Chapter 23 The Lost Family How DNA Testing Is Upending Who We Are
“So the Wainwright family won’t end with me?”
“Sweetheart, you are the tip of one stunted little branch on an otherwise thriving tree,” Beverly Underwood told her daughter. She’d been taking a break from cleaning up Jackson Square when Lindsay called.
“Wow.” Beverly couldn’t see Lindsay on the other side of the phone, but she pictured her searching for words to follow that one up. “I don’t know how I should feel about all this,” Lindsay finally said.
Beverly looked up at the statue of Augustus Wainwright. “I’m not sure many people have been where we and the Wrights are right now,” she said. “But I can promise you one thing, there are a lot of folks headed our way.”
The day after her father passed away, Beverly discovered an envelope on his desk. Written on the front was her name. She thought, briefly, he’d left her a letter. But he hadn’t been that kind of father. He’d always loved her—Beverly knew that—but he chose to do so from a distance. Like so many men of his generation, he kept his feelings carefully locked up where they posed no danger to anyone—least of all, him.
Inside the envelope was a single page of monogrammed stationery with eight characters written in her father’s shaky hand. BDW12180—her initials and birth date. Beverly still kept that slip of paper in her handbag. Wherever she went, it went with her. There was more love in that single gesture than her father could have fit into a fifty-page letter. She knew the moment she saw it that it was the password to his digital family tree.
In the two decades after his wife’s death, the tree had been her father’s passion. For much of that time, Beverly had avoided all talk of it. Aside from Trip and Lindsay, her father was the only family she had left, and she refused to let Augustus Wainwright come between them.
It was only out of a sense of daughterly duty that Beverly had poured herself a large glass of wine, taken a seat in front of the computer, and typed in the password her father had bequeathed to her. She expected to find a tribute to the Wainwright legacy. Instead, she discovered a fascinating world teeming with characters forgotten by time. Her father had researched dozens of their ancestors, rescuing them from oblivion and adding their stories to the family tree. There was the second son of an English nobleman who became a notorious pirate. A gentleman who’d been kicked out of Plymouth Plantation for having “novel ideas,” and a farmer who was likely North America’s first axe murderer of European descent.
Beverley was reminded of the advice the town librarian had given her all those years ago. You get to choose whose footsteps you’ll follow, Jeanette Newman had told the young Beverly. Find a set that went in the right direction. She wondered, perhaps, if that’s what her father had been looking for all along—someone who could show him a path that led away from Augustus Wainwright.
Unsurprisingly, her father had chosen to research the lives of male ancestors. Beverly found herself captivated by the women on the tree—particularly those who sat alone on a branch, with no husband beside them. They had given birth, but the father of their child remained unknown. Even well into the twentieth century, the life of an unmarried mother would have been impossibly difficult. No woman back then would have chosen that fate for herself. What was the story behind their child’s conception? It was easy to assume her great-grandmothers had indulged in illicit or ill-fated romances. It was just as likely—if not more so—that the children were the products of coercion or rape.
Whatever the answer, the sight of those empty brackets made Beverly anxious and angry. Centuries may have passed, but she was determined to force those invisible men to take responsibility for the children they’d sired. But their identities remained stubbornly hidden. Then, a while later, she received an email from the website that hosted her genealogy research. Its new DNA testing service could help fill in blank spots on a family tree. Beverly sent in a swab the very next week.
It took a while, but as more people in America entered their data, Beverly’s “matches” began to grow. These were living people to whom she was somehow related. The connection wasn’t always obvious. There were several matches who shared none of her known ancestors—which meant they had to be related via an unknown ancestor. One match’s family tree listed a man who had lived in a small Scottish village at the same time as a great-great-grandmother who’d given birth to an illegitimate child. Beverly entered the man’s name into the empty bracket and the tree lit up. The DNA was a match. Beverly realized she’d uncovered a crime.
Her great-great-grandmother, once a servant in an aristocratic Scottish home, had given birth to a child at age sixteen. Beverly’s DNA test revealed the father of the child was none other than the fifty-five-year-old aristocrat who’d employed the girl. A picture of the man revealed a face unlikely to have won over a girl four decades younger. The fact that the girl and her baby spent the next three years in the town poorhouse made it clear that the rich man had done nothing to support her.
