I Was Certain
Dennis Donoghue
Was it crazy to think I had a grown kid out there I didn’t know about? Surely I wasn’t the first guy to wonder. Even in the days before sperm banks, a sizable number had to be running around with no idea who their fathers were. This scenario gained plausibility after I got a call from Martha, a lover I hadn’t heard from in twenty-odd years, and this on the heels of some tests I’d had done for what I’d thought was an upset stomach. My doctor didn’t like the look of those tests and ordered more. For someone just laid off as a production manager in a fabric mill you’d think I’d have other things to worry about. But Martha’s call brought me back to the afternoon she’d stuck a note on lavender paper in the mail slot after ringing my doorbell. Angling out of sight, I watched her drive over the bridge that led to the highway. That was the last I saw of her.
In the note she’d pleaded for me to get in touch. She underlined urgent. The news couldn’t wait. Let it wait, I thought. A part of me loved her, sure, but there was another part. Two weeks later she packed up for Sacramento when her husband George accepted a position in a pharmaceutical plant. A year later, I’d heard, they’d split for good.
What she’d wanted to tell me, I’ve since concluded, was that she’d never gone through with the procedure after breaking the news she was pregnant while we waited in line to see Top Gun. The movie had just come out, a love story between a female flight instructor and her male pupil, and we’d found a theater out of town where we wouldn’t be spotted. We’d been seeing each other discreetly and hoped to keep it that way.
“I’ll take care of it,” she’d whispered, as if this sort of thing carried the weight of a trip to the dentist. Martha was a few years older than me and ran a successful window dressing company with a dozen employees. In any business, she told me, a critical skill was to make a decision and be done with it. She had no patience for foot draggers or navel gazers. Given our situation, there wasn’t a lot of time or options anyway.
In the theater lobby couples held hands and leaned into one another. We were one of those couples. She never mentioned her marriage and I didn’t bring it up. She was far from the first woman to cheat on her husband and I suspected she had good reason. As she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze she whispered there was no chance the baby was George’s.
“You have to have sex to get pregnant,” she said as she lay her head on my shoulder.
We’d split the cost. I offered to drive her and take the day off. It was the least I could do. Both of us were grateful to have the means to do something about the situation we found ourselves in, along with the wherewithal to face the issue directly and without emotion. We spoke until we’d covered all there was to say. She gave my hand another squeeze as if to confirm it was all for the best. I brushed the carpet with the toe of my shoe while I hunted for another topic. I mentioned my day at work, how I’d left my lunch on the kitchen counter. Behind the concession stand a skinny kid in a red vest upended a kettle of popcorn onto a growing pile. He shook salt out of a tin canister. For some reason he had Martha’s attention. She studied him but didn’t share what she was thinking. Maybe she recognized him from somewhere. To break the awkwardness, I mentioned getting a bucket of popcorn. While I paid she called over to grab some napkins. Did she want a soda? Milk Duds? A moment later the usher unclipped the velvet rope and we moved toward the theater doors.
“This is Martha,” she said when I picked up the phone. “I’m sad to have to tell you George passed away. Cardiac arrest during a retreat in Barre. In the middle of a yoga exercise.”
“I’m sorry. How have you been? I mean otherwise? Yoga, of all things.”
I remembered George as a solid, soft-spoken guy with a trimmed beard and a braided ponytail who wore Earth Shoes all winter. We weren’t friends exactly but frequented the same bars and parties. That was how I’d met Martha. She’d come on to me during last call when George was in the bathroom. She was unhappy and wanted to talk. She suggested coffee. I accepted her invitation even though he and I played on the same team in a rec basketball league in Somerville. Once he’d even jump-started my car in a snowstorm after a game.
“He moved back to Cambridge ten years ago,” Martha continued. “The service is tomorrow at the meditation center on Broadway where he did payroll. He always spoke highly of you. I’m in town with Amanda and her boyfriend for the weekend. On Monday we fly back to Sacramento.”
“Amanda?”
“She’ll be twenty-two next week. I guess that makes me officially old. You?”
“Gail’s up in Kittery with her sister outlet shopping for a few days.”
“Kids?”
“We jumped through the usual hoops. Unfortunately no luck.”
“George couldn’t tolerate the idea of children himself. Overpopulation and all that. But life is full of surprises, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there.”
After we hung up I did the math. Twenty-three years ago put us at March, which happened to be several weeks after she told me she was pregnant. During our time together she complained about George’s reluctance to start a family. Initially she’d held out hope but it was becoming clearer he had other plans. To one up George, I said I wanted kids some day, though not in the foreseeable future. Our conversation tacked back and forth about the joys and tribulations of parenthood, the comfort of having someone around when you grew old and feeble, the satisfaction of knowing you’d cheated death by passing on your genes, all of it nothing more than chitchat, words tossed around as you’re getting to know someone.
For years Gail and I had traveled the baby road, consoling ourselves each time a test turned up negative. We endured announcements from friends and family who were expecting. We played along at gender reveal parties. In all honesty, though, we avoided walking past playgrounds and school yards. Halloween became our least favorite holiday. But over time we adjusted, or at least Gail did. She earned her real estate license and set her sights on becoming fluent in German. But all too soon we discovered that trying to conceive was the glue that held us together. Once we’d stopped we spun off in different directions. I felt more alone than ever. The desire to pass on what there was of me--bone and blood, likes and biases, quirks and temperament--never receded. Pushing fifty, I wasn’t the religious type per se but viewed salvation in the form of having children. Now I couldn’t shake the idea that Martha had gone ahead and had the baby. Pure speculation, maybe, but within the realm of possibility. In fact, the closer I examined the timeline, the more the odds swung in my favor. Once settled in California, she couldn’t stomach sending little Amanda across the country for visits. With George assuming the role of the baby’s father, she’d kept her tidy secret to herself. Now, more than two decades later and with George out of the picture, she’d elected to unburden her conscience.
At no time did I mention my hunch to Gail. It wouldn’t have made for good dinner conversation. Besides, I hadn’t heard from Martha in ages, had never been to California, and entertained no plans to act on my curiosity. Then came the job layoff and lab results. With the uncanny timing of her phone call there had to be a subtext to her message. Did it really matter one way or another if I knew about George’s death? I’d had an affair with his wife, for God’s sake. I was the last person he’d expect to be invited to his memorial service.
