Fathers, Brothers, and Sons

But if one or both of the girls was mine, what then? What if Travis was my brother's son? What if Alli had been raped and was too embarassed to tell me? Would I believe that? How could I trust anything she told me? How could I trust almost anything at all?

I sat there at my kitchen table, skipping breakfast and lunch, until it was time to pick the younger kids up from school. All I could do was obsess. I had come to no conclusions, unintentionally added about a dozen possible names to my list, and only made myself unhappier. Fuck! I wanted to strangle her.

Once the kids were home, it got easier. There was someone else that needed me to keep it together then. Three of them, actually. I wasn't the best actor, but I relied on my affection for the kids. My love for them. Depending on how things ended up, they might be about to have the worst time of their young lives, and if I could soften the blow for them, I would

I made spaghetti. My cooking repertoire is fairly limited, but I liked cooking Italian. The kids always loved my spaghetti. After dinner, I made sure to spend extra time with them, even Travis. Especially Travis.

I felt so bad for him, maybe even worse than I felt for me. It wasn't his fault, but he was right at the center of a storm that might destroy his family, and I knew how sensitive he could be. He'd blame himself for it, no matter what happened. He was just that kind of kid.

It was one of the things I was proudest of about him, that sense of personal responsibility, even if he did take it too far at times. He might be impulsive, but he always faced the consequences, even sometimes when they weren't really his fault. God, what was coming would crush him.

As we spent time together, I looked at my son... stepson, really looked at him, in ways I hadn't for a while. When someone's close to you for so long, your brain starts to skip over little details about them: their personality quirks, their tics, the little physical aspects that start to blend into the background.

It's easy to keep assumptions and impressions, to not question them because they've been with you for so long. But as I looked at Travis then, I saw more and more the ways we differed. I always thought that he had my chin and nose; maybe a little rounder, maybe not quite as defined, but that could have been down to his youth or his mother's influence.

But now, I knew that I had no influence there at all. I could see how my belief that he was my son had made me miss the subtle differences in our features. The girls shared my chin and nose, and they were very clearly mine. But his? No. I realized for the first time that even a blending of his mother's features and mine wouldn't account for the differences.

There were tics I didn't recognize, too, ones not from me or from Alli: the way one corner of his mouth quirked up more than the other when he smiled; an almost OCD-like need to do things evenly, in twos or fours or eights; his laugh, so different from ours. How much was nature? How much was nurture?

And why did some of it seem so familiar? Who did I know from the past that acted like this, that smiled like this, that laughed like this? Anyone? Or was I just driving myself mad trying to find clues that didn't exist to solve a mystery I had no chance of figuring out?

The next morning, we went to the lab. I made up a bullshit excuse-- a specialist doctor's visit-- but none of them really bought it. Julie and Megan just rolled with it, because, hey: morning off from school. But Travis definitely suspected something was up. He knew that I'd been acting differently since his accident, and while he dropped it when I told him it was just to do some followup testing-- something to make sure that all of us were safe from an anomaly found during his blood test-- I could tell he didn't really buy it.

After dropping them at school, I used the rest of the day to do chores and yardwork. I didn't need to think too hard about the work, but I could also use the exertion and the minimally necessary attention to detail to distract myself. It was certainly better than nothing. Then it was time to pick the kids up again. Time to perform my pantomime. Time to toss and turn in my bed, wondering how many more days I'd be sleeping in it.

The test answered several questions. The first, and most important one, was that Julie and Megan were mine. That was a mixed blessing; almost entirely a positive, of course, but it meant that one of the easier routes was closed off to me, the one where I washed my hands entirely of their mother and our family. That simple scenario, dark though it may have been, appealed to me in the late hours where I wanted for this to all just go away. But I'll admit that I wept openly knowing that something in my life and marriage had been real.

The next was, honestly, a real surprise. My brother had been the frontrunner as Travis's father in my mind; the way he'd acted before he left, how he used to steal girls from me, his anger when Allison picked me over him, and just that he was generally an asshole all pointed to him. But he wasn't Travis's father, nor was one of my cousins or any other member of my family. Another source of easy relief taken from me; if it had been him, I would have had so many questions answered. But instead, I was almost back at square one.