Maybe there was an explanation that hadn’t occurred to Beverly. But Occam’s razor said he’d raped the girl. And by the looks of things, there were other villains lurking in her family tree. Beverly did not want them there, however illustrious their names might have been. Her sympathies lay with their victims. She cringed at the thought that those men’s blood might flow through her veins. Then she thought of the women who’d survived. Who’d raised their children against all odds and refused to give in. And she imagined their strength inside her. Those were the footsteps she wanted to follow.
Eventually, her thoughts returned to the most famous monster in the Wainwright family tree. Though it had never been proven, Augustus Wainwright was rumored to have raped and impregnated women he enslaved. Beverly realized their descendants would have empty brackets on their family trees as well. She didn’t blame them if they weren’t interested in filling those spaces. But if they were, she planned to help. Beverly Underwood, one of the two known living descendants of Augustus Wainwright, made her tree and her profile public.
“They found you. What are you going to do?” Lindsay asked her mom.
“The Wright boys are at the doctor’s office with Bella Cummings. I’m going to talk to them,” Beverly said. “Welcome them to the family.”
“Oooh no, Mama.” Beverly could hear the cringe in her daughter’s voice. “They’ve always been a part of the family, whether we knew it or not. It’s not our place to welcome them.”
“Right,” Beverly said. “That was silly of me. So what should I say? Should I apologize? You knew Isaac Wright in school, didn’t you?”
“Not really,” Lindsay said. “He’s four years younger.”
“Well, what do you think someone his age would want to hear?”
“How ’bout, ‘Hi, I’m your cousin Beverly’?”
Now they were standing in front of her, looking every bit as nervous as Beverly felt.
“Sorry for dragging you out like that.” She held out her hand. “My name is Beverly Underwood. I’m your cousin.”
“Yeah, we know.” The younger boy broke into a grin as he shook her hand.
“We’re Isaac and Elijah Wright,” the older brother said.
Beverly had seen these two so many times in the past, walking through town. They made such a fascinating pair. The older brother tall and slender with eyes that seemed focused on something far in the distance, as if he could see what was heading their way. The burly younger brother with the handsome face and mischievous smile. They seemed devoted to each other in a way that made Beverly wish she’d had a sibling.
“You knew about us?” Isaac asked.
“Not exactly,” Beverly admitted, “but I knew you might be out there. When I was your age, I found out what kind of man Augustus Wainwright was. I figured it was likely I had cousins in the area, but I didn’t know who you were. I made my family tree public just in case you came looking. You must have sent in a DNA swab?”
“I did,” Isaac told her. “When I saw your name show up as a match, I knew we shared a common ancestor. I guessed it was Augustus Wainwright. When I plugged his name into my family tree, the whole thing lit up.”
Once again, a swab of saliva had exposed a terrible crime. Beverly felt her heart break for the woman Augustus Wainwright had raped. One hundred and fifty years was far too long to wait for a reckoning.
“How did you take the news?” Beverly asked.
“He kept it hidden.” Elijah nudged his brother in the side with his elbow. “He didn’t even tell me until yesterday.”
“It was a shock,” Isaac admitted. “I knew I had ancestors who were enslaved on the Wainwright plantation, and I thought there might be a chance. But I didn’t know how hard the truth would hit me—seeing his name next to a blank space where our great-grandmother’s name should have been.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Beverly said. “Your mother owns Fairview Florist. Betsy, am I right?”
“Yes,” Elijah confirmed. “And our dad has the repair shop in town.”
“James,” Isaac said.
“Do they have any idea what you’ve discovered?” Beverly asked.
Isaac shook his head. “We’ve been estranged lately.”
Beverly thought she knew why, but she didn’t dare ask.
“He likes dudes,” Elijah volunteered. “And our parents are Christians.”
“Really?” Isaac turned to his brother. “Was that necessary?”
“I’m a Christian and my daughter is gay,” Beverly told them. “Lindsay Underwood? Maybe you know her? She’s a few years older than you.”
“She’s friends with my best friend,” Isaac said. “Bella says she’s amazing.”
“She is. Watching Lindsay grow into the person she is today has been the highlight of my life. I know that girl is exactly who she was meant to be. If I did one thing right as a parent, it was staying out of her way.”
Elijah threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “So now we know where the gay DNA comes from. Dad can blame Augustus Wainwright.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Beverly told him.
“No,” Isaac said. “Because if a gay gene came from Augustus Wainwright, half the state of Georgia would be flying rainbow flags on their porches.”
