The Milkman's Son

by Randy Lindsay

  Then it clicks. Joe might have a gruff exterior, but he apparently has a soft spot for people and animals who need a home. I watch him as he hobbles over to the kitchen door and talks to the meowing cat that’s sitting there.

  “You can’t go outside, kitty,” Joe tells the cat. “It’s raining and you’ll catch a cold.”

  What a softie!

  I spend the rest of the day visiting with Joe and Tammy-P. All right, mostly Tammy-P. Joe tends to wander a lot and say little. The vast majority of Joe’s comments are meant to tease, but I’m on to him now. All of the jokes, all of the sarcasm, are to cover up the gentle nature inside him. I imagine he has a reputation to maintain. Or, at least, he thinks he does.

  It rains for most of the week. Roger wakes up on Tuesday with a cold and spends all day in bed. Even though he’s over thirty and my size, I still feel bad for the little guy. He decides to hang out in the bedroom rather than risk getting everyone else sick. I drive to the nearest pharmacy and buy him medicine, then go over to Father’s house by myself.

  I visit with Mother Petrauschke until I generate the courage to go into the living room, where Father is watching television. The room looks different from my last trip. Two air mattresses occupy the bulk of space.

  “Dad sleeps on that,” P-Mom says, pointing to the larger of the two mattresses. “I use the other mattress because he doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

  The reality of the stroke sinks in for me. Both of my Petrauschke parents have had their lives radically changed since my last visit. Father’s easy chair is only a few feet away from the mattress. Other than trips into the kitchen at mealtime, his world is limited to this room.

  And while P-Mom has more freedom to move about, it can’t be comfortable for her to sleep on the small mattress that close to the floor. The sacrifice this arrangement represents speaks to the love and dedication she has for Father. Not the flowery, giddy love I see in romantic movies but a real, powerful love that comes from selfless action and sacrifice.

  Good for you, Mother Petrauschke. Good for you.

  I spend a few awkward moments trying to figure out what to say to Father. He seems more interested in the television than visiting with me. Then I remember that he likes the Cardinals, and I decide to talk about football with him. “What do you think of Arizona’s new quarterback?”

  His expression brightens. He motions with his hands. “They . . . they need a good quarterback.”

  Father struggles to find what he wants to say. Still, he ends up talking to me more than he did during the first trip. P-Mom has already mentioned that most of the time they just sit next to each other and don’t say anything at all, so this must be a wild talking streak for him. This is Father, showing how excited he is to see me.

  Wednesday night, I spend the early part of the day on my laptop, writing a presentation I’m scheduled to give at the library next month. I visit with Tammy-P in the afternoon. Drew, my sister’s kinda-sorta son-in-law, stops in with cheesesteaks from a place in North Philly. “This place is the best,” he tells me. “Thought you should try an authentic cheesesteak rather than that made-for-tourist stuff you had last time.”

  Drew has a heavy Philly accent. He spends an hour asking about my DNA story and what it was like to find out one day that my life wasn’t totally what I thought it was. Here’s another member of the family I immediately like.

  “That’s crazy,” he says. “It really has to mess with your mind to find out at your age that you have more family.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I tell him. “Thanks for the cheese­steaks. I can’t believe how good they are.”

  “Hey, no problem,” he says in that thick Philly accent. Then he leaves.

  The cheesesteak is incredible. As much as I enjoyed the sandwiches I had last time, they are second-rate compared to this meaty-cheese version of El Dorado. Now I understand why the inhabitants of the City of Brotherly Love are so crazy about their cheesesteaks. If I had a mountain of money, I’d fly out for one of these cheesesteaks every week.

  So, yeah. It’s good.

  I spend Thursday at Father’s house. He watches television while Tammy, P-Mom, and I talk about all the years that were lost because we didn’t know we had more family. A situation that wouldn’t have existed if someone would have told me the truth. A situation that wouldn’t have existed for my father if someone had told him the truth.

  But all of that has changed. No one can expect to keep these type of secrets hidden anymore. DNA testing is now shining the light of science into skeleton-filled family closets all over the world.

  I head back to Joe’s. Roger is still hiding out but seems to be feeling better. I eat and visit some more. Joe orders four varieties of strombolis: cheesesteak, pepperoni and cheese, spinach, and Italian. All of them are good, but the cheesesteak is the best.

  Saturday finally arrives.

  This is my chance to experience the holiday with the trees full of fall colors. This is Thanksgiving the way I see it on television and the way it’s depicted on paper plates, napkins, and all the other items the stores sell for the big meal.

  But it’s much more than that. Tammy and P-Mom have made a special effort to share the holiday with Roger and me, giving our connection to the family an official stamp of approval. Perhaps not so much in their mind, but definitely in mine.

  The celebration doesn’t look all that different from the Thanksgivings we have in Arizona. Turkey, dressing, potatoes and gravy, sweet-potato pie, and green-bean casserole. The corn pudding is a little stiffer than LuAnn’s, and P-Mom mixes strawberries in with the cranberries, but otherwise, the food looks and tastes about the same. Only the colors of fall make the holiday feel any different.

