Family Secret - 1. Chapter 1

The gray eyes of the boy in the photo were narrowed, staring sideways at me with the classic MacGregor stink eye. I imagined him glaring at the photographer, wondering why this stranger kept telling him to smile. He was having none of it. Despite appearing to be around four-years-old, I recognized those eyes as those of the blond-haired, blue-eyed man I’d seen periodically throughout my life. My heart pounded as I stared back, somehow sure the boy could feel my bewilderment. The black and white picture trembled as if there was a brisk breeze in my mom’s kitchen, even though the windows were closed, and it was winter. I shivered as a chill ran through me. How was it possible to have an instant connection with a photograph? My mom set a cup of tea and plate of cookies in front of me. “Who is this?” I asked, holding out the picture.

Her face paled, and she looked as though I’d struck her. “Where did you find that?” She grabbed the photo out of my hand.

I frowned. This was not typical behavior of my easy-going mom. “It was in that box of photos from Great Aunt Trudy’s house.”

She let her breath out in a huff. “You should have let me go through them first.”

I raised an eyebrow and wondered how far I should push this. There were questions here I couldn’t begin to formulate, and it seemed I wasn’t likely to get any answers. At least not from my mom.

She put the photo back into the box, placed the lid firmly on it, and then put the box next to the basement stairs. “Can you check the sink upstairs for me? It’s been running really slow lately.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll do that now.” I headed upstairs, ignoring the tea and cookies. I found a sink running perfectly fine. I pretended to fiddle around with it while trying to push thoughts of the chubby boy and how he related to the blond-haired, blue-eyed man out of my head. It didn’t work.

I think I was about eight years old when I first encountered him. The flu had hit me hard, and I woke out of a deep sleep to see the man standing in my room, looking at me with a half-smile on his face. He appeared hazy and looked almost angelic to me. I felt a profound sense of peace, and I wasn’t afraid. I blinked, trying to clear my eyes, and he was gone. The whole encounter lasted all of one second.

My mom brought us to church every week, and I’d attended Sunday school for as long as I could remember. My first thought was that the man was Jesus, although I had no idea why he’d visit me, of all people. As time progressed, I dismissed the encounter as a fever-dream, and something born of my imagination.

“Markus! Dinner’s ready!”

I jumped at the intrusion of my mom’s voice. Dinner. I patted my stomach, ready for spaghetti and my mom’s famous meatballs.

“Do you have any of that soda I like?” I asked, sticking my head in the fridge.

“In the basement, dear.” She stirred the spaghetti sauce and tasted it, then added more seasoning.

I jogged down the stairs and grabbed a couple of cans of Sprite out of the basement fridge. As I headed back toward the stairs, the box of photos caught my eye. It was sitting on the corner of an old desk that used to belong to my father. I eyed the stairs, then the box again. Opening the box felt like a betrayal. I was a ten-year-old boy again, sneaking into the basement with my sister to snoop for Christmas presents. I bit my lower lip and looked around, convinced that at any moment my mom would descend the basement stairs like a whirlwind and catch me. The photo sat right on top of the others, facedown. Someone had written Phineas, September 1939 in scrawling cursive. I turned it over, and the boy stared at me with those familiar gray eyes. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and snapped a quick picture of both sides, then carefully replaced it as I had found it, closed the box, and ran back up the stairs.

I lay on my back on the couch later that night, the only illumination from my phone and the flickering TV. The phone sat on my stomach, open to the pic of Phineas. Curious that it was found in a box labeled “Family Photos”. Although maybe not so curious given the striking resemblance to my grandpa. Phineas had the same almond-shaped eyes and dimples in his cheeks that many on the MacGregor side of the family bore.

My Great Aunt Trudy was a notorious collector of things. While not quite hoarder level, her house consisted of organized piles of papers, boxes, and shelves of trinkets for as long as I could remember. We visited her regularly as kids and eagerly looked forward to seeing her. She lived in the country, so we could run about the yard with abandon and explore the garage and other places without supervision.

Aunt Trudy always had a pot of tea and some sort of treat for us, and we couldn’t leave without taking something home, whether it was a trinket from her collection or something she had picked up at a tag sale because she knew we liked it.

