The Three Marys

Life is weird. Yes, I know I’m preaching to the choir. How we start, the path of our journey, and where we end up, though, is often a fascinating study in human behavior. I’ve been given recent reason to ponder the issue of paternity and to reflect upon my own amazing story. Since this blog is my release and my therapy, I’m going to share.

A man named Gary was my biological father. At least that is what my birth certificate reflects. He is my older brother’s father, after all, and we shared the same last name of Lindsly. He and my mother were divorced, but he faithfully fulfilled his obligations to my brother by paying child support and taking advantage of visitation when able. I remember vividly watching out the door of our apartment when he pulled up to get my brother. I recall running up to him, wrapping my arms around his leg, and feeling him kick me aside without a word. I don’t share this for pity, rather, but to paint a picture of a girl who was told this was her father and that he didn’t want her.

It never made sense, but then again, I chose not to question it either. When, at the age of six, my maternal grandparents physically removed me from my mother’s home, my brother went to live with his father. With that one act, the course of my life was set. My future and my emotional health were guaranteed to be secure and blessed; not a day goes by that I do not thank God/Allah/Jesus/Buddha…..whatever name the ultimate spiritual power prefers……….for saving me and keeping Gary from claiming me as his own.

There were teenage years of confusion, when I could become angry and emotional, wondering “why he didn’t want me”. One time, in a fit of rage after hearing my brother rail on his treatment at the hands of his father, I tracked down Gary’s phone number in Wichita and called him. The conversation went something like this:

“This is Marlys. You may not claim me or take responsibility for me, but your son is hurting and needs you”, said this passionate 16 year old girl.

Gary’s response, I recall, went along these lines: “Um, yes, okay, well, thank you for the call. I’ll talk to him.“

I remember a number of throat clearings as well and I’ve never been hung up on so quickly in my life. I was panting, shaking, crying, and utterly terrified yet exhilarated at the same time. I felt, in my heart, that I had finally let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I KNEW he had shunned and denied me.

I will admit, in hindsight, to some emotional scarring but feel compelled , for the record, to state that I would’ve been a much bigger mess as a teenager and college student had it not been for the love and support of my Grandparents. My mantra has always been “I didn’t need him! Delbert was my real father!” It was if any admission of pain or humiliation would somehow be an indictment of the care provided by my grandparents. Never, in an eternity, would I have wanted them to think they hadn’t done enough or been enough for me.

My personal journey would lead to a strong marriage and two beautiful children. It was then, almost two decades after the above mentioned phone call, that it occurred to me I might want some more information on the man who provided my DNA. So began the questions. It didn’t take long to get answers and, I must say, I was quite taken aback at how quickly they came. Sitting at my Aunt Steph’s kitchen table, I brought up the issue in front of her, Aunt Debbie, Aunt Becky, and my Grandmother Mary Jean, who must have been appalled. I’m ashamed to admit that it never occurred to me my questions could hurt or embarrass her. I wanted answers, damnit, and I was going to get them. It does occur to me now, while writing this, that the details COULD hurt my mother. As such, I think I’ll be brief and simply say that by the end of the conversation I knew where my search needed to begin. With Ed and Mary Wentworth, whose son Ray was the number one suspect.

Ed and Mary, I discovered, were still living in the same home they had owned in 1969, the year I was born. I attended their church one Sunday in 2007, on the arm of my Grandfather Delbert, who had lovingly offered to go with me on this quest for answers. Our families had been friends, you see; my grandparents were active members of the First Baptist Church of Overland Park back in the 60’s and early 70’s. Ed and Mary were members of this church as well. I couldn’t have scripted it better. Ed and Mary were there that Sunday. They were thrilled to see their old friend Delbert. When he introduced us, I was overcome with impulse and while shaking Mary’s hand blurted out “I’ve been thinking about your family and wondered if I could call you some time.” Mary held my hand tightly, looked me straight in the eye, and said very calmly “I would love it if you called me. Here is my number!”.

My stomach was in knots. It took me until Thursday of the following week, and continued gentle but loving urging at the hands of a very special cousin named Sarah, to finally have the guts to pick up the phone and dial. I said “Hi Mary, this is Marlys. I’m not sure how to say this, but I have a feeling you might know why I’m calling.”. She replied quickly “Oh, I think I might have an idea”. I launched into a prepared speech, but was blown away when she said kindly, and with a smile in her voice, “we always thought you might be ours.” She offered to call Ray and ask him to submit to a blood test as confirmation. For those who know me well, I can say with my own smile, “the rest is history.”

