The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  I post the message. Then I close my eyes and focus all of my thoughts on healing Father, imagining that I am there, at his side.

  Early the next morning, Jana calls me. She sounds worried. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. My biological father is in the hospital with a stroke.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, but her voice has lost the tension of a moment ago. “I called as soon as I read your Facebook post. Next time, say something about what’s going on so I don’t think you’re in trouble.”

  “Well, I am in trouble,” I tell her. “One of my parents is barely clinging to life.”

  “I get that,” she says. “And I’m sorry you’re hurting. I feel bad that someone you love is in trouble. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Just keep my father in mind over the next few days.”

  “I will,” she says. “Give my love to LuAnn and the kids. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Later,” I say.

  “Later, gator,” she says, then disconnects the call.

  Thanks, Jana. I feel better knowing she’s worried about me. Even though she doesn’t know the man, my pain is her pain. Our bond is strong, and I marvel at how we rally together in times of need. We share our burdens. We share our triumphs. That’s what family is about. All right, maybe not just that, but it’s one of the things family is about.

  An hour later, Mark calls. “How you doing?”

  “I’m guessing Jana called you.”

  “Yep. She said your other dad is in the hospital. Have you had any updates on him?”

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “It could still go either way.”

  “How are you taking the news?” Mark asks.

  “I’m tremendously worried. Isn’t that weird? A little over a year ago, I didn’t know the man existed. How can I be this upset about a person I know so little about?”

  “He’s still your dad,” says Mark. “You should be worried about him. How’s the rest of the family? The kids keeping you busy?”

  We spend the next twenty minutes catching up with the events in our lives. It’s the same thing we do when a member of the Arizona family is in the hospital.

  My cell phone rings, and I snatch it up. Joe is on the line.

  “Dad’s awake,” Joe says. He sounds tired but not worried. “And he’s responding to questions. The doctor asked him how many children he had, and he said four. When the doctor asked him to name his kids, Dad said, ‘Tammy, Joe, and Randy.’ At least he hasn’t forgotten about you.”

  Relief floods through me. I hadn’t considered the possibility of the stroke wiping away the sections of Father’s memory where I reside. And if he can remember me, then he should be able to recover. I close my eyes and mumble a silent thank-you.

  “That’s funny he didn’t name Bill.” I laugh. “The middle child is the one that’s always left out. Does Bill know?”

  “No,” Joe says. “Mom didn’t think we should tell him. It might hurt Bill’s feelings.”

  “What else did the doctors say?”

  “They think Dad will recover most of his functions. He’s going to stay a couple more days in the hospital, and then the doctors will transfer him to a rehab center for a week.”

  “I am so relieved,” I tell him. “Thanks for calling and letting me know.”

  “That’s what family is about.”

  “You got that right,” I say. “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Yeah. Everyone knows the Kandy Kakes are the best.”

  I check with Joe and Tammy every week to make sure Father continues making good progress on his recovery. The thought keeps haunting me that I have to return to New Jersey for another visit, a longer visit where I can really get to know everyone. A trip long enough that I won’t feel I missed my chance to bond with Father.

  Just knowing I plan to go back to New Jersey lightens my mood. It occurs to me that I’ve actually missed them. The intensity of my feelings surprises me. How can I miss a group of near strangers this much? And, how could I not have known I would miss the Jersey clan this much?

  Despite the mental boggarts hiding in the dark edges of my mind that have me worried about dividing my heart between two families, I want to embrace the feelings I have for the Petrauschkes. I allow my affection for them to bubble up from where they’ve been hiding, deep in my heart. It feels warm and comforting and good.

  Content with the progress my father is making and my relationship with the Jersey crew, I return to my writing. I stroll into my office and start on a brand-new chapter. Thoughts of family fade away as I search for some insightful lesson to teach Pounce in his story. Something to do with a riddle of fire.

  It’s spring. I drive through my neighborhood with the windows down. The smell of citrus blossoms fills the neighborhood, and I thrill at the touch of the night air as it chills my exposed skin. This is my favorite time of the year. This is heaven on earth for me.

  Thoughts of my biological father cross my mind. What would my life be like if I had grown up in New Jersey? As far as I know, they don’t have citrus trees. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this moment if I lived there. Instead, Jersey has snow. Cold. Slippery. Snow. A lousy substitute for citrus trees. Snow scares me. Not the actual fluffy white flakes that float through the sky, but snow that turns to ice on the road and sends cars careening out of control.

  What would my favorite time of year be if I had lived in New Jersey? Would I like the snow? Would I cheer for the Eagles? Would I be a total wimp who doesn’t like spicy Mexican food? So many questions pass through my mind as I drive. Most of them focus on what differences might be in my life if I had grown up with the Petrauschkes. Not that it matters. I can’t change the past . . . even if I want to.

  I park the van in our driveway, then stroll inside. LuAnn is sitting on the couch, crocheting while she watches some sappy romantic comedy. I sit next to her and say, “What do you think about me making another trip to New Jersey?”