I’ve loved horses for as long as I can remember, and anytime she found something with a horse on it, she bought it and gave it to me. Books, figurines, and even a blanket I still use thirty years later. She was also the family communicator. Everyone wrote her letters, and she never failed to write back. She also kept all of that correspondence, organizing them in boxes by sender.

Her passing last month was hard to take. Our family lost an essential piece of it, and that hole would not be filled by anyone else. My mom and my aunt and uncle had the task of clearing out the house so it could be sold. That’s how my mom came to be in possession of the box of photos.

Great Aunt Trudy was my mom’s aunt. My grandfather’s sister. She married a stern man who didn’t want children, despite the fact that she did. When he died young, she never remarried and never had any children of her own. Her career as a nurse fulfilled her caregiver role, and she loved it when my sister and I visited.

My grandfather – Ezra - was the middle child in between his sister and two brothers – Uncle Harold and Uncle Charles. I never knew my Great Uncle Charles. He died of a heart attack when he was in his forties. Uncle Harold resided at a nursing home a couple of hours away, cantankerous as ever at 95-years-old. He was the oldest of the siblings. My grandpa Ezra died about ten years ago after a massive stroke. Maybe it was time to pay Uncle Harold a visit.

The second time I met the man with the blond hair, I was sixteen and spending the day at the barn. My love of horses wasn’t the fad my mom thought it was and eventually turned into my career. I’ve done a little bit of everything throughout the years. Now I train thoroughbred racehorses, but back then, the thrill of jumping was something I couldn’t get enough of. I was a good rider. Good enough that people paid me to exercise and show their horses.

That day, I was riding a five-year-old off the track thoroughbred. He was a young horse learning a new career that didn’t involve running at top speed. He had to learn a whole new set of cues from the rider, such as not balancing on the bit. Racehorses are taught to lean into the bit, which helps them run faster. Not a good thing for a jumper who needs more self-carriage with the front end. Anyway, we were heading toward a line of two jumps with five strides in between, when the horse’s head came up and he bolted for the fence. I stayed with him for the first one, and tried to turn him away from the second one, but he took off an entire stride too early, twisting in the air and then bucking on landing. Even the best rider in the world couldn’t stay on in that scenario.

I knew how to fall. You can’t ride young horses and not know that skill. I’d lost count of how many times I had hit the floor. From the trajectory and speed I was approaching the ground, I knew it wasn’t good. I was in for some serious injuries, and I braced for impact. Instead, I felt a gentle pressure on my side, almost like a hand pushing me, and my bearing changed. As I bounced off the ground, I caught a flash of blond hair. I knew I would be bruised, but okay.

The brick façade of the nursing home looked anything but inviting. I hated that Uncle Harold had to live here, but his needs were beyond what anyone in the family was capable of providing. A pang of guilt stabbed through me. It had been too long since my last visit. Life gets in the way of what we should do sometimes; which was a shitty excuse for losing out on the limited time we have with our loved ones. I exhaled sharply and exited the car.

“Ezra, you old nincompoop. It’s about time you came to see me!” Great Uncle Harold grinned as I entered the room.

“Hi Uncle Harold. I’m Markus, Ezra’s grandson. Amelia’s son.” I set a container of homemade peanut butter fudge on the hospital tray and sat in the chair next to the bed.

Harold frowned. “Amelia’s boy? You’re too old to be him. He’s just a wee lad.”

I smiled. “I grew up.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Well by George, you sure did. Spittin’ image of Ezra when he was your age.”

He recognized me, which gave me hope I might find some answers.

“Thanks.” I grabbed the container of fudge and opened it. “I made some peanut butter fudge. Remember when Sally and I were kids and stayed over? We helped you make this every time.”

He reached for a piece, eyes bright. “You two were such a joy.” He bit a small piece off and closed his eyes as he savored the flavor.

“Good memories. You also made the best pancakes. No one else gets the edges as crispy as you.” They practically melted in my mouth. I salivated just thinking about them.

Uncle Harold laughed. “The secret is frying them in a mess of Crisco.”

“I’ll have to try that next time I attempt to make them.” Did they even make Crisco anymore? Maybe I could find an alternative. I fiddled with my phone, wondering when, or even if, I should ask about Phineas. It seemed like Uncle Harold was having a good day. Based on my mom’s reaction to the photo, I didn’t want to ruin my uncle’s day.

“Son, you look like the cat that got the canary. What’s on your mind?”