  Billy, Shelly, and their boys arrive, triggering a round of teasing between my siblings.

  “Randy is my favorite brother,” Bill says. “Because we get two Thanksgivings now.”

  Two Thanksgivings. That’s something to be thankful for.

  “Randy is my favorite brother,” Joe tells Bill. “Because now I have another brother beside you.”

  Ouch.

  Tammy steps up to the other two brothers, hands on her hips, and says, “Randy is my favorite brother because he didn’t tease me as a child. And also, because I’m not the oldest anymore.”

  We all laugh at the comment, including Father.

  Everyone fills their plate with Turkey Day bounty and finds a spot to sit. Father takes his food into the living room so he can eat while he watches television. Tammy, Tammy-P, Bill, Shelly, Roger, and I all crowd around the kitchen table.

  A conversation starts about Thanksgivings past. Which leads to a discussion about our favorite and least favorite foods.

  We talk briefly about the surprising number of people who reveal they have a story of their own when they find out I took a DNA test and discovered my dad wasn’t my dad.

  Bill’s wife, Shelly, says, “I guess there are more families than you thought who have been blended together in one way or another. And since we’re on the topic, I have a story too. My mother was adopted.”

  Chapter 21

  Shelly’s Story

  I have a secret DNA story, and because of that, all of the Petrauschkes have one too. Tammy-P has a secret DNA story. Apparently, Shelly also has a hidden-family story that was revealed only through a DNA test. Was there anyone who didn’t have a story involving a hidden family and a DNA test?

  “All right,” I tell Shelly, “let’s hear it. What happened to your mother?”

  Shelly leans back in her chair, crosses one leg over the other, and then puts her hands on her knee. “My mother was an only child. Or that’s what she thought. Her parents were very strict, and she felt they didn’t love her. When she was twelve, my mother found a box in the attic and went through it. The box held her adoption papers.”

  “Surpri
se,” I yell.

  “They had never mentioned that she was adopted,” Shelly continues. “She never told them she found the papers. Her parents passed away without any of them telling the other what each of them knew.

  “A few years ago, my mother purchased a DNA test from 23andMe. She used the family connections the test revealed to find her sisters. They agreed to meet at Applebee’s. Her two living sisters and two nieces showed up at the restaurant. And now they get together as often as they can. One of the sisters has passed away, and my mother talked about how glad she was that they had the opportunity to meet one another before she died.”

  “That’s neat,” I say. “It feels like instant family.”

  Shelly nods her head but sighs. “My grandmother held on to the adoption secret her whole life, afraid to tell anyone because she didn’t want to betray my mother’s parents. Mom didn’t know why she was adopted. She was the oldest of the siblings.”

  “There must be a heck of a story behind that choice,” I tell Shelly. My author instincts want to pursue the tale of how only the oldest child is given up for adoption. In a way, it reminds me of my own story. Being the oldest served as my personal proof that I wasn’t adopted, even though I looked nothing like my siblings or the rest of the Lindsays.

  Then my mind switches gears. “You mentioned that your mother didn’t feel loved because her parents were strict.”

  “Y-e-e-e-e-s.” Confusion shows in Shelly’s eyes.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense that your grandparents didn’t love your mother. She was their only child. They went through all that trouble to adopt her. Why do that if they didn’t want a child? Or didn’t plan to love her?”

  “What does it mean, then?” Shelly asks.

  “I think it’s a matter of nature versus nurture,” I tell her. “Your mother thought her parents’ strictness meant they didn’t love her. But what if they just expressed their love in a different way? I read a book a few years ago by Gary Chapman called The Five Love Languages. He describes five ways people express their love. The five ways people understand love. I think these emotional centers could be passed down genetically.”

  The look of confusion fades from Shelly’s face as she realizes what my idea means.

  “If our emotional centers are part of our nature,” I continue, “then your mother would inherit the way she perceives love from her biological parents. The odds are good that her adopted parents operated under a completely different method of expressing love. Which means every action your grandparents took could have been an expression of love, and your mother would not have seen it that way.”

  How tragic.

  Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain. This is one of those times. I sit for a moment to let what I just said sink into my head. How many millions of adoptive families struggle because parents and children have different emotional centers? For that matter, how many traditional families suffer from the same problem?

  Certain situations may make it seem as if the parents love a child less, when they actually love the child to the best of their ability. But how do you teach families that it isn’t a matter of not being loved, only that we are being loved differently than what feels right to us?

  My heart goes out to Shelly’s mother and her parents. It goes out to all the families I don’t know, and will never know, who could have benefitted from the knowledge of the different ways people show their love. How many family rifts could have been avoided if they knew what to look for when asking themselves, “Do my parents/children love me?”

  P-Mom makes room on the table for two pies she baked earlier. Unfortunately, neither of them is apple.

