirteen to when I was forty-two to find my family. Debbie was excited to meet me. It turns out all of them lived nearby. Debbie wasn’t even ten minutes from where I lived.

  “Then I met her, and she told me that nobody else wanted to be involved.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Tammy-P. “That had to hurt. I’ve been so lucky with Joe and the others. They have really reached out and welcomed me to the family.”

  Tammy-P nods. “Debbie and I met three times the first year to sit, and have coffee, and talk, and whatever. Then her husband retired and they moved to Florida. I still get a card from her on my birthday, and she occasionally texts me. I guess it’s better than no contact.

  “Four years later, Joe gets me a DNA test for Christmas. I got the results in January. I call my sister Lisa and tell her it’s official. We’re sisters. Once I told her the news, she wanted to have a relationship. We started talking.”

  “Why did it take so long for her to accept you?” I ask.

  “She said Debbie jumped the gun and they were mad at her for not including them. It went back and forth, but after the DNA test, she was open arms. Now, I visit with her all the time. But she’s the only one who talks to me. My other three sisters are still bitter toward our father because he was never there for them. Even though he’s dead, they all still hate him except for Lisa.”

  “It sounds as if the others have a guilt-by-association attitude toward you,” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Tammy-P. “I think so. As long as they hate my father, they aren’t going to want to have anything to do with me.”

  “What about the two sisters you grew up with?”

  “I still talk to them. They’re half sisters. We have the same mother, but we’re not close. They have their own issues they’re dealing with.”

  A cat hops on the table. This one has an ear that bends backward. He looks like a rough-and-tumble tomcat but starts to purr as soon as I pet him. Another cat sits on the kitchen counter, not yet sure if she wants to make the leap to join us.

  “Were you excited when you found out you had other siblings?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” says Tammy-P. “At fourteen, Mom told me about the others, and I spent my whole life looking for them. It turned out they were right around the corner. I’m glad I didn’t end up marrying my brother. They lived so close my whole life and I never knew them. That was mind-blowing. I’m sure I walked past them a million times. My sister Lisa used to shop every day at one of the convenience stores I managed. With her best friend. I remember the best friend.”

  “What went through your mind when Joe gave you the DNA kit?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t breathe. It literally took the breath out of my chest, and I started crying. I was expecting it, but I was overwhelmed and scared. I just sat on the stairs and cried. It was personal, and private, and something I was going through. All sorts of thoughts went through my head. Like, I’ve looked so long for these people and they don’t want to have anything to do with me. Maybe they’re not even my family. I’m going to take this DNA test, and who knows what will happen?”

  “Right,” I say, “because your mom could have been lying to you.”

  “Sure. She had told me something that wasn’t true my whole life and then didn’t keep any documents or pictures so I could identify myself later in life. Nothing. Nothing. She had a couple of names and the town where we lived.”

  “Then my situation comes along,” I say. “What did you think about that?”

  “I was a little jealous at first. I knew you were walking into a wonderful situation, and my experience wasn’t like that at all. I was really happy for youse and the family but sad for myself. It was, like, that really sucks. Why couldn’t it be like that for me? I had a hard life. I had to deal with a lot of abuse. Just one ti
me, why couldn’t this be me? Why couldn’t they love me?”

  Tammy-P has lost her perpetual smile, but she’s still holding it together better than I am. Tears threaten to roll down my face. I don’t want to cry in front of her and Joe. They’ll think I’m a big baby. It doesn’t matter that I am—I just don’t want them to think that.

  “For people who go through this sort of thing,” Tammy-P says, “youse situation is ideal. I got to tell you that it doesn’t happen like this a lot of times.”

  I manage to choke out a response. “I’m sure it doesn’t happen most of the time. I got super lucky . . . and I know that. There are going to be times when the siblings never want to hear from you, but other people in our situation are going to get lucky too. And even in your situation, which isn’t ideal, you are starting to get along with Lisa. The rest of your siblings might come around. You don’t know what the future holds. No one does. You won’t know until the end of the journey. And maybe then it will be worth the slow buildup to sibling unity.”

  Tammy-P nods. “I agree. When I first found my siblings, I faithfully tried to reach, and reach, and reach out to them. Then it was, like, you have to let them reach out as well because youse can’t force yourself on somebody.”

  “Right,” I say. “They aren’t going to love you just because you want them to.”

  “I could reach out to my dad’s brothers,” says Tammy-P. “And he has a sister. I could reach out to them, but with all I’ve gone through . . . I just don’t want to. I don’t want to be rejected anymore. At this point in my life, I’m going to take what I have and try to work with that. I’m not going to worry about my siblings rejecting me because they hate our father and I am a reminder of all the things he did to them. I’m going to take what I have now, and if something falls into place in the future . . . then I’ll take it.”

  Tammy-P smiles and claps her hands. “It’s time for us to head over to Poppi’s.”

  Just like that, she switches gears. The big, beaming smile is back in place. I sit there for a moment longer, thinking about what she said. It feels as if all of our searches are connected. Separate parts of a single grand plan.

  We rise from our seats and head for the front door. It’s time to meet my father.

  Chapter 15

  Dad, I’m Home

  It takes fifteen minutes to drive from Joe’s house to the town where the rest of the family lives. The scenery on the way continues to be dominated by forest and fields dotted with picturesque farms. LuAnn and I pass a line of trees and drive alongside a small lake. A roadside sign identifies both the town and the lake as our destination.

  The road forks, and we stay to our left, passing a sign that warns me to watch for turtles crossing. The armored water denizens aren’t common in Arizona. I scan the road but don’t see any of them navigating the asphalt. It’s probably for the best. I can imagine the sort of first impression I’d make if I had to explain I was late because I stopped to look at a turtle.

