I've been pondering writing about my life. I guess I would start at birth. I was adopted at 2 weeks old supposedly, in Montreal. I was told that the maternity ward that birthed me burned down along with all records.
The people who adopted me weren't emotionally savvy. Under their naive noses their other adoptee would attempt to kill me by a variety of means, but she was thought of by our mother as the good child. She was four years older than I. I suspect our father sensed Deb was mean, but he died of a sudden heart attack when I was eight and she was 12.
The day he died was the first time we were alone together. He knew I wanted to go horseback riding because I'd said so, over and over again as I looked out the car window at the horses during a drive back from a family vacation in Florida, Deb and I in the back seat and mum and dad in the front.
So he approached me weeks later and asked me if I wanted to go horseback riding. I said yes and next thing I remember is we're at a ranch and each of us is on a horse. There are about 25 other riders, and dad's horse goes into a forest trail with the others, one after the other. My horse follows along a few horses behind his, but then it stops, and won't budge for anything.
The rancher comes walking from the direction dad went and he leads my horse back to the ranch, and tells what I guess was his teenage daughter to keep me occupied with chips and pop.
Hours go by it seems, and some man sitting on a bench with two other men says in his Quebec accent "What happened, your father fall off the horse and die?", and he slaps his knee like he thinks he's real funny.
Then my godmother Inga pulls up in her car, and says "Get in.", so I do, and she starts driving down a forest road. I feel like something's missing, and I ask "Where's dad?", but Inga keeps looking straight ahead at the road with a face of stone and she doesn't say anything as she continues to drive.
I yell this time, "Where's dad?", and she answers in a deadpan tone "He's dead.", as she continues looking at the road with her stone face. I heard myself wailing as I stared at the dashboard. Inga didn't comfort me, other than to drive me home.
At home, Deb was nowhere to be seen, and mum ignored me while a number of adults comforted her. Next thing I know I'm roaming the suburban streets of St.Eustache looking for someone to confide in, finding no one. After that I was sent to a summer camp.
I was eventually told that dad had felt ill on his horse, climbed down, sat on a rock and died of heart failure. I suspect my sister and the elaborate chemistry set dad bought her for Christmas.
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