Tate was able to help me a little bit more, though. He had access to various genealogy and consumer-grade DNA databases; I didn't ask how, and he didn't say. We were able to strike a few people who were already in these: Robert Jenkins, Allison's co-worker from that time; Alan Taylor, one of our creepy "friends" from our younger days; and Dr. Eric Bates, her brother's oncologist.

That still left a lot of people, and finding out the girls were mine didn't actually rule a longer-term affair out, either. Travis could have been an oops that she learned from, or she could simply have not cared who fathered each child, as long as I didn't find out. Or maybe she didn't even really worry about that. Maybe she just believed that I was trusting enough to never catch her. To be fair, she would have almost been right.

That was the most maddening thing, even more than the infidelity itself: I simply had no basis for what was real and true anymore. I believed that Allison loved me-- she certainly acted like it-- but I had thought that before my fateful discovery as well. Clearly, for at least a little while there, she hadn't loved me enough to stay faithful. It had been a hard time for both of us, I know; but did that even begin to excuse it? I sure as hell didn't feel like it did.

And she hadn't been loving enough to fess up, either. She had to have known; once I started looking, it became obvious that Travis wasn't mine. Did Alli lie because she didn't love me, and she wanted to keep her happy life while she continued to cheat? Or did she lie because she did love me, wanting me to keep my happy life, to not lose it because of a one-time indiscretion that produced lifelong consequences? I just didn't know.

There was nothing that could be taken for granted anymore; she had lied to me for at least sixteen years, since the day that Travis was conceived. That meant that any "knowledge" that I had of who my wife was simply wasn't knowledge at all. It never had been. It had only ever been belief that Alli was who she told me she was.

Maybe that's true for everyone, but I wanted to believe that I really knew who she was, that she was open and honest with me about everything that really mattered. I had been with her, and now that I knew that honesty hadn't been reciprocated, the possibility that she might have lied to me about any and everything was slowly driving me mad.

My behavior became even more obsessive as the week wore on and as answers stubbornly refused to present themselves. I looked in her email accounts; we'd shared our passwords with each other for years. Nothing. My job made me far more knowledgeable about computers than Alli, so I scoured our shared home computer for any sign of hidden files, apps, folders, or strange activity. Nothing.

Our bank accounts fell under my scrutiny next as I looked for any strange transactions or cash withdrawals. Nothing. I checked her cell phone records. Nothing. The house was searched from top to bottom during the week that I awaited my wife's return, looking for even the most circumstantial evidence of a separate life hidden from me. Nothing.

When she called during the week, I did my best to quickly hand off the phone to one of the kids. I don't think Allison suspected anything; she didn't know that I knew, so why would she? There was always something to do at home, and she'd praised me in the past for how hard I worked at keeping all of the balls in the air when she wasn't there. Alli always bragged about what a great dad I was. When I thought about that after the revelation about my son... stepson, I wanted to throw everything she owned in a wood chipper. 'What a useful little cuck he is.' Is that what she was really saying?

Even our past was in question, all the way back to the first time we met. Why did she pick me? "Because you're you." It had always seemed so sweet and sincere when I'd thought about it before. Now, it carried sinister undertones. 'Because you're such a sucker.' Everything she had ever done, every little glance and gesture, every phrase that could even slightly be open to interpretation, every time we'd shared anything, it was all suspect.

I was getting paranoid; no, I was paranoid. I knew that, but I couldn't see any way out. My job-- my life!-- had been based around my ability to examine a problem and come to useful solutions quickly and accurately. Puzzles, mysteries, games, I loved all of them. I was great at them. And it didn't matter a goddamned bit. This was a problem that couldn't be solved. A puzzle missing too many pieces. A mystery with too many suspects and not enough clues.

A game that could have no real winners, but which could see me lose almost everything.

"A game." I was talking to myself again; I had been, off and on, all week. With no one other than Tate to confide in, and not wanting to monopolize his time, rubberducking was all I had.

