It was a mid-summer Saturday morning and I was just beginning a new episode of my favorite cartoon, Scooby Doo, when the phone rang. I was the only one inside the house at the moment, so I pulled myself away from Scooby’s latest ghost-hunting adventure to answer it. Even at eight years old, answering the phone still made me nervous, but it was masked by the excitement of discovering who’s on the other end.

“Hello?” I asked in my politest voice.

“Uh…may I speak to Father Bob?” the middle-aged female voice tentatively asked.

Father Bob? Maybe she said may I speak to your father, Bob and I simply misunderstood her emphasis. Yeah, that’s it – I misunderstood her; she meant my father, Bob…not Father Bob.

Returning my focus to the caller and being mindful of my mother’s rules about politeness, I said, “Hold on, please.”

I placed the handset on the kitchen table and walked about six steps to the front door. As I opened it, I cupped my right hand around my mouth and yelled, “Daaa-aaad! Phooo-ooone!”

About thirty seconds later I could hear my father carefully wiping his wet shoes on the mat outside the front door. He came through the door and reached for the phone. In the meantime, I had repositioned myself in front of the television in the adjacent room.

“Hello?” he politely queried. After pausing long enough to hear the caller identify herself, he continued, “Oh, uh…that’s just a kid from the neighborhood.” His reply was matter-of-fact, yet he sounded nervous.

That’s odd¸ I thought. What neighbor kid is he talking about?

Again, after pausing briefly, he added, “Oh. He just likes to call me ‘dad.’”

I tuned out whatever he said after that. I was too shocked to hear anything but my internal voice screaming, WHAT?!? I’m just a neighbor kid? I like to call him dad? What is he talking about? Why is he lying to this woman?

I jumped up and ran down the hallway to my bedroom – my sanctuary for escaping difficult moments like these. I needed the comfort of my bed to appease the confusion and rage that bubbled up. I slammed my door closed and flew onto my bed landing face down on my pillow. I lay there and cried.

A few minutes later, having finished his phone call, the thin walls of our small Las Vegas home shook as my father opened and closed the front door. I lay there for another fifteen minutes, fighting the tears, but with an increasing determination to take action. I began to plot a strategy to confront my father about his lies to the stranger on the phone – to uncover the truth about calling me the neighbor kid. My father was not keen on being questioned, though, so my evolving courage was tempered with uncertainty about proceeding.

Finally, I wiped my eyes dry, and gathered enough courage to make the agonizing journey down the hallway, through the front door, and across the length of the front yard, stopping where my father was casually watering the lawn with the garden hose. I did not look into his eyes at any time, carefully hiding my pain from him and not wanting to notice whatever pain he might be experiencing. He did not look into my eyes either. I simply stood there, next to him, standing no taller than his belly button and saying nothing, just watching him spray the lawn with water.

Following the brief, but interminable silence, accompanied only by the sounds of spraying water and my beating heart, I spit out my question, “Who was that woman?”

“That was my sister,” he said, offering no less and no more. I was aware that he had many siblings, maybe a dozen, most of them living in his home state, Michigan, and having only minimal contact with him, except through an occasional letter.

Setting aside my fear that he would become angry at me for asking him the obvious question, I swallowed hard and asked, “Why did you tell her I am just a neighbor kid?”

“Paul, you’re not old enough to understand. When you’re older, I’ll explain it to you,” he said abruptly.

“When will that be?” I asked with my I-want-to-know-now impatience.

“I told you; when you’re old enough,” he replied, growing increasingly impatient with my curiosity. “For now” he continued, “all you need to know is that my family is not supposed to call me. But, if someone does call again and you don’t know who’s on the phone, just come get me or take a message. Oh, and never call me Dad if you don’t know who the caller is.”

I was stunned. I felt like Scooby Doo or his human pal Freddie, just having seen a ghost. I stood there stiffly for a moment, unsure of what to do next. As I felt my heart sink, I decided to give up my quest. I silently walked back to the house, defeated, but wondering about my father’s secret. Why wouldn’t he tell his sister that his son answered the phone? Is he embarrassed? Is he ashamed of me? What’s going on here?

As I entered the house, I had an eerie sense of skeletons in the closet and ghosts in the attic. My uneasiness deepened as I began to realize that I might somehow be the skeleton in the closet. Is that possible? Why else would he not tell his sister, my aunt, that his son answered the phone?

Having no recourse but to stifle my curiosity for now, I mindlessly returned to watch the final moments of Scooby Doo as he and his friends brought their latest ghost-chasing mystery to a successful conclusion. Maybe, someday, I will bring today’s mystery to a successful conclusion.

In reflecting on this story, what family dynamics squashed your childhood curiosity? What skeletons in the closet related to your feeling invisible? How did you handle those times when you were shut down or your interests were dismissed?

I’m curious to know about YOU, so I invite you to post your reactions as a Comment or, if you prefer privacy, take a few notes in a private journal.

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