  I drive two more blocks and then turn onto the street where my father lives. His house looks exactly like it does on Google Street View, except it isn’t blurry. My stomach churns with nervous energy. This is it. This is the big moment when DNA testing comes face-to-face with reality. I’m moments away from meeting my biological father.

  The house is white in front and has wood paneling, faded to gray, in the back. Several cars, including Joe’s, are already parked on the lawn alongside the house. I find an open patch of grass in the backyard and follow their example.

  A wood deck extends from the back of the house and serves as the porch. White lawn chairs line almost the entire the edge of the deck. There appears to be enough seats to accommodate the entire Petrauschke clan.

  A magnificently large maple tree grows a few feet from the deck, casting its protective limbs over the entire porch and part of the house. This is a perfect tree for children to climb—a wooden giant that provides shade on warm afternoons. I can picture the family gathering on Sundays for their after-church dinner, the adults sitting in the cool shade chatting about the details that fill their everyday lives while the children play in the yard. If a better formula exists for building strong family bonds, I can’t think of one.

  Two long picnic tables sit under the tree. A swing set and a trampoline occupy the sunny open space beyond the tree. Squirrels scamper around a white shed at the back of the property. The yard has plenty of room for children to play tag or hide-and-seek, or simply run in circles until they are so dizzy they fall down, too tired to get back up.

  LuAnn rests her hand on my arm. “Are you ready for this?”

  I glance at her and then turn my attention back to the scenery, thinking this could have been part of my childhood and might be part of my future. This place, this family. I stare into LuAnn’s eyes and say, “I’m ready.”

  I climb out of the car and then open LuAnn’s door. Before I can close the door, three children race to us from the other side of the house. They look to be around eight to ten years of age. The oldest one has curly hair and a dark complexion. He charges up to me and asks, “Are you my uncle?”

  “Yes,” I tell him. Then the three children run off. The encounter reminds me of how I daydreamed this would happen. It started with children running to meet me. I wonder if the rest of the day will play out the same way.

  The nervous willies in my stomach kick into overdrive. My father is just inside the house. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him? I swallow down my nerves.

  LuAnn and I step onto the deck just as Tammy breezes out through the door. All of my jitters melt away. I recognize her instantly from her pictures: blonde, a face shaped like mine, and the same dark rings I have under my eyes. There’s no mistaking her as my sister. I feel the same connection with Tammy now that I did while exchanging emails, but even stronger. There is a comforting element about being in her presence.

  Tammy gives me a dainty hug, as if she isn’t sure whether or not I’m the hugging type. It doesn’t feel like a hug from a stranger. It feels like I’m hugging my sister. She says, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Over her shoulder, I see Mother Petrauschke. She is shorter than I imagined, but her smile is huge. P-Mom takes her time crossing the deck and then embraces me like I am one of her children. “I can’t wait to hear about your trip.”

  Bill moves up next to Tammy. If I didn’t already know the siblings’ ages, I’d think he was the baby of the family instead of Joe. He has a young face, an athletic build, short brown hair, and wears a Van Dyke–style beard.

  Joe comes outside and motions back through the door for someone inside to join him. He signals a second time, and finally, my biological father emerges. Father is tall compared to the rest of the Petrauschkes. His hair is darker than mine even though he’s twenty years older.

  He gives me a nervous smile and holds back with Joe.

  My heart catches in my throat. Could it be I’ve come all this way only to find he doesn’t want to meet me? I toss the thought aside.

  Joe gives him a gentle nudge, and Father takes a slow, unsteady step toward me.

  That’s all the encouragement I need. I match his pace, and we meet in the middle of the wooden deck. Father and son, together for the first time.

  He wraps his long arms around me, engulfing me in the father-of-all-hugs. The strength with which he squeezes me is surprising for someone his age. I can feel his love. I mean, I can literally feel the energy of his love flowing from him through his arms and into me. And at that moment, I know without a shred of doubt that this man loves me as his son.

  His arms cling to me as if he’s afraid to let go. As if I might dissolve into a wisp of smoke if he releases me. It takes a full minute before he loosens his hold, and then he repeats the ritual with LuAnn.

  I’m not sure what just happened. Did I physically feel the emotions of a person I just met
? Or did I imagine it? Either way, the experience has imprinted itself on my mind . . . and my heart. Tears well up and blur my vision. I try to discreetly wipe the excess water from my eyes before it starts rolling down my face.

  Father finishes hugging LuAnn and turns to me.

  I stand there, still too emotional to talk. The family members seem to notice my watery eyes and give me the courtesy of waiting until I’m ready to continue. I clear my throat. “Here I am!”

  “Yeah, here he is,” says Joe in his gruff voice.

  “Dinner won’t be ready for another hour,” says Mother Petrauschke. “The weather is nice enough for us to sit out here while we get to know one another.”

  “Why don’t we take some pictures first?” LuAnn asks. She pulls out her phone and motions for us to form a group. I put my arm around Father’s shoulder and then Bill’s. P-Mom stands in front of us, the top of her head inches below Father’s chin. Tammy and Joe stand on the other side of Bill. LuAnn snaps several shots of the same pose and then takes another of Father and me.

  Then we take our spots in the ring of chairs. LuAnn sits next to me and Father on the other side. A spry glint fills his eyes as he watches me.

  “Is there anything about me you’d like to know?” I ask.

  “Do you like apple pie?” asks Mother Petrauschke.

  “Who doesn’t?” I respond. “It’s the American dessert.”

  “You’re going to love Mom’s apple pie,” says Joe. “It’s the best.”

  Father nods in agreement. He rests his elbows on the table and then folds his hands in front of him so they form an arch.

  “Sounds good,” I say, “but I thought you might have a few questions about me. Or the situation. There are fifty-seven years of my life you don’t know anything about.”