The Truth of the Matter

16. You Can Choose Your Family

I had decided to find my parents. It wasn't an easy decision, and it wasn't something that I ever thought I would do. I was fighting the urge to place a goal on this encounter, knowing that meeting a goal wouldn't necessarily ensure my happiness or give me any type of closure.

It may be hard for anyone to believe but I didn't have any inkling to google my parents or to hire some one to find them before this. In my mind they had been dead, already long since grieved for and accepted that they were a part of my past.

Neither had ever tried to find me, so why would I want to put that responsibility on my shoulders? Plus, if they knew where I was and that I was successful, they may try and take advantage of me. It was difficult for me to say no to people, especially those who I knew were in compromised situations. I was hoping the latent anger and resentment that I held would be enough to hold me back from enabling any destructive behaviors that either may still retain.

I paused, my hands above the keyboard, there was still time to turn back. But I didn't want to. I typed in "Roger Harvey February 1970"

The first result that came up was an obituary. I pursed my lips, trying to figure out how I felt. I clicked the link and it led me to a newspaper article with a picture of a man, who I recognized to be my dad, albeit rail thin and strung out, laying on the ground under a bridge.

The article said that he was found with a needle in his arm and bags of cocaine around him. His dark hair had turned grey, laying in wild tangles around his shoulders. It didn't seem dignified to show him like this, no matter what he had done. He was identified only by an expired prescription in his coat pocket.

It made the headlines because he overdosed in the rich part of our hometown, had he died in the projects where he lived, he would have remained unidentified and buried in a public plot; another faceless fatality of the drug epidemic.

However, because he was found amongst the wealthy he was somehow deemed more worthy of sympathy and recognition for his addiction. That, and he was white. Racist newspaper bastards.

The date to the article said 2002. I was sixteen. My grandparents had to have known. If they had, they didn't tell me because they thought it best not to bring it up. We hadn't spoken aloud of either of my parents in years at that point. No pictures on the walls, no mention of him, and I didn't dare bring it up.

How could they have lied to me so easily? Still, he was their son, didn't that hurt them? Didn't they need to grieve? Had they paid for a burial or cremation? I made a note to call the local police station in my hometown and inquire more.

That was one parent done. I would sort through the thought carnage later.

I typed in "Shannon Bellisario March 1970" and got fewer results. One of the results was for the white pages which listed my mom's name associated with Shannon James. I typed that in and got nothing of worth.

I turned to the now ubiquitous Facebook; every person had a page and sometimes even multiple pages. There were businesses, bands, family reunions, multi level marketing mom scams, online garage sales, anything you could possibly think of was on there now and if she wasn't on there then she didn't want to be found.

And, if she didn't want to be found then I wasn't sure that I wanted to try any harder to find her. I try to keep the disappointment in my life to a minimum and this was just ushering it in with an open door and a hot drink.

The first two results were random women, but the third looked familiar to me. I clicked her profile, she was the right age. Dark hair like me, cut shoulder length with bangs, same nose, lips the same as me. She was smiling in her picture, her arms around a tall, barrel chested guy with a shiny bald head.