Ch 17: Do You Want to Know?

My sister's friend Marcia reveals the truth about my life

A few months after Marcia and I first met at her home and she asked me to purchase a headstone for my sister and her dear friend, Marlee, I visited Marcia again. This time I had something to give her, instead of the other way around. I pulled out two photographs from my jacket pocket: one showed Marlee’s headstone and the other, the stone for Marlee’s father, Bob, both marking their graves. I placed them on the table in front of her.  

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Marcia exclaimed. “Just what I imagined.” I thought I could detect a tear rolling down her cheek, but she wiped it away with one hand while she picked up the photo of Marlee’s headstone with the other. She pulled it to her chest and held it there, closed her eyes, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

I wasn’t sure if she was thanking me or God, but I stayed quiet while she took in this moment. It had been over three—almost four years—since she first learned that Marlee didn’t have a headstone and set out on a quest to get her one. In this moment, she realized that she’d accomplished her goal, her quest fulfilled.  

“Thank you,” she repeated, but this time she looked at me, and I knew she was grateful I’d taken this on and gotten it done. 

Me and Marcia

I’d kept the headstones simple, nothing fancy, flat granite stones with just their names, birth and death dates, and on Marlee’s, the words “Our beautiful daughter”, and on Bob’s, “Beloved husband and father.” But there’s power in simplicity, and I could feel it rising from these two spirits who’d lived, loved, and died long before their time. 

Although I still had many questions about them, with these headstones, their lives were no longer invisible, unmarked, unnamed. I felt good about that, like a long, unfinished chapter had finally been completed. At least couples strolling through the cemetery on a spring day, or a writer listening for stories in the words engraved on headstones, would see their names, would recognize they existed. 

Marcia and I sat in her cramped kitchen, almost as if in prayer when her husband passed through and excused himself to go work in the yard. At that, she stood up and invited me to move to the living room. 

“We’ll be more comfortable in there,” she said as she motioned toward the other room, “so we can talk some more.”

I swallowed hard. Was this the time, at last, to talk with her about my parents—to try to finish another chapter? I didn’t know if she knew anything. And if she did, whether she’d tell me what she knew. She was the only person alive who might. I could feel anxiety rising in me. If I heard the truth, would it unleash the feelings I’d kept so carefully controlled all these years? What would I do with the truth? How would it impact my life? I didn’t know the answers, but I decided I had to give her the opportunity. 

“I know our parents were good friends at one time,” I ventured, meaning her mom and dad and my mom and Bob. “But something must have happened to make them lose track of each other. I never knew what it was.” That was the best I could do. Not exactly a question. Would she pick it from there? 

Marcia looked at me as if she were trying to assess my stability. Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed, and she took a breath. “Do you want to know?” she asked, her voice soft, tentative.

For a split second, I tried to think of any scenario in which I might not want to know, but my mind betrayed me. It refused to think in full sentences. Instead, it filled with images. The haunting image of my sister Marlee, her small body encased in the iron lung that filled the living room of our family's home. I could almost hear the mechanical whoosh and sigh of the machine forcing air in and out of her lungs, could almost see the desperation etched on Marcia’s face as she kept vigil by her friend’s side. This image, though never witnessed firsthand, was seared into my mind, a ghostly specter of the pain endured by those who loved Marlee.

And other images flooded my mind: snapshots of Dad taking his pipe out of his mouth to wrap his arms around me and my brother when he greeted us at the Denver train station, my Aunt Babe appearing to cover up the source of my red hair to the clerk at the corner store, Mom almost crying that day she dug the photograph of Marlee on a horse out of her dresser drawer. I heard that Denver train whistle blow and could almost taste the rich, moist layers of Marquis Chocolate Cake, the velvety smooth chocolate frosting melting on my tongue, the cake I savored at Uncle Norm and Aunt Betty's restaurant—a cake that represented the warmth and love I felt in their presence so long ago. 

Before I stopped myself, I heard myself saying, “Yes, of course. Sure.” 

“Ok, then,” Marcia replied.

I steeled myself. This might be it. 

Marcia looked at me. She began softly, her speech significantly more measured than in our previous conversations. “When my father was dying, he was pretty lucid for a long time and spent the time reviewing his life. He told me he was sad about some things over the years but was especially sad about losing his friendship with your mom and Bob.” 

So, I was right, something had come between them. 

“When Marlee died,” she went on, “Bob became so depressed that he couldn’t function, and he and your mom separated for a while.”

I knew the first part; the second was news. They separated? I tried to imagine how bad it must have been for Mom to decide to leave. My ears started ringing, and I had to lean forward to hear her. 

“Your mother went to stay with her sister, your Aunt Babe.” Marcia paused as if letting me absorb what she’d already told me or prepare for what was coming next. “It was during that time,” she said, “that your mom got pregnant with Jarrett.” 

When Bob and Mom were separated? She became pregnant with Jarrett when they were separated? That means Jarrett is definitely not Bob’s son. I felt a chill and looked around to see where a cold draft might be coming from. Not finding the source, I rubbed my arms to warm myself. It didn’t work. Marcia continued. 

“Bob took her back because that’s what decent men did then.” Almost as an aside, she added, “But it didn’t last very long. Your mom decided to get a divorce.” 

At that point, Marcia paused. I assume to assess how I was receiving the information so far. Good call. I was close to hyperventilating but trying hard to appear calm.  

Mom was planning to get a divorce? Processing the incongruity of that information about the devoted Catholic woman I knew made it hard to keep listening. It must have been bad. That was not something good Catholic women did in the 1950s and certainly not something my long-suffering mom would have done without a significant motive. Had Bob, in his grief, become violent? Had he mistreated her in some way? Did he blame her for Marlee’s death? So much to think about. 