Banks of filthy snow plugged spaces near the meditation center so I was forced to park a half a mile away. Into a biting wind I struggled up Broadway, mulling over what exactly to say. How does one introduce such a topic without being dismissed as a lunatic? I’d been awake half the night questioning what good would come from it. Even if my suspicion proved correct, wasn’t the truth better left unsaid, given its potential for damaging the lives of those who didn’t know better, namely Gail and Amanda? After considerable thought I decided not to err on the side of caution.
The center was located in a white Victorian with lofty turrets and weathered-beaten gables. A spiked wrought iron gate guarded a Gothic fountain clotted with last fall’s oak leaves. Upon entering I was asked to insert my shoes into a wooden cubby like you’d see in a bowling alley. In stocking feet, I scanned a photo montage mounted on a tripod. In one photo George was wearing rimless eyeglasses and a tweed jacket adorned with a red carnation, his arm around a young woman in a navy blue cap and gown. Amanda, I thought. I’d even researched the name. In Latin it meant worthy of love.
“Hey there mister,” Martha said as she gave me a hug. “You haven’t changed one iota. Let’s head on upstairs. The service is about to start.”
“My condolences about George,” I said, nodding at the floral arrangement. And because in my nervousness I couldn’t think of anything more comforting to add, I mentioned the yoga class.
“Apparently the instructor taught a form specifically designed to elevate the heart rate,” she replied. “Worked as advertised.”
“I never considered it life threatening.”
“I’m still in shock. As soon as I got the news I started making phone calls. Somehow the more people I told the better I felt. So thank you.”
I nodded. We lived three thousand miles apart separated by over twenty years. And yet, as these things go, after a few moments my awkwardness melted away and I remembered what we’d had together.
“I’m glad I could make it.”
She offered a quick smile. Fine wrinkles around her eyes enhanced her features with a more mature beauty. Rather than aging her skin, the California sun gave her a healthy outdoor look we pale New Englanders envy. I studied her a bit too long before turning back to sign the guest book.
The second floor was an open concept, its walls covered with Tibetan tapestries, an altar with a floral arrangement at the front. Mourners sat cross-legged and silent on round cushions. Others lifted their legs like wading birds as they hunted for floor space. Martha, in a lime green sweater offset with a string of white pearls and a pair of black slacks, moved with the grace and poise of a dancer. She took two cushions from a stack and handed me one. Together we wound our way towards a young couple who by the glow of their skin had to be from California too. The young woman, clearly Amanda, applied lipstick as she examined herself in a handheld mirror. She then proceeded to brush her hair in long strokes before resting a hand on the inside of her boyfriend’s thigh. It didn’t seem the time or place, frankly, but people mourn in different ways.
Without effort Martha folded her legs and centered herself on the cushion. I expected a whiff of cigarette smoke from her sweater but evidently she’d quit. Her perfume, the same musky scent that stuck to my clothes after she’d left my place to go home to George, reminded me of when, alone and missing her, I’d diverted to a cosmetic counter on a trip through the mall and asked a saleswoman to spray the brand on my wrist, then hurried off without purchasing a bottle.
I plunked down beside her, stifling a grunt, my popping knees turning a head or two. The setting was less than pleasant to say the least. I didn’t like people in general and here I was in a packed room with everyone six inches from one another either sleeping or meditating, an exercise I could never understand. Wasn’t breathing what we all did anyway? Martha, unperturbed by the stifling heat and catatonic behavior of fellow mourners, leaned forward to rub Amanda’s shoulders. Irritated, the girl shrugged off her mother’s touch and demanded to be left alone. I’d heard kids were different these days, self-centered slackers who lived in their parents’ basements after defaulting on student loans, but in truth I didn’t know any and now wasn’t the time to judge. Besides, she had just lost her father, or the man she assumed to be her father. Her behavior, even in the presence of total strangers, was understandable.
At this point I was mulling over the idea of simply paying my respects and getting the hell out of there. Gail had a saying: He who keeps his mouth shut is always better off. But just as I was contemplating her advice Amanda tucked back a few strands of hair--black with streaks of rusty orange--to expose a flap of pointed skin on the edge of her left ear just above three silver earrings. My heart hammered. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The same trait had gone through my own family tree for at least three generations. My grandfather, brother and niece all shared it. In each new arrival it was the first thing we searched for. Absent on Martha and, as far as I could recall, George too, what I saw with my own two eyes was as irrefutable as a DNA test.
We’d been seeing one another for three months when I dropped Martha off at a clinic on Boylston Street while George was visiting his mother in Ithaca. I’d planned to accompany her inside but she insisted it wasn’t the type of place I’d feel comfortable. Telling me not to worry, she kissed my cheek and stepped out of the car. To pass the time I wandered the banks of the Charles. On a warm and windy morning, boats with blue and white sails nearly collided with one another as they raced between bridges, young mothers pushed screaming kids in collapsible strollers, old people on park benches stared blankly at the water while a group of mouthy teenagers on skateboards passed a joint back and forth. After a harsh winter, city dwellers had rediscovered the outdoors. Softening soil released a loamy smell I drew into my lungs. The sense of renewal spring offered helped settle my nerves.
Later, after I’d found a parking space two blocks away and hurried over to the clinic, Martha was waiting on the sidewalk, her unbuttoned coat lifted by the breeze, her handbag hanging on her shoulder. Oddly, she didn’t look tired or upset though I had no idea what to expect. I offered my arm as we made our way to the car. When I eased my pace to accommodate her post-procedural condition, she told me her doctor said she could return to work in the morning if she felt up to it. As she hadn’t eaten since midnight she was famished, though what she really wanted was a stiff drink as soon as the anesthesia wore off.
We found a café on Newbury Street. She ordered chicken soup, a grilled cheese sandwich and black coffee. What she’d just gone through she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. Such a sad place that clinic was, she added. She’d never forget the experience as long as she lived. But what choice was there? Who in her position would have done anything differently? I took in every word with an enormous sense of relief.
“What if we had, you know?” She pushed her empty soup bowl away and took a bite of her sandwich. “What if we’d discussed options? What if we’d thought this out? Anyway, do you love me?”
Caught off guard, I hesitated, searching for the right words. Across from us two women split a turkey club. A guy in overalls ate something resembling meatloaf while a waitress in a headscarf refilled his coffee cup. Outside a group of shoppers huddled at a crosswalk waiting for the traffic light to change. I imagined myself in that group, crossing the street, moving off somewhere else.