  “I think you should,” she says without taking her eyes off the needles and thread in her hands. “The anniversary trip drained our spare cash; you’ll have to take the money out of your business account.”

  You have got to be kidding.

  A small coal of anger rises from my chest, threatening to inflame my thoughts. We take six or seven trips a year to see LuAnn’s mother. Even though those are in-state trips, if you add up the cost of gas for all of them, the total approaches the cost of a round-trip ticket to New Jersey. Then there’s the annual family reunion for her side of the family. That alone costs more than my one trip back East. And let’s not even start on the vacations she insists we take to see the grandchildren. Why is it all right to spend money to see her family, but not to see mine?

  Or is it just the Petrauschke family that has to take a back seat when it comes to decisions about how to spend the family funds?

  Rather than start an argument, I rise and march into my office to check how much money I have in my business account. It isn’t enough to cover travel expenses for the trip. It barely covers my upcoming author expenses. I need to find another way to get the money.

  I cruise through my social media outlets as I think. My eyes catch a crowdfunding project on Facebook. Is my story compelling enough to convince a host of friends and acquaintances to donate a few dollars to my cause? Is it even appropriate for me to ask them?

  My cell phone rings. It’s Joe.

  I cross my fingers, hoping Father hasn’t had a relapse. “Hey, bro.”

  “Pop’s back in the hospital,” Joe says. “He fell in the kitchen. The doctors are going to x-ray him to make sure he hasn’t broken any bones.”

  The words catch in my throat. What do I say? What’s appropriate? My head is telling me a fall like this could be a sign that Father’s health is getting worse. That he may have a limit
ed number of days left to him. But I don’t want to say that to Joe, even though he is probably thinking the same thing.

  I settle for saying, “That’s not good.”

  No kidding! Is that the best I can do? I’m not at a loss for words when I talk with Jana or Mark about our parents’ health issues. Why should this be any different?

  “Do the doctors think he’ll be all right?” I ask.

  “They haven’t said anything, but Pop is responding to their questions.”

  I close my eyes and mentally sigh. Maybe he just tripped.

  “Keep me updated, please,” I tell Joe and then disconnect the call.

  That does it. I have to find a way to pay for a trip to New Jersey. I’m not willing to take my chances that Father will remain healthy long enough for me to collect enough royalties to get out there. I send off an email to my friend Deb. She knows more about crowdfunding than I do. Hopefully, she can give me some advice on raising the money.

  The news keeps playing through my mind. I go for a walk through the neighborhood. Gone is my appreciation for the cool night air or the scent of citrus blossoms. All I sense is the darkness around me. For the first time, I wish I had taken the DNA test sooner rather than wishing I had remained in blissful ignorance of my father’s existence.

  Eventually I grow too tired to storm through the neighborhood any more. I return home and then go to bed. Concern about my father keeps me awake most of the night. I need him to stay alive until I can travel out there and see him again. Is that thought, that desire, selfish?

  I don’t know. I don’t care.

  In the morning, I check my emails and find a message from Tammy. She writes, “Update on Dad. They didn’t find anything wrong with his pacemaker. They said it didn’t record any incident, so I’m not sure why he fell. Could be from the virus he’s currently fighting.”

  I check my cell phone. There’s a text from Joe. “They released Dad. He wasn’t hurt from the fall, and the doctors can’t find anything wrong with him.”

  The crisis seems to have passed. I can breathe now.

  “Guess that means I can uncross my fingers,” I text. “Thanks for the update.”

  There’s also a message from Deb, advising me on how to crowdfund a personal trip. She recommends a website, and I immediately switch programs to start the process. It takes all morning to put together a project that explains my situation and solicit help in purchasing a plane ticket to New Jersey. I launch the funding campaign and then lean back in my chair.

  An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. I think about canceling the crowdfunding campaign. It’s not that I’m above accepting help from my friends—nobody is. That’s just a part of life—helping others and accepting help when you need it. But I can’t think of another way to raise the money as quickly as I need it. This method at least isn’t putting anyone on the spot. If they see my request, they can ignore it. I’m not standing in front of them looking all pathetic. There’s no pressure.

  The first donation hits my campaign within the hour. One of my aunts. If the response continues like this, I should have enough funds to purchase a plane ticket by the end of the week. But it doesn’t. A week passes. Two weeks pass. Eventually, a friend in the neighborhood drops off a generous donation one morning.

  It’s amazing how an act of charity can change the way you view a person. My friend is a kind and wonderful person. It doesn’t surprise me she offered to help. It only deepens my respect for her and gives me greater insight into her inner beauty.

  My mother-in-law sends me a check, and another friend donates through the crowdfunding site. And while my heart overflows with gratitude for each and every act of kindness these people show me, the total amount of the funds falls far short of my need. A second trip remains out of my reach. Maybe a return visit just isn’t a part of my destiny. I can wait until the end of the week, and then I’m out of time.

  The next day, Mom calls and wants to have lunch. Her apartment is too small for me to bring the children to, so our visits there are normally just the two of us. I haven’t been out to see her in a few months. And I never say no to a visit with either of my parents . . . or a free meal. I agree to pick her up at noon and then disconnect the call.