Definitely a good day.

“I have something to show you,” I said, holding up the phone.

Harold’s eyes widened, and he brought his hand up to his mouth, gasping. His eyes welled with tears. “Phin… oh my baby brother… how I miss you.”

Brother? My hunch was right. There were five MacGregor siblings – not four as I’d been told my entire life. Questions swirled around in my head. Who, what, when, where, why? Where to even start asking?

Poor Uncle Harold’s face was bright red as the tears streamed down his face. “Ezra, why would you show me this? You know what Mom said. Phin… oh poor, poor Phin.”

“I’m Markus, Uncle Harold, not Ezra. What happened to Phin?”

My uncle was now sobbing. “How could you ask me that? What did I ever do to you to be so cruel?”

He was inconsolable. I felt horrible for doing this to him, and I apologized profusely to the nurses on my way out of the building.

I had learned two things on this gut-wrenching trip. I had an uncle I never knew about, and something terrible had happened to him. Maybe I should have listened to my mom and kept that box of photos shut. Clearly I had opened some deep, old wounds with my curiousity. Pandora’s Box kept coming to mind. What sort of chaos had I unwittingly unleashed? I had to remember what was at the bottom of Pandora’s Box.

Hope.

I hoped some good could come out of this shitstorm.

Uncle Harold was a big part of my childhood. Since Grandpa Ezra lived on the other side of the state, we didn’t get to see him or my grandma very often. Uncle Harold and Aunt Sheila became surrogate grandparents to my sister and me. We spent the night or even the occasional weekend at their house, watching TV shows like Carol Burnett and Friends and Hee Haw. In the morning, we made pancakes with Uncle Harold, and in the afternoon, we made homemade fudge. After dinner, we’d play Yahtzee or Boggle before laying on the floor to watch TV. It was paradise for two kids who adored their great aunt and uncle.

Harold and Sheila met at the company they both worked for. A year later, they married on Valentine’s Day. Uncle Harold adored my aunt. She wasn’t a very demonstrative person and had some mental health issues, but she loved him back in her own way. He was gutted when she passed away from cancer ten years ago. Her loss took a hard toll on him. His health declined to the point where he could no longer care for himself. The mental slide was the worst. It felt like a knife to the heart every time he failed to recognize me. While I wanted nothing more than to be able to care for him at his home, I wasn’t equipped to be the caretaker of someone with so many physical and mental issues. Knowing that truth didn’t make the pain go away, however.

I suspected I’d encountered the blond man on occasions I don’t remember, but the third instance that stands out to me happened when I was in my early twenties. I moved across the country to take an apprenticeship with a top racehorse trainer. The pay was a pittance, but the experience would be invaluable. The position came with an apartment over the barn. It had an outside entrance with rickety wooden stairs leading to a weathered door. The minute my foot touched the first step, I had a feeling of dread. It intensified as I approached the door. The barn manager opened the door to let me inside. By this time, I felt a decided chill, despite the hot weather. I stepped about five feet inside and stopped dead.

The room felt oppressing. Never one to mind tight spaces, I felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, like there was a hand around my neck. Something bad was going to happen if I stayed here; I knew it in my bones. I didn’t even question it at the time. It was a like a whisper in the back of my mind, and I listened. Not taking the apartment cost me the apprenticeship, and every time I asked myself if I was right to do so, the answer was an unequivocal yes. I couldn’t explain it, but something or someone had been looking out for me. It wasn’t until many years later that I connected this experience with the blond man with the blue eyes. While I hadn’t seen him, I firmly believed it was his voice warning me of the danger I would have faced had I taken the job.

Uncle Harold was declining rapidly. Nursing reported he was in an almost constant state of agitation. I tried visiting him, sickly aware of the limited time he had left, but the visits only made him worse. Nothing I said convinced him that I wasn’t his brother Ezra. I hated staying away, but it was better for my uncle if I did.

Food made me nauseous. I had to force myself to eat and drink, otherwise I knew I’d be in even worse shape. Taking care of basic needs became a huge chore, so much so that my boss even commented on it. I was disheveled and my work was poor quality. He made me take some time off to get my head screwed on straight. It was my fault my uncle was deteriorating, and that fact was eating me alive. If I hadn’t shown him that pic and reopened old wounds…. And I still had no answers as to what happened to little Uncle Phineas. I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.