Marcia’s husband chose this moment to come into the house from outside. “Getting pretty dark out there,” he said, as he passed through the living room and into the back of the house. 

“Glad you came in then, Neil,” she shouted toward him, even though he was now out of view. 

This brief interruption gave me time to brace for what was coming next. I gripped the arm of the sofa, sat up a little straighter, and pushed my shoulders back. 

Marcia continued. “Your mom went to stay with Babe, again,” and, without pausing, added, “and again found herself pregnant.”

That’s the way Marcia said it, “found herself pregnant” as if Mom were the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit had descended upon her. 

I was that child. 

Marcia didn’t give me much time to absorb this revelation before telling me that Bob took Mom back a second time, and that they had only been back together a couple of months when he suffered his fatal heart attack. He was standing in the Sunday buffet line at the restaurant Uncle Norm and Aunt Betty owned (yes, the same Uncle Norm who would later adopt my brother and me) when he collapsed. He died before the ambulance came. 

Marcia hesitated before going on. She looked me in the eye and grabbed my hand to hold it in hers, as if she were about to tell me someone had died. When she could see she had my attention, she continued. “Norman is your real father, you know.” 

The room fell silent as the words on my adoption decree flashed before my eyes: “The petitioner (Norman W. Marquis) has good moral character… that the best interests of said child will be served by said adoption... that Robert Leo Smith, the natural father of said child is deceased.” I’d read it so many times I could almost recite the whole thing. It was all a lie! 

“Oh yeah, I know.” My voice sounded loud, like we were in an echo chamber. I said it in the same nonchalant way I used to say my red hair came from my father. I said it as if I had always known. I said it as if it was no big deal. I said it as if it was confirmation of something I’d been told before instead of an answer to a question that I’d harbored since I was a child, since that day in the store with Aunt Babe (See Chapter 5: Pardon).

I did know—deep down inside I knew—but hearing her tell me the story, hearing her say the words etched them on my heart in a way I’d not experienced before, made them permanent like the words on Marlee’s and Bob’s headstones.

I folded my arms in front of me and squeezed, but I couldn’t protect myself from the pain. I should be relieved that I finally had my suspicions confirmed. But the relief didn’t come. And still, I did what my mother had taught me so well—I showed no emotion. I didn’t let on how her story had affected me. Even with this secret blown open, I would keep my feelings locked away in a closet not unlike the one I’d broken free of so many years before. 

“My father,” Marcia said, “couldn’t forgive your mother for having children outside of her marriage. It went against everything he believed in. But when he was dying, he regretted cutting her off. He wished he could have stayed in her life, that he would have allowed me to stay in her life. He felt bad that he left her alone to grieve Bob’s death.” 

I don’t remember how I responded to this revelation, except to say that I was sorry they’d lost touch. 

When I left Marcia’s house, I thanked her for telling me the truth and for being there for Marlee. I left the photographs of the two headstones—marking the lives of two people whose untimely deaths set off a complicated chain of events I was only beginning to grapple with. 

The next day, I couldn’t remember how I got home from Marcia’s house, the route I took, the traffic I encountered. Everything from the evening blurred like a film out of focus. Except, that is, for the apprehensive look on Marcia’s face—her brow furrowed, forehead creased, and eyes filled with compassion and concern—when she said the words, “Norman is your real father, you know.” I’m sure she didn’t know what to expect when she revealed this news: what I knew, what I didn’t, and how I might react. 

For the next few days, I wandered around the house, unable to concentrate, willing myself not to feel—and failing. Like a call and response at a Southern revival, Marcia’s assertion reverberated in my head, “Norman is your real father, you know,” and Mom’s invitation from so long ago, echoed in response, “You can call him Dad.”  

Norman is your real father, you know. You can call him Dad.  

Norman is your real father, you know. You can call him Dad.  

I ruminated on the questions I’d carried for so long: why did Mom and Bob wait sixteen years after Marlee’s birth to have another child? Why were Jarrett and I born so close together (21 months) after that gap? Why did Dad make Mom sever all her ties with her past? Where did my red hair come from? 

Marcia’s story resolved all those questions. But even as the fog on the window to the past cleared, I didn’t want to look through it. 

For months after, I resisted letting the truth of Marcia’s words settle inside me. I knew if I did, if I accepted her father’s version of the story, I would have to accept that these two devout Catholics not only violated the Church’s teachings about divorce but had a multi-year affair that produced two illegitimate children—and I was one of them. I would have to acknowledge that my parents conspired to fabricate and maintain a complicated tale to protect my brother and me from knowing our spurious roots, safeguard their own reputations, and, most painfully, shield us from a truth they erroneously believed would harm us. 

My anger rose like a wall, keeping the truth at bay—a simmering fury about how their shame had erased the truth of my life. 

If I let that wall fall, I would have to accept that they allowed me to grieve for a dead father when my real one was right in front of me. 

All those years when Dad was still alive, and I knew him only as my godfather, my stepfather, and finally, my adopted father, felt stolen from me. The secret had destroyed the opportunity to love my dad as my own biological father. 

If I let that wall fall, I would have to admit how much of my life was a lie. 

---

Read Chapter 18, “Revisionist History?”

Ch 18: Revisionist History

If you recently subscribed, you can read previously published chapters of If You Only Knew by following links in this table of contents. If you ever fall behind, this is the easiest way to catch up.

Start Here: A Guide to "If You Only Knew"