“It’s yes or no question,” she said. “Either you do or you don’t.”
“A few months isn’t much time.”
“It’s plenty.”
“Maybe for some people.”
“Well?”
I’d made the mistake of ordering a reuben. Russian dressing dribbled onto my chin. The sandwich was coming apart in my hands. I pulled half a dozen napkins from a dispenser to wipe my mouth.
“I love what we have together.”
“That’s a no then. I love you, in case you’re wondering.”
I went on explaining myself, dancing around anything within a mile of yes. I felt something, sure, but was it love? Love meant burrowing in for the long haul, declaring ourselves a couple for all to see, becoming someone I wasn’t sure I could ever become. The question threw me, designed, as it was, to compromise what we had together, this dalliance with no expectations, plenty of sex, and an undercurrent of the excitement over being exposed.
“Okay then,” she said. “You can quit the mental gymnastics. I didn’t mean to ruin your appetite. Can we go? There’s an icepick sticking out of my scalp.”
With that she got up and made for the door while I paid the check. Two days later I found her note in my door.
How did people contort themselves like this? I rubbed my knees and arched my back while a keyboardist played a few solemn chords. A stout guy in frameless glasses and a bolo tie entered from a side door and mounted a stool next to the organ. He surveyed the audience with the deliberate speed of a tortoise. In a barely audible voice he welcomed us and introduced himself as Sal, the center’s program coordinator and a good friend of George’s. Maybe he’d taken a sedative or had just finished a week long retreat in the bowels of a mountain. To hear him I had to lean forward, putting me inches from Amanda, this poor girl mourning her father who would soon learn he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
“Friends,” Sal began, “May peace be upon you. Our beloved George showed by example there’s no guarantee any of us will live to see tomorrow, or for that matter the rest of today. Point of fact, he had dinner reservations after his yoga class. His last gift to us? Simply this: if there’s something you’ve been meaning to say, something that’s been gnawing on you, then by all means come out with it. Unburden yourself and do so with bottomless compassion.”
He scanned the crowd. For a moment we held one another’s gaze. He seemed to read my thoughts as if they were printed on a teleprompter. All around me I felt a kind of voodoo energy, stuff would have eaten up but which made me want to run for the door. Oppressive heat mingling with body odor gave the room the ambiance of a subway car at rush hour. I had all I could do not to pass out though no one else seemed bothered in the least.
After he’d finished he invited Martha to say a few words. She picked her way to the front and after shuffling a few index cards, gazed out at her audience.
“My dear George,” she began after clearing her throat, “your shining achievement was transforming a baby girl into a beautiful young woman. How could I ever forget the look on your face when I told you I was pregnant? Surprised doesn’t even begin to describe it. But you took to fatherhood like a fish to water. Your selfless devotion inspired all of us. Though we didn’t end up staying together I will always love you for what you did for both Amanda and me.”
Her voice caught. Amanda snickered while she scrolled through her phone. It was as if a stranger, not her mother, was reminiscing about George, this man who’d raised her. I swallowed hard as Martha concluded her remarks by telling him to rest in peace. That was a tall order, given what I was about to ask his ex-wife, but with patience and understanding we’d work through the matter in such a manner that would honor George’s legacy.
After Martha returned to her cushion Sal led us in meditation. While I listened to his instructions--something about following the breath and dismissing thoughts as nothing more than background noise akin to supermarket music--crazy images flew through my head. In one, I was begging George for forgiveness while he attached jumper cables to my battery terminals in the blinding snow, in another I had Martha bent over a kitchen table, in a third was cussing me out in German. I snuck a peek at Amanda who snapped her bubblegum. I couldn’t understand this young woman acting like an indulged ten year old. Was I really going to traumatize her with news she wouldn’t have expected in a million years? By now I’d convinced myself that exposing the truth would benefit everyone. First, it would clear Martha’s conscience. No doubt after George’s death she’d considered her own mortality and the benefit of a clean slate. Second, Amanda would finally know her real dad. As for , after the predictable fallout--disbelief, remonstrations, anger--she’d understand I’d done the right thing. In time I’d fly to California to get to know Amanda. Maybe would accompany me. When I got the money, I’d pay for her to fly east for a visit. The future, after a bumpy start, brimmed with possibility.
At the reception downstairs, I sipped from a bottle of water while Martha helped herself to some red grapes, a few cubes of cheese, a a couple of tablespoons of tabouli. In a corner next to a six foot palm Amanda was all over her boyfriend, as if they were the only two people in the room. I stood near Martha, sipping away, glad to have her to myself for the moment. Between us a floor register pumped more heat into the room.
“That was a beautiful tribute. So George had no idea you were pregnant? I remember you saying he didn’t want children.”
“Like any absolute, it was washed away over time. I guess you could say he saw the light.”
Amanda had her boyfriend against the wall. Her hands went up one side of him and down the other. It was the last sight you’d expect to see at a memorial service. Martha didn’t seem phased. Apparently this kind of public display was no big deal in California.
“I was surprised to hear from you. I figured there was another reason besides George’s death.”
“Such as?”
“Am I Amanda’s father?”
My face heated up as if I’d yanked open the door of a pizza oven. The rest of my body wasn’t far behind. What kind of person inquires about paternity when the kid’s been out of the womb for twenty-two years? On top of that, I’d decided I didn’t like Amanda much. She was a spoiled brat with all the introspection of a Kardasian. If the human race ever ran short of narcissism, she would step up to fill the void.
“Isn’t that what you tried to tell me with the note in my door?” I blundered on. “You never stepped inside that clinic.”
Martha’s severe stare, drawn-in lips and furrowed forehead defined speechless.
“The fold of skin on Amanda’s left ear?” I continued. “That’s a trait in my own family. Not me. Relatives of mine.”
“I’m sorry. A fold of skin?”
“Amanda,” I said as I pointed to her. “That person over there with her boyfriend.”
“I know who Amanda is.”
“I’m her father. Isn’t that the real reason you called?”
Her face took on a startled look as if she’d just found herself in the company of a madman. She put her plate down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She softened her tone to a whisper.
“Do you really think I could pull off such a deception? And carry it on for years?”
I played the only card I had left.
“I’ve been diagnosed with cancer,” I said. “It’s worse than they thought.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Could you please just give me a yes or no?”