There were a few more stories along the way, like a trip to the lab to submit blood for the DNA test. I had both of our kids with me. Marah was maybe six at the time and Brody was three. When the technician came into the waiting room, she looked at them and said “which child are we testing today?” I was apoplectic, practically yelling to the entire waiting room “it’s ME we are testing, uh hm, family secrets, you know?” The first time I spoke with my biological father was to ask him to please quit dragging his feet and get to the lab. He was easy to talk to and told me he didn’t think we needed a DNA test because he had always wondered as well. As an aside, I discovered during this first phone call that my father is a passionate WWII enthusiast. Can you say DNA?

Speaking of my father, you are probably thinking “what is the story there?” The story is simple: he was a freshman at KSU and my mother was in the middle of a divorce. 1969 was a time when out of wedlock pregnancies were still an embarrassment and she chose to protect Ray, their families, and her honor. He did what any normal 18 year old college boy would do: uttered a massive sigh of relief and went on with his life.

All of this brings me to today, roughly six years after discovering my true paternity. I have three new half siblings, all of whom are amazing and unique in their own right. I have a five year old nephew, eight cousins (all of whom I’ve met, with the exception of one), two aunts, and a grandmother and grandfather I’ve grown to love deeply.

Sometimes, these things don’t work out, which would indicate the connection I’ve made with my Grandmother Mary is an amazing one. The irony….or beauty, if you will….. of her name being the same as the grandmother who raised this child is not lost on me. It is my first name as well. In all honesty , however, there are still moments of doubt when it comes to where I fit in. You see, there are benefits and costs to every decision we make. The benefit, for me, was always Delbert and Mary Jean. The costs, well, those are harder to gauge. Gary Lindsly, whose name I legally carried for almost 27 years until I married and became a Shulda, is lacking as a man as far as I’m concerned. Was he my father? No. Did he treat an innocent little girl badly? Absolutely. My father Ray missed out on raising a daughter, but he, like my mother, didn’t always make the best decisions while raising his three kids. My sister Catherine has told me more than once that she really could’ve used an older sister and that it wasn’t easy for her and the other two, being raised in Houston after Ray and their mom divorced. There is also a little resentment by some members in the family, although every single one of them has been openly kind and accepting. Yes, I can feel and understand it; I sailed into the family late in life, embraced as a blessing, having already expunged my demons and having the benefit of age and wisdom. Ed has debilitating dementia and is bed-ridden now following hip surgery. He has never known me, nor I him, although I help provide the most rudimentary and personal care for him. It is the least I can do, having missed out on almost 40 years. It is also an amazing and touching opportunity to bond with Mary, whose name I share and whose personality I believe, in many ways, has helped me connect the dots of who I am. She is as passionate about her alma mater, KSU, as I am about my own (KU, which is, ironically, KSU's arch rival). We can talk for hours about college sports. She is also helping me purge some of the angry demons I carry with regard to religion and the Baptist church. Ed served in WWII in India and Burma and I am deeply saddened that he was already in the midst of this evil disease when we met, leaving me unable to interview him. Fortunately, one of my new cousins took advantage of his memory while it was still intact, and the stories are preserved. Another absolutely amazing thing about Mary are her Christmas letters, faithfully penned every year since 1960. There can be no better gift for a long lost grandchild than an annual recap of family events over the past fifty decades!!

None of us possesses a crystal ball. There was no way for my mother or Ray to know the consequences of their actions. It doesn’t matter, however. He wasn’t ready to be a father. She was confused and trying to do the best she could at the time. I needed Delbert and Mary Jean to be my parents, and I believe this with every fiber of my being. Now, when I’m in the best position possible to be there for Ed and for Mary, the circle of life has brought me into their fold. They have helped me as well, coming into my life shortly before Grandmother Mary Jean passed away. Her death would leave me broken, grieving, and desperate for comfort. Mary Wentworth, unknowingly, was able to seemlessy slide into the role of Grandmother, bringing me that very comfort.....worthy of Mary Jean herself. I’ve never been a believer that God “makes” things happen. That would infer that this powerful spirit has a chess board and manipulates the pieces. I believe life is simple. It’s made up of humans. And we are flawed. And we do the best we can, within our own capabilities at the time.

I guess my summary of the entire flow of events is pretty simple in the end. Sometimes, on occasion, life throws a wrench into our journey. Later, hopefully, the kinks work themselves out. I like to think of myself as a kink who has finally, after many years, begun to work itself out. Thanks to the help of two amazing, beautiful, and unique Marys.