Chapter 21 (My Story)

“EUGENE?”

My mouth dropped open. Mrs. Sinclair had opened the door, looked me straight in the eye, and said my father’s name. She was a lovely older woman and didn’t look like she was in her seventies. Of course, neither did Mom. I’m a lousy judge.

Mary Sinclair was about five-six and impeccably dressed. Her makeup and hair were subtle but elegant. She appeared to be quite concerned about appearing proper, down to the low heels she wore. I guessed that if she invited college women on campus to stop by anytime, she must have to look proper for them. I don’t know why I made that kind of assumption.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Um ... Nathaniel. I ... This was probably a bad idea. Please forgive my intrusion. I’ll leave.”

“Why? You’re Eugene’s son, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I am.”

“Is he gone? Is that what you’ve come to tell me? First Howard and then Eugene. It’s a sad year.”

“I’m ... No, ma’am. He’s still alive and reasonably well for his age. You know, just normal things. I don’t ... I’m working on our family history, and I don’t know anything about my father before he met my mother. When I found out he’d been married, I thought I should look you up and see if I ... have any siblings,” I said, feeling like a teenager stumbling in front of a great lady. She smiled.

“Come in. Nathaniel, was it? Come in and let’s have tea. I’m afraid I’ve finished lunch, but I have cookies the girls baked the last time they were here.”

I didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t seem to have any animosity toward my dad. I just followed her into her apartment and sat where she indicated. Her home was obviously prepared to entertain a chat group. The furniture was arranged so people could comfortably talk over the book they’d read, or the plight of orphans in Africa, or something.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she said, going into the kitchen.

“Please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Nathaniel. We have instant hot water in our kitchen and I’m afraid I make tea with bags, not a fancy loose leaf basket. Now, here.”

She came into the sitting area with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies on a tray that looked like she always had it ready.

“Now, please. Tell me everything. I’ve always wondered what became of Eugene and have kept him in my prayers all these years,” she said.

“Well, he married Lynn Dorsey in Flint. They live in Ann Arbor now. I’m their oldest child, born in March of 1981. My sister Megan is three years younger and is a research scientist in North Carolina. I’m married to Brenda and we have two children, sixteen and eighteen.”

“And why do you think you might have another sibling?”

“Meg, my sister, specializes in DNA research. She’s really quite brilliant. She recently discovered my ... an associate had a close link to our family, suggesting my father might be her grandfather. I’ve been doing the footwork to try and track down her family,” I said.

I don’t know why I felt so free telling all my family details to Mary Sinclair. She was incredibly easy to talk to. The room simply seemed made to put people at ease so conversations could occur. I bet Mary Sinclair listened to many a college student unburden her soul in this room.

“Oh, my. And this associate is quite close to you, I see. I’m afraid this may be a disappointing trip for you. Jeremy is my first child, and his children are about the same ages as yours. He was born three years after Eugene and I divorced. That was almost a scandal in itself as I remarried soon after we parted. My daughter is two years younger than Jeremy, so definitely not possible to be your sister.”

“What happened?” I blurted out. “I only found out recently that Dad had been a minister. What happened? Why did you divorce him?”

“Your father should have answered that question long ago. But Eugene was not in a stable mental state at the time. God help him. I hope he is better now. He was ridden with guilt and failure. Looking at him made me think he might also be seriously ill, but he wouldn’t talk about it.

“I didn’t divorce him. He divorced me. I wanted to work things out. I considered it my own failure. Why else would a man so dedicated to God and his church take a teenage mistress?

“I knew he would have to leave the ministry, at least in this church, but we could still make a life serving God. But when he came home from being expelled by the trustees, he silently packed everything he could fit in his little car and left. Just two weeks later, I was served with divorce papers.”

“It seems so unlike Dad,” I said, more to my teacup than to Mary. I looked up and saw a tear forming in her left eye. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you pain.”

“I’ve been waiting over forty years to feel this,” she said. “We never displayed our affection for each other in public. It wasn’t proper. We certainly were intimate at home, but it was almost like a business partnership rather than a marriage. Nathaniel, I truly hoped I would bear you.”

I didn’t know what to say next.

Mary seemed unwilling to let the conversation end. She offered me another cup of tea and encouraged me to take another cookie from the plate ‘her girls’ made. Perhaps she was using this opportunity with a relative stranger to release the pain she felt from having her husband pass away so recently. She seemed like a warm and caring person.

“There is something else I should give you,” she said. She left the room as soon as she’d delivered the fresh tea and returned a few minutes later with a banker’s box that was taped shut with several layers of tape. “These are things of your father’s.”