I detected a slight nod, or thought I did. She cleared her throat. My eyes filled up. I sniffled and wiped my nose and waited. Just then Martha turned and drew Amanda away by the elbow. The girl stumbled behind her asking why she’d been forced to come to this freakshow in the first place. Her father, she ranted, meant nothing to her, a loser with zilch personality who’d wasted his life sitting on a cushion. And, by the way, she planned to marry Derek by the end of the week whether she agreed or not. This was my child--a selfish, immature loudmouth. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
I followed them upstairs along with Derek. The four of us spilled onto the front porch in our stocking feet as if we didn’t know better. While they huddled to light cigarettes, I stood with my back blocking the wind.
“I’m giving myself one month before I quit again,” Martha told us. “This time I have a good reason if there ever was one. And it’s not because George is dead.”
“You’re making zero sense as usual,” Amanda said. “So how is it you two know one another?”
Martha shot me a savage look as I launched into a story about the bunch of us being regulars in all the dives from Davis to Central Squares.
“Why hadn’t I thought to buy real estate back then?” I smacked my forehead for emphasis, something I’d never done in my entire life. I’d completely forgotten how to act like a normal person.
“Let me guess,” Amanda said. “You had a torrid love affair with my mother and George never knew any better.”
“Sledgehammer touch, babe,” Derek said.
“Just old friends,” I said with a phony laugh, “from the old days.”
“Better than that, sweetie,” Martha clarified, her expression of contempt returning with a passion she’d been storing up for over twenty years. “A topic for your next screenwriting assignment. This man would like to know have I been deceiving both him and you all these years, hiding the fact that he’s your father, not George.”
“Holy shit,” said Derek.
“He confronted me on the subject not five minutes ago. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to fill you in on the particulars.”
Amanda took the revelation in stride though the news was dramatic enough to draw her away from her screen.
“See any resemblance, honey?”
Holding her cigarette and phone in one hand, she leaned into me and pressed her face cheek to jowl with my own, grinning for Derek as if she and I were crammed into a photo booth. She snapped her bubblegum while I put on a dopey smile. I could feel her jawbone slide along mine.
“You two can go on Maury,” he said. “When he opens the envelope, the whole country will know if he’s your father or not.”
“And,” added Amanda, giggling, “if it turns out you are my dad, you can foot the bill for my tuition next semester.”
She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and presented it to me.
“Here, take this,” she said. “Exhibit A.”
In my hesitation, Martha sprang forward, snatched the ashtray from her daughter’s grasp and flung it off the porch.
“This is a memorial service, for God sakes! Do you have any respect for the deceased? What’s the matter with you, Amanda?”
“I’m only trying to amuse him. He’s obviously deranged.”
“Honestly, there are better ways to attain levity,” Martha shouted.
“You know what?” Amanda said as she briskly rubbed her shoulders. “I’m freezing. It’s a hundred degrees below zero. How does anybody survive around here? Haven’t they ever heard of California? It’s no wonder people in this town are out of their minds.”
Derek followed her back inside while Martha finished her cigarette. She watched the traffic, as if they didn’t have traffic in California. A T bus with a broken spring lumbered in the direction of Harvard Square. Across the street a taxi discharged a passenger into the arctic chill. My fingers had gone from white to blue and then white again. I couldn’t feel my feet but they had to be down there somewhere.
“We can work this out,” I said. “We can discuss it. I’m not going to hire a lawyer or anything. That’s not something I would do.”
“How does one absorb an allegation this preposterous?” Martha said without looking at me. “How does a grieving woman rise to defend herself against an accusation from outer space?”
“Would you at least admit to it for Amanda’s sake?”
When she turned around, her cheeks and ears flared scarlet. She gave out a shiver and studied me for a moment.
“I called you right after I left George. You remember, don’t you? Of course you do. I was ready to jump on a plane, baby and all, and return to Boston. I laid out specifics. I am not a pleader in any sense of the word. What I got from you were heavy pauses, stonewalling and, in the end, two words that sealed the deal.”
I remembered that phone call. But by then I’d moved on. And there was no mention of any baby. I was sure of that.
“What two words?”
“Good luck.”
Before I could answer she pulled open the door and left me standing on the porch. I took in some exhaust fumes and waited for her to change her mind, to come back for another cigarette so the two of us could find some common ground. When she didn’t I went inside to find my shoes. As I took them from the cubby I could feel the weight of Amanda’s stare while she spoke with a woman in waist-length gray braids not ten feet away. She shifted her eyes from the woman’s face to mine, likely wondering if there was a snowball’s chance in hell I might be who I said I was. Without a doubt the exchange on the porch would occupy her mind for some time to come.
Before I left I carried my shoes upstairs and found Martha meditating. The floor had been cleared of cushions, the candles extinguished, a window opened to air the room out. She was on her own private island, alone and oblivious to everything around her. Her eyes were closed. When I crossed the carpet to suggest we stay in touch she kept on meditating as if she hadn’t heard me.
“Let’s not let two more decades go by,” I whispered.
She didn’t offer so much as a nod. She sat ramrod straight facing an altar adorned with a crystal vase of daisies and a chubby laughing Buddha. There was a stillness about her my presence couldn’t touch. Perhaps another two decades were the blink of an eye compared to how much time she hoped would pass before she heard from me again. Eternity wasn’t long enough.
On my way out I noticed the upended ashtray at the bottom of the porch steps against a backdrop of dirty snow. I wrapped Amanda’s cigarette in a napkin and tucked it in my jacket pocket. Then I turned up Broadway to see if I could remember where I’d parked my car.
The sealed sandwich bag safeguarding the DNA evidence lies in the back of my sock drawer. As of yet I can’t bring myself to take the next step, not after Gail expressed in no uncertain terms what I could do with it. That’s as far as her support goes. The night I showed her she packed up for her sister’s without saying when she’d return. Without a doubt, this isn’t the type of news a spouse digests overnight. My secret life, it was plain to her, wasn’t something she’d signed on for. In a sense, she added, it was a blessing we never had children of our own. Imagine life for them with half siblings popping out of the woodwork.
“Together we’ll decide on a course of treatment,” my doctor said as additional test results came in. “The odds are favorable with new protocols but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put your affairs in order. Too many men think they’re going to live forever and find out they’re wrong.”
I left his office determined to act. But it’s been a month now and what have I done? I’m still one of those guys who weighs possibilities as he tries to fall asleep at night, who spends too much time casting about for what’s missing in his life, who can’t seem to see the forest for the trees.
