Back in January, my brother and sister and I went on a roadtrip. During this road trip, my sister and my father did a DNA test . . . It’s a long story. You can read a bit more on it here.

The results are back . . . and . . . drumroll, please . . . my sister is my 100% sister! We got the same mamma and the same daddy. This is a story that’s been fifteen years in the making and it’s nice to finally know the ending of this particular chapter.

Nothing much has changed in my eyes as far as my relationship with my sister, but to know - within 99.8% probability that what we’ve always thought was true is like a deep breath of fresh air. And an invisible weight lifted that  we didn’t even know was sitting on us.

Here’s the lowdown. I’ll tell it like it is, so that everything is clear and there are no questions.

My mother has some serious brain trauma problems that stem from several sources. She had an accident as a child which initially delayed her development and within the past several decades has endured some documented spousal abuse from her second husband, which has resulted in at least two hematomas. I’ve thought alot about blogging about this kind of stuff, and whether I should or not and have finally come to the conclusion of - fuck it, pretending it doesn’t exist doesn’t help and besides, it’s kind of interesting, and sometimes heartbreaking, but sometimes really funny. My mother has certainly colored my outlook on life and I like what I’m doing so here it is . . .

My mother has three biological children - myself, my sister and my brother. Of the three of us, Tammy was given up for adoption. I met Tammy for the first time when I was 21 years old. She has never met our mother, only spoken to her one time on the phone.

Since I was very young, I’ve only seen my mother very sporadically. Her new husband often prevented contact, and my new step-mother was great, so it was easy to slip out of her life. As an adult, I’ve made effort to visit her once every few years. More than a few times I’ve been asked to leave by her husband. Once I knocked on her door and she answered, squinting at me and said in her shrill voice, “Yes!? Can I help you?” She didn’t know who I was. She couldn’t see into my eyes which look just like her own and recognize any familiarity.

Tammy and Jimmy and I pull into the town of Champaign-Urbana around midnight on a cold sleepy Thursday night. Tammy says, “You know, now that I am here, I just want to knock on her door. See what she looks like. It will be sort of like looking into the future genetically, since I know I look like her. I don’t want her to know who I am, though.”

I’m actually stunned and pleasantly surprised and nervous all at the same time. I decided last year after a couple of years of moderately heavy involvement with trying to get some help for my mother, that I just couldn’t handle the pressure and the drama. I had no more morbid desire to see her, spend awkward never-ending moments of silence in her house. About five minutes is more than anyone can bear. I’ve actually taken friends with me to visit in the past, just so I have a witness that I’m not crazy. They would whole-heartedly agree, five minutes and you are like an animal ready to gnaw your own hand off to get out of the trap that is their house. For the record, I love her and will do whatever I can to help her, but as long as she chooses to live with someone who won’t allow communication between her and her family, there’s not a lot any of us can do. And I am done beating my head (pun intended) against that wall.

I’d made it clear to both Jimmy and Tammy before we began this journey that there would be absolutely no pressure from me to go a-knockin’ on our mother’s door when we arrived in town. Now, here Tammy is suggesting it and that makes me really happy. Her suggestion of not identifying herself made me even happier. Jimmy chimes in, “Hey, I can go with you while you knock on the door, ’cause hell, she don’t know who I am either!”

We devise a plan. We are all stealth and 007 about it. First, we recon the neighborhood, driving around several times. It’s cold outside, about 18 degrees and bright. We are surprised to see that their Grand Marquis sits in the end of the driveway, near the front door. The Grand Marquis is her husband’s baby and is always in the garage.

Jimmy is “Steven” and Tammy “Jennifer” and their last name is something also made up and they are going to wear sunglasses and knock on the door and (hopefully) when our mother answers, Tammy/Jennifer will say, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was the Johnson residence.” And hopefully there’ll be that zinging moment of “holy shit!” when Tammy’s hidden eyes look deeply into the eyes of a stranger who she will recognize as someone who looks like and moves just like her. Tammy never knew anyone growing up who had her particular smile. Our mother does.

Tammy practices introducing herself with her new name but is having problems saying it properly, so she changes fake names again. I agree to stay in the rental car and take pictures from my hiding place in the backseat, since our mother would most likely recognize me. Tammy covers her piercing blue eyes with reflective sunglasses. “I have to go now or I never will,” she says, and opens her door. Jimmy flips his shades down and wordlessly slips out of the driver’s seat. He’s handsome these days, but a bit intimidating with his shaved head and goatee. Thirty-one years old or not, he’ll always be my little brother.

“Godspeed,” I say, and they walk down the sidewalk. I know we are all taking long slow deep breaths. I start snapping pictures.

They walk up to the door of the screened in porch enclosure. Tammy knocks on the door with alot of force. They stand there for what seems like an eternity. She knocks again. She opens the porch enclosure to knock on the inner front door for several minutes. No answer.

They said the TV was blaring. I confirmed that this is a normal phenomenon. Last time I was there, his 6′ 5″ frame filled up the La-Z-boy and she was crunched into her little living room chair that makes her 4′ 10″ body appear like a doll. They were watching Bonanza, the TV volume cranked as loud as it would go. In an effort to maintain their ruse at the front door, my brother pointed to the name on mailbox while they were standing there shivering, hearts pounding in their throats. He said to my sister in a loud voice for the benefit of anyone who may be secretly listening, “Hey honey, the mailbox doesn’t say ‘Johnson’ . . .”