“What do you mean?” Beverly asked the boy.
“When was the last time you were on the genealogy site?”
“It’s been a while,” Beverly confessed. “Things have gotten pretty crazy around here with the book banning and the mayor’s race.”
“Well, next time you log on, you’re in for a surprise,” Isaac said. “Looks like we have a lot of relatives in this part of the country.”
Beverly didn’t answer. Her eyes had been drawn to the statue in the center of the square. Someone was standing just out of sight in the darkness. She felt the hairs on her arms rise. Whoever it was had been watching them.
“How about I give you two a ride home?” She didn’t voice her hunch. There was no reason to scare the Wright boys. “I’d like to say hello to your parents if you don’t mind.”
“Just so you know, I’m not sure how our father will take this news,” Isaac warned her.
“Well, you’ve already told the rest of the town. Your dad’s going to find out whether we talk to him tonight or not.”
Betsy Wright hurried out on the porch to greet them as soon as they arrived. “How’s Bella?” she asked.
The Wright boys exchanged a loaded look. “She has a concussion, but she’ll recover,” Isaac said. Then he cleared his throat. “You were at the rally tonight?”
“Oh yes,” Betsy said. It was hard to tell just how angry she was. “You think your father and I would miss out on the big announcement? Even though we were the only people in town who weren’t invited?”
“I’m sorry, Mama—” Isaac started.
That was when Mrs. Wright’s eyes landed on Beverly.
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said. “How do you do, Mrs. Underwood?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Wright.” Beverly stepped forward. “I drove the boys home just now. Would you mind if I had a quick word with you and your husband?”
Betsy Wright immediately turned to her sons. “There’s more to the story? What else did you do?”
“Oh no,” Beverly jumped in. “Your boys are wonderful. They were very brave this evening.”
“You hear that, Mama?” Elijah said. “Brave and wonderful. We only just met, and yet she knows us so well.”
Betsy rolled her eyes. “I better not find out otherwise. Now go get your father for me.” When the boys were gone, she turned back to Beverly. “I heard they were planning something for Lula Dean’s rally, so James and I went. If I’d known the Cummings girl might get hurt, I’d have stopped the whole thing.”
“Your boys did a good job of looking after her. She’s with her great-grandma now, and—”
James Wright stepped out the front door. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Beverly. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for her.
“Hello, Mr. Wright.” Beverly held out a hand and the man shook it. “My name is Beverly Underwood. I met your sons tonight at the rally by the statue. I thought I should stop by and say hello since it turns out—”
“We’re related.” Mr. Wright completed the sentence. He didn’t sound happy about the fact—and he certainly wasn’t surprised.
“Yes,” Beverly replied. “How long have you known?”
“Forever,” Mr. Wright told her. “The knowledge was passed down through every generation of my family. I was hoping my sons never had to find out. But it seems everyone’s secrets are being exposed these days.”
“I’m thinking in this case it might turn out for the best,” Beverly said. “This town has been hiding too much for too long. Secrets are a disease that eats away at your soul. My grandmother always said the best disinfectant is sunlight.”
“She might have learned that from my grandmother—who did your grandmother’s laundry.”
Beverly’s eyes lit up. “Felicity Wright was your grandmother?” she asked. “I remember her well. She was a lovely woman. So funny and sweet. And she made the best cornbread I think I’ve ever eaten.”
“That, she did,” James agreed but he wasn’t amused. “But you get my point, don’t you, Mrs. Underwood?”
No amount of charm was going to smooth things over. There was no way to make that past less painful. “I think I do,” Beverly said. “There were two sides of the family. One that prospered and another that suffered. Nothing about that is fair or right.”
“And that’s why I’m not sure it’s possible to bridge the chasm between us.”
“To be honest, Mr. Wright, I don’t blame you for saying so. I’m still overwhelmed and I don’t have all the answers. But I know in my heart that having the statue of Augustus Wainwright pulled down is something we need to do.”
That appeared to give James Wright pause. “I have walked by that statue every day of my life, knowing exactly what that man did to my family. As much as I would like to have it removed, I also know how hard it is to convince folks around here that the feelings of someone like me should matter.”
“Our two families alone can’t convince the town that the statue should come down. But Isaac thinks there may be many more descendants of Augustus Wainwright around here than people realize. There’s power in numbers.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking we might throw a big old family reunion.”