  I spend what’s left of the day writing. If that’s what you call sitting at my desk, hands carefully poised over the keyboard, and staring at the screen. I type a sentence. Look at it. Then delete the words. At the end of the day, it isn’t so much a matter of having written anything entertaining as it is a robust session on how not to write the current scene. After reworking the scene for the twelfth time, I give up and play video games.

  Mother is waiting for me when I arrive. I lean over and give her a hug. She kisses me on the cheek. Then we do the usual where-are-we-going-to-eat ritual. It’s hard to find food I don’t like, and Mom is pretty broad in her culinary tastes. I suggest Cracker Barrel. It’s Mom’s favorite place to eat, and it provides a cozy environment for a quaint chat.

  I open the passenger door for Mom and help her inside the van. Then we drive to the restaurant. Mom asks about LuAnn, the children, and me. I give her the usual response, “The same as always. LuAnn works too hard, the children fight all the time, and I’m busy writing my next book.”

  “How’s Carol?” I ask, knowing Mom will spend the rest of the drive to the restaurant talking about my sister and the latest calamity in her life. Mom talks. I drive. We reach Cracker Barrel, and I hurry to the other side of the vehicle and open the door for her.

  Mom continues to give me a blow-by-blow account of Carol’s life as we walk inside and take our seats. Carol needs a lot of parental help, and Mom seems committed to never allowing my sister to experience adulthood on her own. Twenty minutes later, Mom has run out of stories about Carol, the waitress has brought us our food, and I am ready to eat.

  “The other day, I noticed you were trying to raise money on Facebook for another trip to New Jersey,” Mom says. “How’s that going?”

  I shrug. “Not very good.”

  “Hasn’t anyone donated money?” she asks.

  “A few,” I mumble with a mouth full of food. “Just not enough.”

  “That’s a shame, honey,” Mom says, using the same tone of voice she used whenever I injured myself as a child. Or had nightmares because I stayed up all night watching monster movies by myself. “I want you to be able to see your father again.”

  “Me too,” I say as I pour maple syrup over my grits. “I want to make a million dollars on my next book, but what are the odds of that happening?”

  “I don’t know about the book, but you can go to New Jersey.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “Me,” she says. Mom looks over her glasses at the ham steak on her plate, intensely studying the slab of meat. Then she pokes it with her fork. “I will give you the rest of the money you need to go visit your father. It’s a real shame you didn’t have a chance to meet him until last year. You need to go out there before he has another stroke.”

  My mouth hangs open. I feel as if an angel of mercy has landed across from me, swooping down to perform a miracle. Then again, Mother has always been there for me. Sometimes as an angel of comfort, at other times as an angel of healing, and when needed, as an angel of conscience. I don’t want to cry in this restaurant, in front of all these strangers, but this token of Mom’s love brings me to the brink of tears.

  “Thank you, Mom,” is all I can manage to say.

  Now I just have to worry about Father Petrauschke staying healthy until then.

  Chapter 20

  Returning Home

  My oldest son, Roger, decides he wants to go with me to New Jersey. He’s an adult and can pay his own way. We book a red-eye for the first week of November. I can stay up all night, making it easier for me to fall asleep at bedtime the next day. The first twelve hours in New Jersey will be rough, but then
I’ll have adjusted to the local sleeping schedule for the rest of the trip.

  The weather in Arizona is unseasonably warm. I bring a jacket in the likely event that it’s much cooler in Jersey. Because we purchased our tickets separately, Roger and I have assigned seats in different rows. An airline attendant announces that the flight has entered the boarding phase. I make my way through the line and then wedge myself into the middle seat.

  As soon as the plane takes off, the rest of the passengers settle in and fall right to sleep. Lucky them. My overhead light is a beacon amidst a sea of darkness. I worry that the light will disturb my neighbors, but a snore from the guy to my right tells me that isn’t really a concern.

  “Anything to drink?” asks a flight attendant.

  “A Diet Coke, please.”

  I pull out a brand-new book from my computer case. This should keep my mind occupied until I reach Philadelphia. The back cover promises a tale of conflict between a fallen angel and the heavenly host who seek to eliminate the taint he represents to their esteemed race. Just my kind of story.

  I speed through the first few chapters. By the time I finish the drink, my enthusiasm for the story has faded. Another hour of a whiney angel complaining about the rigors of high school is all I can take. I leave the book on my lap, turn off my overhead light, and stare into the darkness.

  Eventually, my thoughts move away from the angel story and focus on the week ahead. My first trip to Jersey was about meeting the Petrauschkes, but this time it’s about fitting in. About mentally cementing myself into the family. Rather than thinking of them as my new family or my East Coast family, I want them to just . . . be . . . family.

  We arrive in Philly, and it’s almost cold enough for a jacket. Roger and I stand outside while we wait for our ride. Tammy’s son, Shaun, pulls up to the curb and helps us load our bags into the trunk of his car. I introduce Roger to his cousin. The two of them nod to one another, and then we climb into the car and are on our way to Jersey.