"I'm trying to 'beat' Alli, so why not think about it like a game?" She'd be home in a couple of days, and I was only the tiniest bit closer to the truth. I had eliminated a few names from the possible list of Travis's father, but that wasn't enough. The information was going to have to come from my wife, but any she gave me was going to be suspect; Allison had been lying for the better part of two decades, so clearly she could hide the truth from me.

"How do you beat an opponent that's more skilled than you?" I ruminated on that one for a bit. "You make it so that they're at a handicap. Take away any advantages. Get in their head. Blindside them. Get them on the back foot and keep them there." Possibilities began to reveal themselves in my mind. "Thanks, me. You've been a great help."

Two days later, I greeted Allison at the door, a broad grin on my face. "Hey, beautiful. How was your trip?"

She kissed me lovingly; thankfully, I'd had forty-eight hours to steel myself for it. "Oh, it was a bear. The clients were..." She shook her head, then sniffed the air and smiled. "Did you make dinner?"

"Lasagna."

"Ooooh my god, you're the best." Alli looked around as if something was wrong, then realized what was off: it was too quiet. "Where are the kids?"

Taking her arm in mine, I led my wife to the dinner table, where I had laid out everything necessary for an intimate candlelit dinner. "Off at Mom and Dad's." As she sat, I pushed in her chair. "I thought we could use a weekend to reconnect. We've both been so busy lately, you know?"

Alli's expression was the very definition of 'gratitude.' "Oh, Luke, really? That's... God, I love you."

I raised my glass in toast. "To the most wonderful, loving, loyal wife in the world. I'm so lucky to have you."

"Mmm, I plan to show you how lucky you are later, mister." I didn't shudder. Barely.

Dinner was pleasant, and I did what I could to draw it out. I gave her a little too much wine, more than she would have normally drunk. Only a single glass for me, which I sipped slowly throughout the meal, alternating with water. The meal was one of her favorites, as was dessert. There was light, surface-level conversation: a little about our jobs, a little about the kids, just the everyday topics most couples discuss.

We talked about what she'd like to do with the rest of the weekend. That spurred more innuendo from her, but I simply smiled and deflected. Deep down, that hurt; I loved her, she was still so desirable, and I knew that the wonderful physical intimacy we'd had was likely in the past. But those thoughts inevitably led to the knowledge she'd been intimate with someone else, which kept me from melancholy and focused on my rage. Focused on the game.

When we finished, she started to help me clear the dishes, but I tutted, "Now, now, go have another glass of wine and relax on the couch. I'll join you there in just a moment."

Alli chuckled, more than a little tipsy, and said, "You know, we're married. You don't have to get me drunk if you want to have your way with me."

"Ah, but what if I want you completely at my mercy?" There was just the tiniest bit of acid in my voice, but she missed it. With a kiss on the cheek, my duplicitous spouse turned and wandered off to the couch.

Once the dishes were cleared, I stood at the kitchen sink, white knuckling the edge of the countertop. The next few minutes would determine the course of the rest of my life. I wouldn't get a second shot at this; Alli was too good at what she did, too good a salesperson before and too good a mediator now to give me a second shot at getting information she didn't want to give up. I had to get this right.

After taking a few deep breaths, I put a charming smile on my face and moved to the living room to join her on the couch. She lounged there, well fed and comfortably inebriated but not completely drunk, waiting for me. Allison was clearly fatigued from her trip, but also in a playful mood. "Hey, handsome. Wanna make out? I don't think anyone's gonna be home for a while."

"That is quite the tempting offer, sweetheart. Maybe later? I wanted to ask you something first."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows arched gently, a friendly, inquisitive expression on her face.

"Who is Travis's father?"

That friendly expression fractured, then froze. "What?"

I maintained the same gentle manner but put just the hint of an edge in my voice. "Travis's father. You know, the man you cheated on me with? The man whose child I've raised for fifteen years?"

Alli went as pale as a sheet. "Oh no. No, oh no, oh god, oh no!" She looked sick as she pushed her way off the couch and ran to the guest bathroom. I followed, only a few steps behind, and found her on her knees, throwing up in the toilet.

Standing in the doorway, I waited for her retching to stop. When it did, I said, "I'm still waiting for an answer."