.
Dennis Donoghue
Was it crazy to think I had a grown kid out there I didn’t know about? Surely I wasn’t the first guy to wonder. Even in the days before sperm banks, a sizable number had to be running around with no idea who their fathers were. This scenario gained plausibility after I got a call from Martha, a lover I hadn’t heard from in twenty-odd years, and this on the heels of some tests I’d had done for what I’d thought was an upset stomach. My doctor didn’t like the look of those tests and ordered more. For someone just laid off as a production manager in a fabric mill you’d think I’d have other things to worry about. But Martha’s call brought me back to the afternoon she’d stuck a note on lavender paper in the mail slot after ringing my doorbell. Angling out of sight, I watched her drive over the bridge that led to the highway. That was the last I saw of her.
In the note she’d pleaded for me to get in touch. She underlined urgent. The news couldn’t wait. Let it wait, I thought. A part of me loved her, sure, but there was another part. Two weeks later she packed up for Sacramento when her husband George accepted a position in a pharmaceutical plant. A year later, I’d heard, they’d split for good.
What she’d wanted to tell me, I’ve since concluded, was that she’d never gone through with the procedure after breaking the news she was pregnant while we waited in line to see Top Gun. The movie had just come out, a love story between a female flight instructor and her male pupil, and we’d found a theater out of town where we wouldn’t be spotted. We’d been seeing each other discreetly and hoped to keep it that way.
“I’ll take care of it,” she’d whispered, as if this sort of thing carried the weight of a trip to the dentist. Martha was a few years older than me and ran a successful window dressing company with a dozen employees. In any business, she told me, a critical skill was to make a decision and be done with it. She had no patience for foot draggers or navel gazers. Given our situation, there wasn’t a lot of time or options anyway.
In the theater lobby couples held hands and leaned into one another. We were one of those couples. She never mentioned her marriage and I didn’t bring it up. She was far from the first woman to cheat on her husband and I suspected she had good reason. As she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze she whispered there was no chance the baby was George’s.
“You have to have sex to get pregnant,” she said as she lay her head on my shoulder.
We’d split the cost. I offered to drive her and take the day off. It was the least I could do. Both of us were grateful to have the means to do something about the situation we found ourselves in, along with the wherewithal to face the issue directly and without emotion. We spoke until we’d covered all there was to say. She gave my hand another squeeze as if to confirm it was all for the best. I brushed the carpet with the toe of my shoe while I hunted for another topic. I mentioned my day at work, how I’d left my lunch on the kitchen counter. Behind the concession stand a skinny kid in a red vest upended a kettle of popcorn onto a growing pile. He shook salt out of a tin canister. For some reason he had Martha’s attention. She studied him but didn’t share what she was thinking. Maybe she recognized him from somewhere. To break the awkwardness, I mentioned getting a bucket of popcorn. While I paid she called over to grab some napkins. Did she want a soda? Milk Duds? A moment later the usher unclipped the velvet rope and we moved toward the theater doors.
“This is Martha,” she said when I picked up the phone. “I’m sad to have to tell you George passed away. Cardiac arrest during a retreat in Barre. In the middle of a yoga exercise.”
“I’m sorry. How have you been? I mean otherwise? Yoga, of all things.”
I remembered George as a solid, soft-spoken guy with a trimmed beard and a braided ponytail who wore Earth Shoes all winter. We weren’t friends exactly but frequented the same bars and parties. That was how I’d met Martha. She’d come on to me during last call when George was in the bathroom. She was unhappy and wanted to talk. She suggested coffee. I accepted her invitation even though he and I played on the same team in a rec basketball league in Somerville. Once he’d even jump-started my car in a snowstorm after a game.
“He moved back to Cambridge ten years ago,” Martha continued. “The service is tomorrow at the meditation center on Broadway where he did payroll. He always spoke highly of you. I’m in town with Amanda and her boyfriend for the weekend. On Monday we fly back to Sacramento.”
“Amanda?”
“She’ll be twenty-two next week. I guess that makes me officially old. You?”
“Gail’s up in Kittery with her sister outlet shopping for a few days.”
“Kids?”
“We jumped through the usual hoops. Unfortunately no luck.”
“George couldn’t tolerate the idea of children himself. Overpopulation and all that. But life is full of surprises, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there.”
After we hung up I did the math. Twenty-three years ago put us at March, which happened to be several weeks after she told me she was pregnant. During our time together she complained about George’s reluctance to start a family. Initially she’d held out hope but it was becoming clearer he had other plans. To one up George, I said I wanted kids some day, though not in the foreseeable future. Our conversation tacked back and forth about the joys and tribulations of parenthood, the comfort of having someone around when you grew old and feeble, the satisfaction of knowing you’d cheated death by passing on your genes, all of it nothing more than chitchat, words tossed around as you’re getting to know someone.
For years Gail and I had traveled the baby road, consoling ourselves each time a test turned up negative. We endured announcements from friends and family who were expecting. We played along at gender reveal parties. In all honesty, though, we avoided walking past playgrounds and school yards. Halloween became our least favorite holiday. But over time we adjusted, or at least Gail did. She earned her real estate license and set her sights on becoming fluent in German. But all too soon we discovered that trying to conceive was the glue that held us together. Once we’d stopped we spun off in different directions. I felt more alone than ever. The desire to pass on what there was of me--bone and blood, likes and biases, quirks and temperament--never receded. Pushing fifty, I wasn’t the religious type per se but viewed salvation in the form of having children. Now I couldn’t shake the idea that Martha had gone ahead and had the baby. Pure speculation, maybe, but within the realm of possibility. In fact, the closer I examined the timeline, the more the odds swung in my favor. Once settled in California, she couldn’t stomach sending little Amanda across the country for visits. With George assuming the role of the baby’s father, she’d kept her tidy secret to herself. Now, more than two decades later and with George out of the picture, she’d elected to unburden her conscience.
At no time did I mention my hunch to Gail. It wouldn’t have made for good dinner conversation. Besides, I hadn’t heard from Martha in ages, had never been to California, and entertained no plans to act on my curiosity. Then came the job layoff and lab results. With the uncanny timing of her phone call there had to be a subtext to her message. Did it really matter one way or another if I knew about George’s death? I’d had an affair with his wife, for God’s sake. I was the last person he’d expect to be invited to his memorial service.
