Chapter 1

Where to start? I suppose it would be with the question I asked my mother while we were planning my wedding ceremony. I was going through a book that listed all kinds of rituals and traditions pertaining to weddings and saw something I'd always wondered about.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Megan."

"Have you ever wondered where this came from: 'Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a silver sixpence in her shoe'?"

"Well, as it happens, I know where it came from," said my mother. "But in our family it has a different meaning."

"Oh? Tell me."

"I don't think so," she said softly.

"Why on earth not?"

"When your father was still here, he insisted that you be raised differently than I was. After the divorce I suppose I just left things as they were."

"Mother! Whatever are you talking about? You were raised just like anybody else your age ... weren't you?"

"Not by half, darling," said my mother. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I was really curious now. She was acting so mysteriously.

"Because once you know, it might change your whole life."

"I don't see how finding out how my mother was raised would change anything at all!" I insisted.

But ... as it turned out ... it did change my whole life.

Maybe I should have started with telling you about my family. I mean they all play a central role in how things turned out, and it would probably be helpful if you understood about them before I explain that silly wedding poem and what it meant in our family.

My mother is Dorothy Parker and she's independently wealthy by virtue of being a whiz at picking stocks. Daddy still pays alimony, but all she ever did with that was put it in the kids' college fund. She went back to using her maiden name after the divorce. She's forty, and it doesn't bother her in the least. Once Daddy left and they weren't fighting all the time, she's almost always had a smile on her face. She got a lot of support from the family when the divorce happened, and she's actually friends with Daddy now. She says some people just can't live together.

I have a little brother named Ricky, who is seventeen and normal in every way, which means he's a pain in the ass. My big brother, Tom, flies fancy jet fighters in the Air Force, and goes all over the world. I haven't seen him in over a year.

I mentioned the divorce already, but it's central to the story too, as things turn out. It happened ten years ago, and it was ugly. Everybody yelled at everybody else, and thought they were failures and all that stuff. Us kids didn't know what was going to happen, and did a lot of hiding and listening, though it didn't do us any good.

When Daddy finally left he stayed gone a long time at first. That was the hardest part, because while Mom didn't love him, my brothers and I still did. And we needed a male role model in our lives.

That's where Mom's brothers came in and, as you'll see in a bit, they are really at the center of this story. They all flocked around their sister after the divorce. Not that they were strangers before that - well Tony was but not by choice.

I'll just tell you about them.

Uncle Dan is Mom's big brother. He's forty-four, divorced like Mom, and builds houses. He's a huge burly man with thick, curly, black hair all over his body. When I was little he used to pretend he was a bear and chase me on all fours. I still remember peeing my panties once because it was so scary and exciting. I can't believe I told you that! Anyway, whenever he caught me - and of course he always did - all he did was "eat" my neck and give me kisses. I loved it.

Then Mom has three younger brothers. The first is Uncle John, who seems to be the only normal one in the bunch. He's an architect, and married to a nice woman named Linda. He's thirty-five and they have two kids who I cut my babysitting teeth on when I was a teenager. Uncle John's hair is bright red. If I have something serious to talk about, I talk to him, because he's willing to be totally serious with me.

Then there is Uncle Tony, who is actually the baby of the family. He's twenty-eight and was an accident, according to Grandma. More about that later. Anyway, when he graduated from high school he joined the Peace Corps and went away to Africa and India and several other places I got interesting letters from. I think I've seen him three times in the last ten years, though I probably know him the best because of all the letters we write to each other. Uncle Tony has hair that's what they call platinum blond. It's really light, with just a hint of yellow in it.

I went out of order, by age anyway, but I saved Uncle Bob for last because he's my favorite. You wouldn't think so by looking at him. He's as bald as an egg, for one thing. He's not all that tall, but he looks so wide you think you're looking at a brick wall or something. And he has tattoos almost everywhere. His arms are covered with them, and his neck. I only saw him in a swim suit one time, when I was twelve and we were at a lake somewhere. His chest and back and arms and legs were all covered with blue and black ink in whirls and patterns and pictures. There was some red and yellow and green in there too, but I was scared to go up close and look.

Not that he was scary. Except that he was, kind of. Back then all I knew was that he rode this huge, loud motorcycle, and wore black leather pants and a jacket with all these patches on it and big letters on the back in an arc that said "SAN REMO ANGELS" on it. He had earrings in both ears and a bushy Fu Manchu moustache that tickled like CRAZY when it rubbed it against my neck under my ear. He did that every time he came over, when he greeted me.

I guess he LOOKED scary, even though he always treated me so nice. I got the best presents from Uncle Bob, and when I was sixteen, he took me for a ride on his hog and I almost peed my pants again when I looked over his shoulder and saw the speedometer needle bouncing around at the 110 mark. I spent hours looking at the dragons on his arms, and tracing the lines with my finger.

But the reason I loved him so much was because of his work. Imagine the man I just described, walking into a children's cancer ward dressed in scrubs. He is a registered nurse, and kids with cancer are his passion. He organizes motorcycle rallies that raise funds for cancer research and supply's things to the kids that the hospital budget won't support. It seems like everything he does is for those kids. Of course I didn't know that when I was little. He was just kind-of-scary-but-oh-so-interesting Uncle Bob back then. He called me "Princess" and made me feel like one too. It was complicated, with Uncle Bob. When I was twelve I was convinced I was in love with him and was going to marry him some day.

Actually, I loved all my uncles. I was their only niece, so even though I didn't realize it back then I got special treatment. My brothers would call it spoiled, but that wasn't it at all. It wasn't about me sitting on their laps a lot, or that they tickled me and chased me and stuff like that. That all just seemed normal. I realized how special our relationship was when I figured out that I could talk to all of them about anything in the world, and know that they'd never rat me out, or laugh at me, or tell me what they thought I was 'supposed' to hear. They were absolutely trustworthy, and would do anything I asked them to that wasn't dangerous.

I mentioned Grandma in passing, but I should say a few things about her. Her name is Mona, and she's on her sixth or seventh husband. The first three took off for reasons I'll explain in a minute. The later ones seem to get worn out and die. That sounds horrible, but as far as I can tell they all died happy.