Eventually they came back to the car. I think we were all better off that for whatever reason, no one answered the door that day.

Wow, I don’t know where to begin. The past few days have been wonderful and funny; strange and sentimental. The past five days flew by, yet there were often slow moments of awkwardness, where time seems to stop. I never spent one second completely alone, and that for me was strange. I suppose I could have gotten up early in the mornings and take a walk, for we were certainly in some gorgeous rolling countryside - but the mornings were 8 degrees!

I have some restaurant reviews to post. Boy, did we eat! I’m going to have to do a week-long cleanse to counteract the BBQ, Waffle House, and all the other hearty foods. And the best pizza ever in the history of the world just happens to have originated in my hometown. My sister nearly had a meltdown at midnight because we couldn’t find a Dunkin’ Donuts, after we’d promised her that the chain does indeed exist in Champaign-Urbana. I’m going to tell you about the freakiest lil diner in Owensboro.

We were on the road alot, driving in a circle from Nashville to Owenboro to Champaign-Urbana Illinois and then back to Owensboro and then back to Nashville. We told lots of stories and laughs. No one fell asleep or listened to music; we chatted the whole time and definitely made some memories. We grabbed granny from the retirement center and helped her run her errands. Namely we dropped her off at Gene’s Clip N’ Curl, where she gets her bi-weekly hairdo. The woman, bless her heart, hasn’t washed her own hair in 30 years. Then my sister had an idea - to knock on our mother’s door. I hid in the car and took pictures. More on alla that later, this is just a wrap-up.

Owensboro, where my Dad and stepmother live, is comforting and homey and I can see why they like it. I often say I come from gypsy-stock and it’s true. Seeing Mom and Dad in Owensboro was like a breath of fresh air. They live in a really nice campground snug in a little travel trailer and the five of us and their two dogs fit comfortably during our afternoon visits with no problems! Everyone told funny stories and laughed alot.

I got my brother and sister really drunk on our last night together. It ended with Jimmy passed out on the couch in our hotel room, Tammy and I drawing obscenities on our brother’s face with liquid eyeliner. The next day was a little rough for all of us, but we gave hugs and said good-bye’s. Then I bounded off for a chance for an afternoon with girlfriends in Nashville who I’ve not seen in three years!

All in all . . . great trip . . . more posts related to it to come.

We three sibs kick our great American road trip off with a Wednesday evening dinner and an American Idol viewing at Bailey’s restaurant on the Broadway strip in Nashville. We ask our waitress to take our picture together and she asks where we’re from and what we’re doing on our vacation. After explaining that this is the only the second time we’ve ever spent time together and that our story is ‘complicated,’ our waitress shrugs and says, “Oh yeah, I understand that. My momma was basically a crack-whore and I was born in a Texas commune and I’ve officially got five daddies and thirty-two siblings. And I stay in touch with most of them, too.”

“Wow, that’s really got to cut in to your social time.” I reply.

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The hotel in Nashville leaves much to be desired, mostly cleanliness. The couch was covered with mystery stains. So, we make our brother sleep on it and we girls take the beds. I sleep fairly well and upon awaking, I stretch and yawn under the covers and when I pull my hands up from underneath the covers, there is a . . . . grimy sock . . . in my hand and I’m still kind of shaking the cobwebs out of my early morning mind and I’m confused because I don’t have any socks like this . . . and that’s when I realize that this isn’t my sock. Ahhhhhh! Yuck! Eeeeew!

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Yesterday morning we leave Nashville, after eating breakfast at Waffle House, of course. I love Lib’s Patty Melt. I scored some paper Waffle House hats, but have refrained from using them thus far. We head off for Kentucky – The Bluegrass State, where our Dad and stepmother live. None of us have ever been to their house, so we call Dad for directions. This may sound like a simple procedure, but oh no. It takes all three of us to navigate. Tammy keeps muttering, “I knew I should have brought the GPS.” Jimmy is on the phone with our Dad and it’s my job to write the directions down. I kid you not; here are the important parts of the route. I still don’t know how we found it. “Look for the DQ after the country school. There’ll be two lakes, an iron fence. At the T, take a right. Look for the camouflage golf cart and the dragon in the ivy. Park by the pimp van.” I’m here to tell you, there is no DQ in the country outside of Owensboro, but there is a tavern we’ll be checking out later.

I’m heading off toward the Heartland!

And when I get off the plane in Nashville, Tennessee tomorrow afternoon, both my brother and my sister will be there to greet me. And it will only be the second time ever in our lives that the three of us have all been together! We will stay in Nashville one day only, then drive to Illinois to visit our 90-year-old grandma and then we’ll circle around and visit our dad and step-mother in Kentucky.

Why the second time ever we’ve all been together? Well, it’s complicated, to say the least, and when I think about the particulars, I think, “Wow, how cool is it that we can all do this?” I met my sister for the first time when I was 21 years old. My parents were unmarried and gave her up for adoption before my brother and I were born. She’s only a couple of years older than me. Over the years, we’ve stayed in touch and became friends . . . and, well . . . sisters. My brother has lived in Texas for years and doesn’t surface from his Lone Star state too often. So this is a momentous occasion!