Banks of filthy snow plugged spaces near the meditation center so I was forced to park a half a mile away. Into a biting wind I struggled up Broadway, mulling over what exactly to say. How does one introduce such a topic without being dismissed as a lunatic? I’d been awake half the night questioning what good would come from it. Even if my suspicion proved correct, wasn’t the truth better left unsaid, given its potential for damaging the lives of those who didn’t know better, namely Gail and Amanda? After considerable thought I decided not to err on the side of caution.
The center was located in a white Victorian with lofty turrets and weathered-beaten gables. A spiked wrought iron gate guarded a Gothic fountain clotted with last fall’s oak leaves. Upon entering I was asked to insert my shoes into a wooden cubby like you’d see in a bowling alley. In stocking feet, I scanned a photo montage mounted on a tripod. In one photo George was wearing rimless eyeglasses and a tweed jacket adorned with a red carnation, his arm around a young woman in a navy blue cap and gown. Amanda, I thought. I’d even researched the name. In Latin it meant worthy of love.
“Hey there mister,” Martha said as she gave me a hug. “You haven’t changed one iota. Let’s head on upstairs. The service is about to start.”
“My condolences about George,” I said, nodding at the floral arrangement. And because in my nervousness I couldn’t think of anything more comforting to add, I mentioned the yoga class.
“Apparently the instructor taught a form specifically designed to elevate the heart rate,” she replied. “Worked as advertised.”
“I never considered it life threatening.”
“I’m still in shock. As soon as I got the news I started making phone calls. Somehow the more people I told the better I felt. So thank you.”
I nodded. We lived three thousand miles apart separated by over twenty years. And yet, as these things go, after a few moments my awkwardness melted away and I remembered what we’d had together.
“I’m glad I could make it.”
She offered a quick smile. Fine wrinkles around her eyes enhanced her features with a more mature beauty. Rather than aging her skin, the California sun gave her a healthy outdoor look we pale New Englanders envy. I studied her a bit too long before turning back to sign the guest book.
The second floor was an open concept, its walls covered with Tibetan tapestries, an altar with a floral arrangement at the front. Mourners sat cross-legged and silent on round cushions. Others lifted their legs like wading birds as they hunted for floor space. Martha, in a lime green sweater offset with a string of white pearls and a pair of black slacks, moved with the grace and poise of a dancer. She took two cushions from a stack and handed me one. Together we wound our way towards a young couple who by the glow of their skin had to be from California too. The young woman, clearly Amanda, applied lipstick as she examined herself in a handheld mirror. She then proceeded to brush her hair in long strokes before resting a hand on the inside of her boyfriend’s thigh. It didn’t seem the time or place, frankly, but people mourn in different ways.
Without effort Martha folded her legs and centered herself on the cushion. I expected a whiff of cigarette smoke from her sweater but evidently she’d quit. Her perfume, the same musky scent that stuck to my clothes after she’d left my place to go home to George, reminded me of when, alone and missing her, I’d diverted to a cosmetic counter on a trip through the mall and asked a saleswoman to spray the brand on my wrist, then hurried off without purchasing a bottle.
I plunked down beside her, stifling a grunt, my popping knees turning a head or two. The setting was less than pleasant to say the least. I didn’t like people in general and here I was in a packed room with everyone six inches from one another either sleeping or meditating, an exercise I could never understand. Wasn’t breathing what we all did anyway? Martha, unperturbed by the stifling heat and catatonic behavior of fellow mourners, leaned forward to rub Amanda’s shoulders. Irritated, the girl shrugged off her mother’s touch and demanded to be left alone. I’d heard kids were different these days, self-centered slackers who lived in their parents’ basements after defaulting on student loans, but in truth I didn’t know any and now wasn’t the time to judge. Besides, she had just lost her father, or the man she assumed to be her father. Her behavior, even in the presence of total strangers, was understandable.
At this point I was mulling over the idea of simply paying my respects and getting the hell out of there. Gail had a saying: He who keeps his mouth shut is always better off. But just as I was contemplating her advice Amanda tucked back a few strands of hair--black with streaks of rusty orange--to expose a flap of pointed skin on the edge of her left ear just above three silver earrings. My heart hammered. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The same trait had gone through my own family tree for at least three generations. My grandfather, brother and niece all shared it. In each new arrival it was the first thing we searched for. Absent on Martha and, as far as I could recall, George too, what I saw with my own two eyes was as irrefutable as a DNA test.
We’d been seeing one another for three months when I dropped Martha off at a clinic on Boylston Street while George was visiting his mother in Ithaca. I’d planned to accompany her inside but she insisted it wasn’t the type of place I’d feel comfortable. Telling me not to worry, she kissed my cheek and stepped out of the car. To pass the time I wandered the banks of the Charles. On a warm and windy morning, boats with blue and white sails nearly collided with one another as they raced between bridges, young mothers pushed screaming kids in collapsible strollers, old people on park benches stared blankly at the water while a group of mouthy teenagers on skateboards passed a joint back and forth. After a harsh winter, city dwellers had rediscovered the outdoors. Softening soil released a loamy smell I drew into my lungs. The sense of renewal spring offered helped settle my nerves.
Later, after I’d found a parking space two blocks away and hurried over to the clinic, Martha was waiting on the sidewalk, her unbuttoned coat lifted by the breeze, her handbag hanging on her shoulder. Oddly, she didn’t look tired or upset though I had no idea what to expect. I offered my arm as we made our way to the car. When I eased my pace to accommodate her post-procedural condition, she told me her doctor said she could return to work in the morning if she felt up to it. As she hadn’t eaten since midnight she was famished, though what she really wanted was a stiff drink as soon as the anesthesia wore off.
We found a café on Newbury Street. She ordered chicken soup, a grilled cheese sandwich and black coffee. What she’d just gone through she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. Such a sad place that clinic was, she added. She’d never forget the experience as long as she lived. But what choice was there? Who in her position would have done anything differently? I took in every word with an enormous sense of relief.
“What if we had, you know?” She pushed her empty soup bowl away and took a bite of her sandwich. “What if we’d discussed options? What if we’d thought this out? Anyway, do you love me?”
Caught off guard, I hesitated, searching for the right words. Across from us two women split a turkey club. A guy in overalls ate something resembling meatloaf while a waitress in a headscarf refilled his coffee cup. Outside a group of shoppers huddled at a crosswalk waiting for the traffic light to change. I imagined myself in that group, crossing the street, moving off somewhere else.
