Sister Dearest

My father made sure that I had about five different last names when I was growing up. There was our actual family moniker, but then sometimes he insisted we be called the “Hacks” or the “Smutneys” or the “Mansons” (these aren’t the real bogus names we used; I’m just giving examples).

This led me to believe that I and my parents were some kind of super-cool spy family that had to hide from the government. It turns out that we did have to hide from a Higher Authority, but not for anything as cool as international intrigue.

But one of the main reasons we had such fluid surnames, I was told, was due to an “evil woman” known as Vera.

When I was about ten, I found out that Vera was an ex-lover of my father’s. Their union, in fact, produced a child. Now my father is not really Deadbeat Dad material. This Vera is the real villain of the piece. She whelped forth nine children, one of whom drowned when he was a baby; another graduated from Harvard. And she held my family in a grip of terror.

I wasn’t allowed to answer the door or pick up the phone. I couldn’t give my personal information out to anyone. The only addresses we ever had were P.O. boxes, and they were always three towns over. My mother lived this way, too.

The great terror was that if Vera ever found us, she would kidnap me and hold me for ransom. This was not an unreasonable fear. I heard all kinds of horror stories about Vera having sex with her kids; and then there was the one who died. So I was really, really scared. I grew up under the specter of this killer psycho-mom who could leap out from anywhere at any moment, and I’d have no idea who she was because she’d be wearing a disguise.

Plus there was my sister. The one who lived with this evil woman.

When I was about ten, Vera caught up with us. She sent my father a letter making clear threats that he should pay her back child support, or that she’d come snatch me away. It also contained a picture of my sister, who was about fifteen. Word was that she’d become a wild runaway. I was desperate to talk to her, but forbidden to do so.

Fast-forward five years. My parents were newly divorced. My father was extremely strict, so, with him out of the house, I enjoyed all kinds of new freedoms. So did my mom. Occasionally she’d even spend the night at her new boyfriend’s place. This meant the end of all curfews and constraints.

I embarked on a series of lesbian romances immediately (I was never with a boy until college). I went to church on acid. In short, I had all the fun a fifteen-year-old should. The only disruptions occurred when I’d meet my dad for pizza.

Especially this one night.

Upon entering our usual pizza joint, I saw my dad sitting with a girl who looked to be about twenty. He said her name was Robin and that she was his new girlfriend. She did appear strange enough to date a fifty-five-year-old but, at the same time, she sort of looked a little bit like me. This struck me as some rather odd pseudo-incest. But I went with it.

After some start-and-stop conversation, my father came clean. Robin was my sister.

There she was - the girl who caused my family to be the “Whites” and the “Joneses” and all those other fake names for so long. But I had no resentment. I was very interested. She was so bubbly and upbeat. I was at my most shy and retiring, but Robin spoke with insane energy and I immediately looked up to her.

She revealed that she’d just arrived from Florida, where she’d gotten arrested and kicked out the window of a cop car. After that, they took Robin to jail and my dad posted her bond, so she’d be staying with him for the time being. I had no idea how my father was going to handle this.

See, I have some other half-siblings, too, besides Robin. My father helped his oldest son deal PCP. And now he was helping his criminal daughter hide from the police. And this was after years of not letting me stay out past 11PM.

None of this bothered me at the moment, though. I just wanted to live Robin’s life. The more she babbled, the more I wanted to imitate every aspect of her.

After the pizza meeting, Robin spent five whole days in my dad’s apartment. He finally shipped her off because she’d wake up routinely throughout the night, screaming uncontrollably. My father values, above all things, his privacy - to the point that he tapes up the peephole in his front door so that no one can look in. Since Robin’s wailing was disrupting his silent kingdom, she had to go.

Robin also broke into my dad’s private pharmacy, which didn’t help her cause much. My dad keeps more narcotics on hand - many of which have not been manufactured in years - than a dozen nurse stations at a dozen different hospitals. Robin managed to dip into his Valiums, and then she crashed through a glass coffee table.

That was, indeed, the final straw - but only for this particular appearance of Robin.

She’d be back.

Five years later, to be exact, Robin returned. With child. And more on fire than ever.

Robin’s son, this poor little creature named Abel who is now in the custody of the state, was severely developmentally disabled. He was once found wandering on the side of a highway at age three wearing just a (full) diaper. Abel could not even form words or carry out any of the tasks that one should be able to at his age - except that he was smart enough to get away from his mom.

My sister continued to both fascinate and frighten me. As Abel tore around my brother’s house shitting all over the floor (because Robin refused to buy diapers), she’d tell me how close we were in the cosmos, because she and I were both Virgos. She was utterly oblivious to the piles of feces her son was pumping out around the house.

Some time later, Robin attended a big family party with my father and me. Now my family is comprised of some of the toughest people you’ll ever meet - criminals in and out of jail, drug addicts, murderers...any horrible transgression you can think of, they’ve done it. And yet they were all terrified of Robin.

She made it so that you would just have to deal with her, though.

In the midst of a conversation with my father, Robin shot up from her chair and yelled, “REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU TOUCHED ME, YOU FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE, AND YOU CALLED ME A WHORE!?!”

And then she quietly sat down.

My father, who usually cannot control his anger, remained very calm. People milled about serving fried chicken as though nothing had happened. My dad even managed to choke down a piece, and maybe some mashed potatoes as well. Shortly thereafter, we politely left.

That was the last time Robin has spoken to my dad.

Robin continued to live in an Illinois suburb alongside my other half-brother and half-sister. She shacked up with a motel owner and had another kid. I picture the next most likely thing to happen to her is that she’ll be “saved” by fundamentalist Christians.

My most recent contact with Robin occurred when she called to ask for $6,000. She needed a brain tumor removed, she said. Six months later, Robin called back to state that she no longer needed the cash, because TV evangelist Benny Hinn has cured her ailment. Thank God for him.

This is my blood. It’s the same as everything else in my life.

And, Robin, should you be reading this, please get in touch with me. I’d like to know you better and learn more about your life.