Kareela
I take the stairs to my mother’s room slowly, the weight of all that I’ve learned making my steps heavy. All the memories, the hurts, the frustrations, turn over in my mind and are rewritten with a new script, one that highlights the perspective of this woman whose side I haven’t bothered to see.
I’ve been blind to her pain, thinking only of my loss, my father’s—how the violence against Antony seemed a harbinger of the ever-present threat against us. That Mom’s skin protected her from that. That, in some small way, her skin made her complicit in what happened. Yes, she lost her child, and I saw the pain of that, but my father lost not only his son, but his career, his respect, his sense of purpose in the world. I lost my brother, my home, my friends, her. And she was responsible for those final three. I hated her for bringing us to this place, hated her for checking out again, after teasing us into thinking things were about to get better.
So I didn’t see the signs, even when I should have—after I’d been trained to. Even though, despite the hate, I loved her, too.
I stand outside her door, my throat tight. I lift my arm, then knock. “Mom?”
“Leave me be, . Please.”
I turn the knob anyway, step through. My mother sits on the window seat.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I lean against the sill, not sure exactly what I’m apologizing for—that I didn’t take the time to ask her what was wrong, ever? That, because of the hatred of the world, she became a victim of her choices: marrying my father, having us as children, everything that followed? That I thought of her, in some small way, as complicit, that the loss of Antony would have harmed her less, or should have.
Seeing her now, thinking these thoughts in a more concrete way than I ever have before, the foolishness in them is clear. If my mother were in any way complicit, then wouldn’t I be, too? At least half as much. Wouldn’t Antony?
I lean forward and rest a hand on her leg. I feel more than see her stiffen.
Here I’ve been victimizing myself, trapped in my decision of whether to be with Thomas, to have his child in a world that’s so much better than the one my mother started that phase of her life in, never even considering the parallels and divergences.
Shame filters through me. I’ve been afraid that in having a child with Thomas, I’ll miss out on the identity I think I crave. She feared for her life, her safety, her children’s.
“Gran never should have done that.”
She remains silent, face toward the window.
“She should have stood up for you. We would have stood up for you.”
She pulls her knees to her chest, like a child.
“You loved us, right?” My bottom lip quivers. I bite to keep it steady. “And it wasn’t the way we would have wanted you to show it, but that’s why you did it?”
She’s still, as if I’m a ghost, as if my words haven’t passed the veil between two parallel universes.
“Do you love us now?” I ask, desperate. “Me?”
“.” She shakes her head, looks at me at last. “To ask such a thing.”
“Do you regret us?”
She continues to look, as if seeing me for the first time in years—angst in her eyes.
Every muscle in my face tightens. “Mom. Do you regret us? If you hadn’t met Dad, if you hadn’t had me, Antony, your life would have been so different. He died and then…it’s like you hated me. The part of me that came from Dad. That was like Antony. It’s like you wanted to rip it out, erase it, and when you learned you couldn’t, you just—”
“I love you, ,” she says, yet doesn’t deny the regret. And that lack is a scimitar, cutting open my deepest fears. “Your brother, you, your father, you brought me joy.” She pauses, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s omitting the word once . “I would never change those memories.”
But the others… “Mom?”
“.” Her voice is a whisper, soft and tired. Like her grief is a tsunami. Like she’s already drowned.
That tsunami swallowed my father and, my whole life, has been threatening to swallow me.
I stand, step away from her, realizing as I do, that yet again, I’ve made this about me. My pain. My fears.
In his final days, after being stuck in the house for months, my father sat on the couch, unshaven, watching that video over and over again. I yelled at him to put the tablet down, stop watching, let it go. With bloodshot eyes he stared at me, his voice slipping into the lilt of his childhood. Let him go? My son? Yanking back the tablet, he shook it at me. They do this. And there nothing done to dem. Nothing, yuh hear! Let him go? Slamming his chest. He here always . He everywhere.
Days later, when the rallies were happening in every major city, in ours—not two hours away—despite a part of me being thrilled to see some spark of energy in him, some passion after the weeks of keeping his eyes glued to the tablet, of drinking more and more each day, I told him to stay home. Told him the virus was too dangerous. That he couldn’t drive, drunk like he was.
I should have bought masks and driven us there. I should have embraced him, telling him how much I missed Antony, too.
Instead, I directed him to the couch, disdain in my voice that was as much for me as him, for my fear of the riots, the beatings, the shootings that occurred in the wake of this tragedy, for the fact that he, who after all we’d been through, after years of seeming somewhat better, of at least remembering I was alive, was now willing to put himself at risk.
In telling him no, I—just like everyone and everything else—helped kill him.
My mother, at least, has survived. She, at least, is still here, despite it seeming the opposite. I shift closer, hesitate, then throw my arms around her, for being here. Maybe not in the way I’ve wanted. But here. For trying—in her own way, as much and as well as she could—to protect me.
She stiffens, freezes, for one second, two, before quickly, almost cautiously, hugging me back. But before I’ve barely registered the faint pressure of her arms, she pushes me away.
“.” She straightens, her voice shaking. “It was long ago. All of it. I’m fine, now. And I love you, of course…” Her voice trails off. “But I’d really appreciate some time alone. So, please, can you give me that?”
I stare, wanting to pummel her for the way she’s pushed me away, yet again. Wanting to scream. But also wanting to wrap my arms around her once more, forcing her to submit to my embrace—for what she’s been through, for the fact that this is the first time I’ve taken the time to care.
Instead, I respect her wishes and step to the door, all the words I’ve never said, the words I wish I could, stuck in my throat.