In Strange Places

2 - A Home Sweet Home

My name is Julia Harris and I love The Beatles.

Okay, that isn't the greatest introduction there is. But I thought I should start off simple before laying down the details of my slightly complicated life.

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts in a nuclear middle class family. My life in America was reasonably quiet. I got along with everyone around me, especially with my brother Seth.

He's three years older and I hero worshiped him well into my preteen years.

Seth was a real joy to be around. He was like a ball of sunshine with his cheery disposition and generous heart. It's shame that light dimmed after our parents died in that accident.

I was eleven when it happened.

My parents were going to this party my uncle was throwing. Since it was school night, Seth and I weren't allowed to go. I remember being happy because Seth had promised we could extend the deadline on bedtime and watch more television. I could catch the recap of Michael Jackson's Bad tour on MTV.

It was my last happy memory of Boston. Just two siblings huddled up on the couch with the lights out, watching the King of Pop enchant the crowd whilst enjoying a bowl of popcorn Seth made for us.

When he tucked me into bed that night, he had told me we should do more of such nights together. I had sleepily agreed before passing out.

The next morning, I woke up to police cars parked in our drive and a hoard of people crowding the hall. I had trudged out, confusion hazing my vision. I hadn't immediately registered the somber faces staring at me.

It was only after Uncle Joe flung his arms around me and cried that I realized something was terribly wrong.

The days that followed were mostly a blur. I refused to let myself absorb the happenings of every moment. I mostly stayed numb through it all.

Seth and I had to sign many papers. Insurance, property, various bank statements and guardianship papers that would would allow my mom's sister, Aunt Rita, who lived all the way in Manchester, to come to Boston and take us under her shade.

Aunt Rita was older than mom, but she never married. She had a specific outlook on life that as a child weirded me out, but as I grew older seemed to make more sense.

She said she wasn't going to make the time or space for something that would invariably take up all the time and space she had in life. Her life was hers to live, not some one else's.

Two months after the tragedy, Seth and I were onboard the plane to Manchester.

I remember Seth holding on to the armrests of his seat stiffly. He would later admit the apprehension from both his first flight and starting a new life made him very ill.

Looking back now, I'm glad he never told me how queasy he was on the plane. I would have taken it as a bad sign, would have figured there was impending doom in Manchester and would have become violently sick with dreadful thoughts.

When we had first arrived at Aunt Rita's place, she had treated us to a plate of delicious hamburgers. It was a gesture meant to make us feel home.

Instead I was so overcome with homesickness that I had excused myself from the table and fled upstairs in tears.

It wasn't easy for both Aunt Rita and us to adjust to this new life. Aunt Rita went from living alone to having two kids in her home.

I always wondered why she signed up for us. Maybe she wasn't as dead against the idea of kids as she was against the idea of marriage. We never gave her a hard time as well. Or maybe I did, a little.