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    How I Came to Haunt My Parents
    How I Came to Haunt My Parents
    How I Came to Haunt My Parents
    Ebook138 pages1 hour

    How I Came to Haunt My Parents

    By Natalee Caple

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    How I Came to Haunt My Parents is storytelling for parents on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In this beautifully written suite of short fiction Natalee Caple explores fables from the dark side of adulthood and imagines what moral Aesop may have offered to a mother who gave birth to a murderous dictator. Caple’s animals and humans are imbued with modern complexity as they confront sex, death, and history, but her stories are as witty as they are profoundly lucid.

    How I Came to Haunt My Parents is proof of Caple’s status as one of the great prose stylists currently writing.

    Praise for Natalee Caple

    “Moving…unsettling.” —The New York Times on The Heart Has Its Own Reason

    "A brilliant story-teller." —D.M. Thomas, author of The White Hotel

    "Natalee Caple writes with sensual and captivating detail of people whose dreams drive them to unanticipated extremities." —Catherine Bush, author of The Rules of Engagement
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherECW Press
    Release dateMay 1, 2011
    ISBN9781770900011
    How I Came to Haunt My Parents
    Author

    Natalee Caple

    NATALEE CAPLE is the author of four books of fiction and two books of poetry, including the novel The Plight of Happy People in an Ordinary World; the short story collection The Heart Is Its Own Reason, which has been optioned for film; the poetry collection A More Tender Ocean, which was nominated for a

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    • 2/5
      There was a chapter at the end of the book that asked people how Grunge will be remembered. Some folks said it changed music, it changed the industry, etc. Maybe. The only thing that I can see that it did was it helped the corporate powers-that-be to have another pigeonhole which to exploit. Musically, as Jack Endino said, Grunge was basically 70s hard rock with a bit of punk attitude. And personally I agree. I dont feel that there is anything special about the Seattle scene or Grunge when compared to other scenes or movements in late 20th century western civilization. I don't see where Grunge accomplished anything meaningful. Still, I enjoy a regular share of the music, and I dress--even 20 years later--basically in a Grunge style, a style I have been dressing in basically since I was first able to pick my own clothes--probablly around 9 years old.

    Book preview

    How I Came to Haunt My Parents - Natalee Caple

    Copyright © Natalee Caple, 2011

    Published by ECW Press

    2120 Queen Street East, Suite 200, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2

    416-694-3348 / info@ecwpress.com

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

    Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

    Caple, Natalee, 1970-

    How I came to haunt my parents [electronic resource] / Natalee Caple.

    Short stories.

    Electronic monograph in EPUB format.

    ISBN 978-1-77090-001-1

    Also Issued As:

    978-1-77090-000-4 (PDF)

    I. Title.

    PS8555.A5583H68 2011a C813'.54 C2011-901086-0

    Developing editors: Emily Schultz and Brian Joseph Davis

    Cover design: David Gee

    Typesetting and text design: Troy Cunningham

    The publication of How I Came to Haunt My Parents has been generously supported by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

    These stories are for Cinderella Dragonslayer

    and SuperCasey/Dash, and for my beloved Jem.

    Ten Things My Mother Told Me

    If you tell a lie to your mother the next elevator that you get on is going straight down to hell.

    If you don’t let her take out your splinters with a pin they will work their way into your bloodstream and travel up to your heart and pierce your heart and then you’ll die.

    Don’t sit on the escalators because your hair will get caught in the teeth and you’ll be skinned.

    If Santa finds you awake on Christmas Eve, he eats you. That’s why he’s so fat.

    If you hold a bottle of glue up to your ear you can hear the horses.

    Boys hit you because they like you.

    Your uncle did not go to jail, he became an astronaut and he is still living on the moon.

    One good way to get rid of warts is to bury a pound of bacon in the backyard and wait for it to rot.

    If you have sex before you get married all of your children will be bats.

    I met your father when I was taking a walk in the forest. He was a monkey sitting in a tree and he threw a coconut down and hit me on the head and knocked me unconscious and when I woke up I was a housewife.

    How I Came to Haunt My Parents

    IT WAS IN THE SUMMER that I should have turned nine and we were at the big house that sat above the lake. The staircase in the house was so long that I recall it taking half an hour to cross from the top floor to the bottom.

    My little brother Evan and I walked the dog along the shoreline in the morning and in the evening before dinner. The sound of the water washing the little stones and rubbing the grasses together made me calm and made him happy. Our little dog was a brown terrier cross and he chased the seagulls into the water with a particularly military responsibility. His name was Pocket, but I can’t remember who named him or why he was called Pocket.

    The summer I disappeared it rained almost every day and the lake got so stirred up and rose in big swells so that it was possible to imagine it was an ocean or a sea. We scavenged the shore for treasure, but mostly we found pop bottles and newspapers turned to mulch. The air smelled of worms after the rain. Pocket was new and teething and he nipped and roughhoused our hands and feet so we took him for many walks to tire him out and distract him. I was in love with him and smuggled him into my bed because when he was sleepy he would not bite, but would instead curl snug against my neck and huff warmly into my ear.

    Evan had a black eye when we arrived. The boys at school had been giving it to him for being small. Evan was born two weeks late but still he only weighed six pounds and he had stayed small. If you asked him about it he wouldn’t tell you who had hit him. He still thought of those boys as his friends. I thought that was a sign of how childhood was like prison.

