Chapter Three
I Was a Secret From the Past
Would I ever find my sister?
“There is no easy way to say this.” Glen rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but Mom’s eyes.
“Tom had an epileptic seizure, and his lungs collapsed. There was nothing they could do.”
Her mouth half-open, words unable to come, Mom placed her hands on her stomach, reminding herself of the unborn child she shared with Tom.
She waited for the punchline, hoping this was one of Glen’s foolish pranks. But instead, he held her tight.
A cruel flashback replayed, mirroring the heartache of her mother’s death. Mom felt betrayed by God, twice abandoned.
Mom went to the Catholic funeral Mass, dragging herself up the concrete steps, leaning on her best friend. Sobbing, she took her place in the back pew. In the first row, my father’s wife was surrounded by Tom’s family and loved ones.
Tom’s wife was crying. His widow was soothing her six-month pregnant belly protruding under her black dress while Mom’s hand rested on her own stomach, the child growing within.
The priest spoke, but Mom struggled to register his words. Her arms hung limp as she leaned on her friends. Mom wanted to tell Tom’s family how much he had meant to her. She wanted them to know that she and their unborn child mattered too.
The church evoked images of her mother’s funeral. Of her confirmation, when she chose St. Frances as her patron saint, a significance she no longer felt.
She chose not to receive Holy Communion. Instead, Mom’s mind solidified in that church. She resolved then and there to hold onto me, the one-piece she had left of him.
My daughter opened the French doors to my home office, peeked her head in, and asked if I was coming up to bed. Startled but quick to smile, I told her I’d be up in a bit.
The floor-to-ceiling shelves were double-stacked with books- a smorgasbord ranging from personal development, cooking, yoga, parenting, nutrition, and natural living.
Cabinets were overstuffed with paperwork from my husband’s business. Filing was my least favorite chore and always on the to-do list.
Hours upon hours’ worth of our kids’ Lego creations, along with their photographs in an array of rustic wooden frames were scattered about.
A lifetime of cherished memories swathed this room. I sank deeper in my worn black leather chair.
It was now or never. I couldn’t believe this was happening. After years upon years of dead ends, I’d stumbled upon a probable relation of my sister– my sister, Tom’s widow’s child– through Ancestry.com.
I emailed the possible connection and gave the short version of the story, telling her I was looking for Tom’s daughter. The relation emailed back and said she’d contact her with the information I’d provided and get back to me if this person was in fact my sister.
She was.
I received an email from my sister soon after my exchange with the relation took place, an email that included her phone number and an invitation to talk– if I wanted.
I did. How could I not?
Yet, here I sat.
Unlike my sister, I’d had years to process this quandary. How would she react? Would she care to know who I was or see me as an outcome and source of shame?
Finding courage, I picked up the receiver and dialed my sister’s number before I could change my mind.
Her voice was kind, soft-spoken. I made an awkward joke about our situation. She laughed. I confessed my hesitation in contacting her, not sure of her reaction.
I told her I understood the great difficulty of the circumstances, that I could appreciate if she wanted nothing more than answers from me. I’d respect her wishes either way.
I revealed Mom’s story. How Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge over troubled water made Mom cry, even to this day. It was their song.
How she still kept a memory box near her bed filled with his letters along with the furry brown stuffed bear he’d won for her.
How she always ended up staying home on the July fourth weekend, regardless of planned events.
She told me the little she knew of our father. He had two brothers, he was a marine and an aspiring chef.
I’d always wondered if her mother knew about Mom, and I was finally able to ask.
She had not known or at least had never told my sister. My sister’s mother had moved to northern Minnesota right after Tom’s funeral. She’d had a terrible time getting over him, but she did eventually remarry.
Sharing our personal stories, looking for parallels to somehow confirm our origin, we found likeness.
We spoke as though we’d known each other for years, revealing our quirks, comparing our childhoods, attempting to find answers to our endless questions.
The connection was joyful. We talked about our kids and how excited they’d be to have more cousins. The one apprehension she felt was a concern for her mother.
She didn’t want to hurt her, digging up a deception from the past.
Her mother had loved our father, and his loss was a difficult pain she thought was over and done.
My sister felt conflicted.