She gasped, "Just give a minute to--"

"No! You've had sixteen fucking years to lie to me, and I'm not giving you a chance to think up yet another one now!"

Alli nodded, nausea barely held in check. "Okay. Okay." She stood up and turned towards me. "I'm sorry, Luke. I'm so sorry. I'll tell you everything. I promise."

Any pretense at friendliness was gone now, leaving only ice in my voice. "Your promises don't mean a damned thing to me now, Allison."

She was very visibly hurt. Too fucking bad. "Can I change? I've got vomit on my--"

"Then take your shirt off and rinse your mouth out! That's all the time you get. If you're in here for more than another minute, I'm walking out the door and telling Travis I'm not his father."

"No! Please, no!" She was terrified. There was a part of me that felt bad for that, the one had always comforted her when she needed it. Another felt some guilt at what I knew was an empty threat; how strange that I should be ashamed at this bit of trickery when she'd deceived me for so long. But the bulk of my feelings on the matter were a certain sadistic satisfaction: I'd suffered for a week, and now she could feel a fraction of the pain and fear I had.

"Hurry the fuck up. I'll be on the couch." I made a show of starting the timer on my phone before stalking off.

With seconds to spare, Alli was back in the living room, shamefaced and shirtless. The sight of my wife in only a bra and skirt made me feel an unexpected pang; she was such a beautiful woman, and a week before I would have already started stripping the rest of her clothes to reach the splendor concealed beneath. There was still an attraction, and I couldn't deny it; but the loathing and anger I felt prevented any biological reaction that gave away my still-felt lust for the woman I'd shared so much of my life with.

I sneered without meaning to at that thought; yes, I'd shared my life with her, but it hadn't been reciprocal, had it? Alli halted in mid-stride when she saw my expression, but I got myself under control. My wife-- my opponent-- took up a position on the far end of the couch from me. Then she sat silently before I snarled, "Well?"

After taking a deep breath, she began to speak. "Please, Luke. It was one time, it was a horrible choice at one of the worst times in my life-- our lives-- and I'm so ashamed of what I did. It's in the past, and--"

"No it isn't, goddamn you!" I exploded, the rage that had been bottled up during the week-- hidden from my children, hidden from our friends, hidden from her-- finally coming unstoppered and soaking her in venom. "It's something that's still happening, something that I'm going to have to deal with for the rest of my fucking life!"

"I realize--"

"NO, YOU FUCKING DON'T! Stop using your goddamned mediator voice on me! Stop trying to 'be reasonable' and 'find middle ground' and 'get me to see it from the other guy's point of view' and tell me who. You. FUCKED!"

Alli flinched away, afraid of me for the first time in our lives together. She should have been; it shames me to say this, but I was so enraged that even I was afraid I might hurt her. I took a long, shaky breath and hissed, "Who."

She looked at her hands for a moment, then back up at me; there were tears in her eyes. Her mouth opened, but no sound came at first, the lips opening and closing in mute pain. My wife closed her eyes and swallowed, then opened them again as glittering rivulets cascaded down her cheeks. "Jake."

Jake? Not-- no. "Jake who?"

Alli turned her face away, unable to meet my gaze. "Jake."

"Your brother?" ... Stepbrother.

When someone's close to you for so long, your brain starts to skip over little details about them.

I knew the story, of course. I learned it before I'd even met Alli, when Evan was gushing about his new best buddy on the football team during the Thanksgiving break of his freshman year. More details were filled in when I met Jake and then, later, when I met Alli: how Jake's mom had abandoned his dad when he was a child; how Alli's dad had died unexpectedly; how their parents fell in love with each other; how, only a year into their marriage, they were killed in a car accident; how, even though Jake barely knew Alli, he still took her in as his ward, using his modest inheritance to make sure she would be taken care of and able to attend college.

Jake treated Alli better than her own blood relatives. He wasn't her stepbrother; he was her brother. That's how she always referred to him. That's how I always thought of him. But he wasn't, anymore than Travis was my son. That little "step" that I'd forgotten, the detail my brain had skipped over as unimportant background noise, had been the most important detail of all.