    One day we went out late because it had been pouring in the morning. We left for our walk just before lunch. The ground, which was half sand half stone, was wet and it sucked at our feet as we walked. Water eclipsed the shore and we scrambled in the weedy excess of the space between the trees and our usual path. Seagulls barked back at Pocket. Twenty minutes from the house we let Pocket off his leash thinking that it was too mucky for him to run far from us. He headed into the trees. We walked on. Evan whistled Pocket back once or twice to check that he was still close by. It was getting dark again and I wondered if we would make it home before it rained, but I had a curious feeling that I wanted to get caught in the storm. For a few minutes I was lost in a fantasy about being swept out onto the lake and clinging with Evan to an overturned boat while Pocket barked for us on the shore. I imagined my parents with wet clothes plastered to their bodies, leaning into the squalling wind and screaming our names over and over again.

    Pocket! Pocket! Pock—eettt! called Evan. Wheet, whheeet, whheeeet, he whistled. Pocket. Here boy. Come here, Pocket. Come here right now!

    But Pocket didn’t come. A rumble and crack of the sky made me stop Evan by catching his shoulder. Together we looked across the water and we saw a curtain of rain descend and begin the rapid traverse towards the shore. The line of rain was so clear it was like a deliberate advance. Since we couldn’t leave Pocket, we entered the forest hoping every minute to find shelter from the rain that was now tearing leaves from branches and bending the long grass and pelting our heads and shoulders and arms.

    Inside the forest, under the trees the sound of the rain was muffled. Stray drops broke through the thick mesh of leaves. We found Pocket almost immediately, sitting up straight on a very large black rock. The rain was so hard the bugs were hiding. Evan and I joined Pocket on the rock. Evan was shivering.

    Are you cold or are you scared? I asked him.

    I’m cold, he said. I’m a little bit scared.

    The wind whistling at the top of the trees made me nervous because it sounded like a person whistling.

    Who is that? Evan whispered. Do you hear that? Someone said Baked Alaska.

    It’s the wind. I said curtly.

    I’m hungry. Let’s go home.

    So we exited the forest and picked our way across the pocked sand and flattened grasses to the house. When the side of the house came into view it struck me that the whole thing was leaning towards us almost as if it was listening. Evan sniffed beside me and I looked down to see that he was going blue around the lips. I carried Pocket in my arms so that we could move faster and so he would not run away again. Not far from the house Evan grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight and pointed at something. It was a shiny black ball sitting there in front of us. It was about the size of a baseball, but it looked like a ball from our father’s pool table. Evan wouldn’t move or let go of my hand so I handed Pocket to him and stretched myself until I could grasp the ball. The little white face had a window in it and a word floated in the window. The word was Yes. As soon as I held it Evan threw my hand down, released Pocket and ran to the house.

    When I arrived at the front door I could hear my parents arguing in their standard way about nothing.

    Who would put a lion in a coconut? my father accused. How would a lion even fit in a coconut?

    I thought it was a metaphor, my mother answered, throwing something hard against something soft and then making noise with the cutlery in the drawer.

    For what?

    A sexual innuendo then. What does it matter if I want to sing the wrong words to myself?

    As I stepped into the doorway of the kitchen all the air sucked out of the room, whispered past me into the great hall. My mother leaned against the sink in bleached jean shorts, a revealing T-shirt and an apron that said: Kiss the Cook. Her hair hung over her eyes, shielding them from me. My father collapsed into a chair and leaned back until its front legs left the floor. He was wearing his golf clothes even though there wasn’t a golf course for towns and towns and towns from there. It was a way of protesting. A way of saying, I’m not really here with you. His smile, when he looked at me, was embarrassed. It said: I know my daughter shouldn’t hear me talk to her mother like an idiot. I know I’m being a bad guy, but I’m not really a bad guy.

    I found something, I said.

    EVAN WOULD NOT SLEEP IN the room with me anymore. So he slept with our mother in the room down the hall from me and our father slept in the room below me. I could hear his loud snores vibrate through the wall. I woke up over and over again the first night. I clicked on the bedside lamp since there was no one else to wake. I asked the ball questions and shook it and read the answers. Then I tried again to sleep.

    Will my parents get divorced?

    Yes.

    Is there anything I can do to stop them from getting divorced?

    Yes.

    What can I do to stop them from getting divorced?

    Best you don’t know.

    Will Evan get bigger?

    Yes.

    I mean will he stop being runty?

    Yes.

    Will I be tall?

    Probably not.

    Will I get married?

    Unlikely.

    Do you like being an eight ball?

    Eventually.

    Will purple monkeys fly through my window tonight and tear up the sheets and leave me buckets of money?

    No.

    Will I live to be one hundred?

    Definitely not.

    At 5 a.m. the birds started to bustle and hassle each other. I felt cold and so I stood to close the window. On the lawn in front of the house a man lay sleeping on his back, his scrappy clothing soaked around the edges with the dew. He looked like a sad clown without his makeup.

    Dad! Dad! There’s someone in our yard! I yelled, panic rushing up my skin. I stomped my feet on the floor. My father charged into the room in his pajama bottoms, grabbing the window

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