“It’s yes or no question,” she said. “Either you do or you don’t.”
“A few months isn’t much time.”
“It’s plenty.”
“Maybe for some people.”
“Well?”
I’d made the mistake of ordering a reuben. Russian dressing dribbled onto my chin. The sandwich was coming apart in my hands. I pulled half a dozen napkins from a dispenser to wipe my mouth.
“I love what we have together.”
“That’s a no then. I love you, in case you’re wondering.”
I went on explaining myself, dancing around anything within a mile of yes. I felt something, sure, but was it love? Love meant burrowing in for the long haul, declaring ourselves a couple for all to see, becoming someone I wasn’t sure I could ever become. The question threw me, designed, as it was, to compromise what we had together, this dalliance with no expectations, plenty of sex, and an undercurrent of the excitement over being exposed.
“Okay then,” she said. “You can quit the mental gymnastics. I didn’t mean to ruin your appetite. Can we go? There’s an icepick sticking out of my scalp.”
With that she got up and made for the door while I paid the check. Two days later I found her note in my door.
How did people contort themselves like this? I rubbed my knees and arched my back while a keyboardist played a few solemn chords. A stout guy in frameless glasses and a bolo tie entered from a side door and mounted a stool next to the organ. He surveyed the audience with the deliberate speed of a tortoise. In a barely audible voice he welcomed us and introduced himself as Sal, the center’s program coordinator and a good friend of George’s. Maybe he’d taken a sedative or had just finished a week long retreat in the bowels of a mountain. To hear him I had to lean forward, putting me inches from Amanda, this poor girl mourning her father who would soon learn he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
“Friends,” Sal began, “May peace be upon you. Our beloved George showed by example there’s no guarantee any of us will live to see tomorrow, or for that matter the rest of today. Point of fact, he had dinner reservations after his yoga class. His last gift to us? Simply this: if there’s something you’ve been meaning to say, something that’s been gnawing on you, then by all means come out with it. Unburden yourself and do so with bottomless compassion.”
He scanned the crowd. For a moment we held one another’s gaze. He seemed to read my thoughts as if they were printed on a teleprompter. All around me I felt a kind of voodoo energy, stuff would have eaten up but which made me want to run for the door. Oppressive heat mingling with body odor gave the room the ambiance of a subway car at rush hour. I had all I could do not to pass out though no one else seemed bothered in the least.
After he’d finished he invited Martha to say a few words. She picked her way to the front and after shuffling a few index cards, gazed out at her audience.
“My dear George,” she began after clearing her throat, “your shining achievement was transforming a baby girl into a beautiful young woman. How could I ever forget the look on your face when I told you I was pregnant? Surprised doesn’t even begin to describe it. But you took to fatherhood like a fish to water. Your selfless devotion inspired all of us. Though we didn’t end up staying together I will always love you for what you did for both Amanda and me.”
Her voice caught. Amanda snickered while she scrolled through her phone. It was as if a stranger, not her mother, was reminiscing about George, this man who’d raised her. I swallowed hard as Martha concluded her remarks by telling him to rest in peace. That was a tall order, given what I was about to ask his ex-wife, but with patience and understanding we’d work through the matter in such a manner that would honor George’s legacy.
After Martha returned to her cushion Sal led us in meditation. While I listened to his instructions--something about following the breath and dismissing thoughts as nothing more than background noise akin to supermarket music--crazy images flew through my head. In one, I was begging George for forgiveness while he attached jumper cables to my battery terminals in the blinding snow, in another I had Martha bent over a kitchen table, in a third was cussing me out in German. I snuck a peek at Amanda who snapped her bubblegum. I couldn’t understand this young woman acting like an indulged ten year old. Was I really going to traumatize her with news she wouldn’t have expected in a million years? By now I’d convinced myself that exposing the truth would benefit everyone. First, it would clear Martha’s conscience. No doubt after George’s death she’d considered her own mortality and the benefit of a clean slate. Second, Amanda would finally know her real dad. As for , after the predictable fallout--disbelief, remonstrations, anger--she’d understand I’d done the right thing. In time I’d fly to California to get to know Amanda. Maybe would accompany me. When I got the money, I’d pay for her to fly east for a visit. The future, after a bumpy start, brimmed with possibility.
At the reception downstairs, I sipped from a bottle of water while Martha helped herself to some red grapes, a few cubes of cheese, a a couple of tablespoons of tabouli. In a corner next to a six foot palm Amanda was all over her boyfriend, as if they were the only two people in the room. I stood near Martha, sipping away, glad to have her to myself for the moment. Between us a floor register pumped more heat into the room.
“That was a beautiful tribute. So George had no idea you were pregnant? I remember you saying he didn’t want children.”
“Like any absolute, it was washed away over time. I guess you could say he saw the light.”
Amanda had her boyfriend against the wall. Her hands went up one side of him and down the other. It was the last sight you’d expect to see at a memorial service. Martha didn’t seem phased. Apparently this kind of public display was no big deal in California.
“I was surprised to hear from you. I figured there was another reason besides George’s death.”
“Such as?”
“Am I Amanda’s father?”
My face heated up as if I’d yanked open the door of a pizza oven. The rest of my body wasn’t far behind. What kind of person inquires about paternity when the kid’s been out of the womb for twenty-two years? On top of that, I’d decided I didn’t like Amanda much. She was a spoiled brat with all the introspection of a Kardasian. If the human race ever ran short of narcissism, she would step up to fill the void.
“Isn’t that what you tried to tell me with the note in my door?” I blundered on. “You never stepped inside that clinic.”
Martha’s severe stare, drawn-in lips and furrowed forehead defined speechless.
“The fold of skin on Amanda’s left ear?” I continued. “That’s a trait in my own family. Not me. Relatives of mine.”
“I’m sorry. A fold of skin?”
“Amanda,” I said as I pointed to her. “That person over there with her boyfriend.”
“I know who Amanda is.”
“I’m her father. Isn’t that the real reason you called?”
Her face took on a startled look as if she’d just found herself in the company of a madman. She put her plate down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She softened her tone to a whisper.
“Do you really think I could pull off such a deception? And carry it on for years?”
I played the only card I had left.
“I’ve been diagnosed with cancer,” I said. “It’s worse than they thought.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Could you please just give me a yes or no?”