Thoughts of my two uncles occupied my mind almost constantly. I made up my mind to confront my mom about what she knew, whether she liked it or not. Keeping this secret was harming Uncle Harold, my health, and my relationship with my mom. The truth needed to come out.

On my way to my weekly visit with my mom, I sat at a red light, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in time to the song on the radio. The light turned green, and the car ahead of me proceeded.

Wait

I hesitated, leaving several car lengths between us, then slowly accelerated.

Stop!

I saw movement in my peripheral vision and slammed on the brakes just in time to miss being T-boned by the car that blew through the red light at full speed. There were two men in the car, animatedly conversing and laughing. I could see the exact moment they realized they had ran the light and how close they came to almost killing someone. There were looks of abject horror followed by laughing when they likely realized they were safe.

Anger consumed me at their carelessness, then wonder at the fact that I hadn’t followed the car ahead of me. I looked to the sky and said, “Thank you, Uncle Phineas.”

I didn’t tell my mom about my near-death experience. Dinner was stuffed peppers and roasted Brussels sprouts. One of my favorite meals. I poked at the contents of the pepper and sighed.

“What’s wrong, Marky? You don’t seem like yourself today,” my mom said.

“I have a lot on my mind. I’m worried about Uncle Harold.”

She sighed. “Me too. I guess that’s what happens when you’re ninety-five-years-old, though.”

“I went to see him.”

“Oh?”

“I showed him that picture I found.”

Her face hardened. “You did what?”

“I wanted answers.” I set my fork down.

My mom rose from her seat and took both of our plates, heading to the kitchen. “That sink upstairs is still bad. Can you check it again?”

I huffed out my breath and followed her. “There’s nothing wrong with the sink. Whatever happened to Uncle Phineas is what’s killing Uncle Harold. The truth needs to come out.”

She flinched as if I’d struck her, then her shoulders drooped. She motioned toward the living room, and we returned to our seats.

“Your great-grandma Amelia, who I’m named after, forbid anyone in the family from talking about it. I suppose it’s been long enough since her passing. It never felt right keeping his memory a secret.”

“What happened?”

“Phineas died when he was just a young boy – five-years-old, not long after that picture was taken.” She looked down and wrung her hands. “There’s no easy way to say this.” She inhaled. “He died because Uncle Harold shot him.”

I wasn’t prepared for that. My thoughts had gone to farm accident, car crash, something tragic, but what the actual fuck?

My mouth gaped open, and I stared at her, speechless.

“It was an accident, of course. The boys were target shooting and little Phineas idolized his older brothers, so he was hanging around them. They didn’t notice when he wandered close to the targets, and Harold fired.”

“Oh my God. I can’t even imagine,” I whispered. What anguish my sweet, gentle Uncle Harold had to have endured.

“Back then they didn’t have the emergency services we have now. He died in Harold’s arms before they reached the hospital.” Tears streamed down my mother’s face.

I wiped my face and sniffled, horrified that I had reminded my uncle of such a tragedy. “Thank you for telling me. I think it’s important that we remember and honor Phineas.”

My mom nodded. “Yes, I think so too.”

Uncle Harold’s nurse called and said it was time to come say good-bye. My mom and I sat vigil by his bedside, not wanting him to pass alone. He had stopped eating and drinking and appeared almost comatose. I held his hand and stroked his hair back.

“It’s ok, Uncle Harold. I love you and will miss you.” My heart was breaking, but I was determined to be there for him.

After a few hours, I fell asleep in the lounge chair next to my uncle’s bed. I woke up abruptly, instinctively knowing it was time. “Mom, wake up.”

My mom stirred in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. I stood and moved to Harold’s bed, taking his hand. His breath was ragged and shallow, but his eyes were open and bright. I turned to look where his gaze was focused. Phineas stood at the end of the bed, smiling.

“Uncle Harold, Phineas forgives you,” I said softly. “He’s always been a part of this family. He’s been looking out for me my entire life.”

Phineas looked at me and nodded.

A tear rolled down Harold’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

Phineas shook his head and placed his hand on his heart.

“It was an accident. There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “He loves you.”

Uncle Harold visibly relaxed, closed his eyes, and took his last breath. When I looked toward Phineas, he was gone.