  The rest of the day passes quickly. It feels as if one moment I’m taking my first whiff of roasted turkey and the next I’m hugging everyone and telling them goodbye. My week of life-with-the-Petrauschkes has nearly come to an end. It doesn’t make up for a lifetime apart . . . a lifetime of lost moments together, but it has put their memories firmly in my head.

  “You can stay with us next time,” P-Mom says.

  “Or Miranda and me,” Shaun says.

  “No way,” Joe grumbles. “He’s staying with me.”

  I’m not even gone, and they are already arguing over where I’m going to stay. It feels nice to be wanted, but I’m ready to go home. I miss LuAnn and the kids. A week is apparently the limit for how long I can stay away from my family . . . and from Arizona.

  Roger and I climb into the car and head back to Joe’s place. It’s too dark outside to watch the scenery as I drive, leaving my mind to drift over the events of the day. My thoughts return to the adoption story Shelly told me.

  Of course, she isn’t the only one in the family with an adoption story. My two youngest children are adopted. The difference is the boys know their story. I haven’t tried to hide it from them, and they were too old when they came to live with us for that to have worked anyway.

  The boys still have plenty of questions about their biological parents. Some of those questions I can answer. Some of them I can’t. Fortunately, they still see their father at Christmas every year. Any questions I can’t answer, they can ask him.

  I hear stories all the time from people who thought they were done having children and then found out there was another one on the way. Well, surprise, surprise. LuAnn and I had not one but two unexpected additions to the family at the same time

  Memories of the adoption run through my mind as I drive.

  Until 2008, the housing boom had treated us pretty good for a while. Then the market burst, and we were financially devastated. We lost our home and our rental properties. LuAnn lost her job a couple of months later, and we were forced to move into a small rental house that was uncomfortable and hot most of the time.

  One afternoon, the phone rang. A representative from Child Pro­tection Services told us they would be bringing two children to stay with us. The children would arrive within twenty minutes.

  “Great,” I told her. “Do we know these children?”

  “They belong to your nephew.”

  Only one of my nephews had more than one child. It was no surprise that he’d had them taken away by the state. Wasn’t even a surprise that they decided to leave them with me. My nephew had lived with me for a couple of years, during his troubled teens. I had seen the boys a few times, but they weren’t going to recognize me.

  The welfare worker dropped the boys off with a bag of clothes for each of them. Nick, the older of the two, clutched a man-purse to his chest as if afraid someone would take it from him. I could tell that the contents of that bag represented the only constant in his life. Whatever toys or mementos the bag carried were the only source of comfort and mental security the boy had. The younger boy, Patrick, stood behind Nick. Even though he didn’t look scared, he appeared determined not to be separated from his brother

  My heart broke at the sight. I would make sure these two boys had the best home, the best life I could provide for them for as long as they stayed with us. They deserved that much of a break after the years of neglect they had suffered.

  Two years later, the boys became legal members of the family, never again to worry about their next meal or where they would sleep at night. Nick held on to his bag for most of that time before he felt secure enough in his home, in his family, to leave it behind.

  It’d be a lie if I said I immediately loved the boys as much as I did the children who were born into the family. It took time to reach that stage. It took shared family experiences to bring us together. In order to make the boys feel as loved as the rest of the children, I told them a sort of story. I told them that LuAnn and I had married one another a little later in life than perhaps we should have. Too late to have as many children together as we would have liked. I told the boys I thought they had been given to us because we couldn’t have any more ch
ildren of our own.

  The funny thing is, the more I told them that story, the more I believed it myself.

  I don’t know if Nick and Pat share the same emotional center as their biological parents. Nick is easy for me to love because his emotional center drives him to seek acceptance through acts of service and he responds well to being told he is loved. He and I both thrive on hugs, and that means I know how to reach him in a way that is meaningful to me as well.

  Pat is more difficult to love at times. His emotional center seems to be tied to things. Gifts. Money. Treats. I do my best to translate the way that I love into actions that appeal to his emotional center, but I fail as often as I succeed. Even though he still beams at me when I tell him I love him or give him a hug, I wonder if it’s enough. Will he grow up like Shelly’s mother, thinking his parents were too stern and didn’t love him?

  I hope not. And I have to believe that Shelly’s parents had the same wish in their hearts.

  “You ready to go back home?” Roger asks. His question breaks the silence and brings me out of my melancholy reflections. I turn into Joe’s yard and park the car. It’s time to pack for the trip back to Arizona.

  Chapter 22

  Surprise, Surprise

  It’s my anniversary.

  The weather couldn’t be any more perfect for a celebration. A few fluffy, white clouds drift across the sky. A cool breeze blows across my face and arms. The rain from last week has left the air smelling fresh. It’s the kind of day that makes me want to drive out to the desert and stroll through the mesquite and juniper in order to enjoy the sensory pleasures of nature.

  If only I can figure out what I should do for this kind of celebration. I mean, it’s not a traditional anniversary—the kind where you bring your wife roses, go out to eat, and then maybe see some yucky romantic movie. It’s the kind of anniversary where you mark the point when your life has been changed forever.