In this mock blog, serial novella, narrator Elizabeth Harper takes her audience through a few memorable anecdotes of her life, in a conversational, good-natured, sometimes goofy (if a little vulgar) style. Stories were originally released surroundin...
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
So, I had lunch with my Dad the other day. After we got some work shit out of the way, we started talking about our weird-ass family, and I said something about my 'siblingcousins'. The term made the couple at the table next to us recoil in grossed-out horror. I didn't pay them much mind though, because the guy had a diamond stud in his lip and a waxy, handlebar mustache, which on its own is already hinkey enough to make him inconsequential.
Am I saying he looked like a douche? Yes. Yes I am. Probably even something worse.
He had shark eyes too, you see, and shark eyes don't lie.
But, yes, my childhood was strange (and yes, I say 'yes' a lot). When I was six years old, my mother was murdered by a man who wanted to make my Dad suffer. My Dad, for those of you who may be new, was a big-time, star homicide detective in NYC throughout the eighties. He's good at his job. Like, exceptionally fucking good. That sometimes gets him into trouble, and that trouble sometimes spills over onto the people in his life.
My Mom, a much-beloved TV news reporter named Maryanne Harper, was one of those people. Without going into too much detail (for my sanity's sake), Dad got a guy put away for murder, and that guy's Dad lost his shit and went fucking nuclear on our family, threatening to kill all of us.
Mom was the only one he got.
My parents sent me to stay with my Uncle Albert here in Seattle, in an effort to keep me safe while they tried some of their tricks to get the prick locked up. Five days after I got here and started settling in, my Dad called for me (like he and Mom did every night). Only when my Aunt Sam finally gave me the phone, I saw that Uncle Al was crying.
Then Dad told me what happened...
But it's the years following my Mom's death that I'm gonna focus on right now.
After Mom died, my Dad sorta self-destructed in a pretty fucking severe fashion, becoming a full-bore alcoholic to the point where he lost his job, and all that kind of stuff. He remained in NY for about five years, intent on solving my Mom's murder (which had become a cold case) and putting away the right people, even if it killed him. Which it nearly did.
I was almost Batman.
I would still hear from him frequently, but there was a hollow distance in his voice when we'd talk, ya' know? He was really fucking vacant and depressed, and always felt like he was failing me and Mom. A far cry from the man he was and eventually (mostly) became again. I don't know how the fuck he held it together as well as he did, to be perfectly honest with you! I mean, I've never seen anyone in love like my parents were. They were fucking awesome together, ya' know? A real team.
A great example for what a couple can and should be.
Anyhoo, in those five years, I continued living with my Uncle Al, Aunt Samantha, and their son Arnold; The oldest of my 'siblingcousins'. I'm a few years older than Arnie, who was born a year or so after I moved in. He genuinely thought that he was my little brother for the longest time and, in many ways, he kinda is. I mean, I never got to have siblings of my own, so...well, I almost did, but, whatever.