I detected a slight nod, or thought I did. She cleared her throat. My eyes filled up. I sniffled and wiped my nose and waited. Just then Martha turned and drew Amanda away by the elbow. The girl stumbled behind her asking why she’d been forced to come to this freakshow in the first place. Her father, she ranted, meant nothing to her, a loser with zilch personality who’d wasted his life sitting on a cushion. And, by the way, she planned to marry Derek by the end of the week whether she agreed or not. This was my child--a selfish, immature loudmouth. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
I followed them upstairs along with Derek. The four of us spilled onto the front porch in our stocking feet as if we didn’t know better. While they huddled to light cigarettes, I stood with my back blocking the wind.
“I’m giving myself one month before I quit again,” Martha told us. “This time I have a good reason if there ever was one. And it’s not because George is dead.”
“You’re making zero sense as usual,” Amanda said. “So how is it you two know one another?”
Martha shot me a savage look as I launched into a story about the bunch of us being regulars in all the dives from Davis to Central Squares.
“Why hadn’t I thought to buy real estate back then?” I smacked my forehead for emphasis, something I’d never done in my entire life. I’d completely forgotten how to act like a normal person.
“Let me guess,” Amanda said. “You had a torrid love affair with my mother and George never knew any better.”
“Sledgehammer touch, babe,” Derek said.
“Just old friends,” I said with a phony laugh, “from the old days.”
“Better than that, sweetie,” Martha clarified, her expression of contempt returning with a passion she’d been storing up for over twenty years. “A topic for your next screenwriting assignment. This man would like to know have I been deceiving both him and you all these years, hiding the fact that he’s your father, not George.”
“Holy shit,” said Derek.
“He confronted me on the subject not five minutes ago. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to fill you in on the particulars.”
Amanda took the revelation in stride though the news was dramatic enough to draw her away from her screen.
“See any resemblance, honey?”
Holding her cigarette and phone in one hand, she leaned into me and pressed her face cheek to jowl with my own, grinning for Derek as if she and I were crammed into a photo booth. She snapped her bubblegum while I put on a dopey smile. I could feel her jawbone slide along mine.
“You two can go on Maury,” he said. “When he opens the envelope, the whole country will know if he’s your father or not.”
“And,” added Amanda, giggling, “if it turns out you are my dad, you can foot the bill for my tuition next semester.”
She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and presented it to me.
“Here, take this,” she said. “Exhibit A.”
In my hesitation, Martha sprang forward, snatched the ashtray from her daughter’s grasp and flung it off the porch.
“This is a memorial service, for God sakes! Do you have any respect for the deceased? What’s the matter with you, Amanda?”
“I’m only trying to amuse him. He’s obviously deranged.”
“Honestly, there are better ways to attain levity,” Martha shouted.
“You know what?” Amanda said as she briskly rubbed her shoulders. “I’m freezing. It’s a hundred degrees below zero. How does anybody survive around here? Haven’t they ever heard of California? It’s no wonder people in this town are out of their minds.”
Derek followed her back inside while Martha finished her cigarette. She watched the traffic, as if they didn’t have traffic in California. A T bus with a broken spring lumbered in the direction of Harvard Square. Across the street a taxi discharged a passenger into the arctic chill. My fingers had gone from white to blue and then white again. I couldn’t feel my feet but they had to be down there somewhere.
“We can work this out,” I said. “We can discuss it. I’m not going to hire a lawyer or anything. That’s not something I would do.”
“How does one absorb an allegation this preposterous?” Martha said without looking at me. “How does a grieving woman rise to defend herself against an accusation from outer space?”
“Would you at least admit to it for Amanda’s sake?”
When she turned around, her cheeks and ears flared scarlet. She gave out a shiver and studied me for a moment.
“I called you right after I left George. You remember, don’t you? Of course you do. I was ready to jump on a plane, baby and all, and return to Boston. I laid out specifics. I am not a pleader in any sense of the word. What I got from you were heavy pauses, stonewalling and, in the end, two words that sealed the deal.”
I remembered that phone call. But by then I’d moved on. And there was no mention of any baby. I was sure of that.
“What two words?”
“Good luck.”
Before I could answer she pulled open the door and left me standing on the porch. I took in some exhaust fumes and waited for her to change her mind, to come back for another cigarette so the two of us could find some common ground. When she didn’t I went inside to find my shoes. As I took them from the cubby I could feel the weight of Amanda’s stare while she spoke with a woman in waist-length gray braids not ten feet away. She shifted her eyes from the woman’s face to mine, likely wondering if there was a snowball’s chance in hell I might be who I said I was. Without a doubt the exchange on the porch would occupy her mind for some time to come.
Before I left I carried my shoes upstairs and found Martha meditating. The floor had been cleared of cushions, the candles extinguished, a window opened to air the room out. She was on her own private island, alone and oblivious to everything around her. Her eyes were closed. When I crossed the carpet to suggest we stay in touch she kept on meditating as if she hadn’t heard me.
“Let’s not let two more decades go by,” I whispered.
She didn’t offer so much as a nod. She sat ramrod straight facing an altar adorned with a crystal vase of daisies and a chubby laughing Buddha. There was a stillness about her my presence couldn’t touch. Perhaps another two decades were the blink of an eye compared to how much time she hoped would pass before she heard from me again. Eternity wasn’t long enough.
On my way out I noticed the upended ashtray at the bottom of the porch steps against a backdrop of dirty snow. I wrapped Amanda’s cigarette in a napkin and tucked it in my jacket pocket. Then I turned up Broadway to see if I could remember where I’d parked my car.
The sealed sandwich bag safeguarding the DNA evidence lies in the back of my sock drawer. As of yet I can’t bring myself to take the next step, not after Gail expressed in no uncertain terms what I could do with it. That’s as far as her support goes. The night I showed her she packed up for her sister’s without saying when she’d return. Without a doubt, this isn’t the type of news a spouse digests overnight. My secret life, it was plain to her, wasn’t something she’d signed on for. In a sense, she added, it was a blessing we never had children of our own. Imagine life for them with half siblings popping out of the woodwork.
“Together we’ll decide on a course of treatment,” my doctor said as additional test results came in. “The odds are favorable with new protocols but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put your affairs in order. Too many men think they’re going to live forever and find out they’re wrong.”
I left his office determined to act. But it’s been a month now and what have I done? I’m still one of those guys who weighs possibilities as he tries to fall asleep at night, who spends too much time casting about for what’s missing in his life, who can’t seem to see the forest for the trees.
.
