Kareela
Phone in hand, the abortion pamphlet stuffed back in my purse, I hear my mother’s uncertain hello. “Mom.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll take in Gran. Sell the house if you’re leaving.”
“What?”
My voice wavers, the thought of what I may be taking on—the cost, the consequences—pulsing through me. “That’ll help, right? Some of the money should be due to me, because of Dad?”
“No, that’s not—” She sighs. “It’s late, . Call in the morning; we’ll talk about this then.”
“I want to talk about this now, and this is what I want.” Gran, who loved me, never expecting anything in return. Gran, who was there when my mother wasn’t. “I’ll use my share to help pay for whatever extra assistance she needs. I’ll take care of her.”
“, you do not need to spend your life taking care of an old woman, that’s not what—”
“But it’s fine that she upended her life? Left her home, her friends, to come take care of your daughter and husband, because you were too…” I hesitate, unable to find the words for what my mother was…is…weak? pathetic? broken? “Too much of a wreck to do it.”
“.”
“No, it’s true.” The anger I’ve pushed down so many times bubbles up, propelled by my determination to make this one decision, casting aside the concern that’s only recently started to grow. “You checked out on life.” Forgetting she had a daughter. Making Antony matter more than anything. More than me. “You gave up, and if it wasn’t for Gran, wasn’t… You stopped being my mom. Antony died and—”
“I tried, .”
“Tried!” A laugh breaks out of me. My mother, doing the bare minimum. Acting like I was a chore. A burden. After we moved, it seemed like maybe things were changing, but then—“You didn’t try.” I’m yelling now. “Not for me. Not for Dad.” Crying. Hating the tears, hating how much she means to me, when, clearly, I mean so little to her.
“Dat enough now.” Gran’s voice on the line shocks me into silence. “Dat not how it was. Yuh ma did her best, did what she could.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did, baby girl.” Gran’s voice is firm. “And yuh ma is right. No need of her spending she life taking care of an old woman. And no need of yuh doing dat neither. Me will go in de home. It what best.”
“No! Mom! You should want to take care of Gran, after all she’s done. But I know you’re too selfish, too—” I stop, not wanting it to seem like I’m trying to push Gran off on Mom. “It doesn’t even matter. I love you, Gran. I’m taking care of you. It’s decided.”
“Me gonna go to de home,” says Gran. “It de best—”
“It’s not.” Hate filters through the anger. I stand there, shaking, wishing I were staring at my mother, that she could see my eyes as I tell her, at last, how monumentally she’s failed. That, when it comes down to it, she’s a huge part of why I haven’t been able to decide about this baby, because as much as I’m afraid of this shitty world, I’m afraid of myself, that with her as my example, I’d be as awful a mother as she is.
“This is…” My hand cramps as I grip the phone. “This isn’t only about you, Gran. It’s about me. It’s about her.” My voice shakes. “She lost a child. I get that. But then she was doing better.” I stop. “Mom. You were doing better. We were. Then suddenly I didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly you could hardly look at me.” Yet again, Gran became the one to ask me about classes, friends, arrange the cake and presents for my sweet sixteen, wrap her arms around me the first time a boy broke my heart.
“If Gran hadn’t been there—” Doing the cooking, the cleaning, Mom letting her be something between a nanny and a maid. “And now that she needs you, you just Just—”
“KeeKee,” says Gran. “Me shouldn’t have made such a fuss. Me gonna go somewhere in de city. Near yuh.”
“No!” I shout, my frustration about Mom not caring for Gran mixing with my anger about all the years she didn’t care for me. “What happened?” I spew, at last asking the question that has lurked on the periphery of my thoughts for years. “When you were doing so good? Why can’t you look at me? Touch me. Was it something I did?”
“.” Mom’s crying now. Something I haven’t seen her do in years. Haven’t heard. “It’s not—”
The thoughts that, after all these years, had fallen into place just weeks earlier rise again. The accident. Mom’s face, swollen and bruised, layers of makeup failing to cover the blotch of colors underneath. Her shoulder dislocated and arm broken. And yet the car nothing but a few scratches and one large dent.
Moving out of Dad’s room—and out of his life, in a way she hadn’t before.
Avoiding Violet.
Avoiding us all.
Becoming a shell when it came to any emotionality, even worse than Dad had. Even after he started to crawl out of it, tried to pry her out, too.
And all those little signs I’m trained to see of abused women, victimized women, women suffering from PTSD—the tremor of a hand, the slant of a gaze, the unreasonable startle of fear from commonplace noises. All those signs that with my own mother, I’ve never taken the time to really consider, slam into me.
“The accident.”
“What?” Her voice is high, surprised—but unable to hide all she’s never said.
“What happened? I never… But the car. And you…” I can’t figure out how to put into words the things I’m finally starting to see. “Something happened, didn’t it? Something more than your car swerving off the road.” And, cruelly, I almost need this to be true, because then it would mean it wasn’t me. Wasn’t just that I wasn’t enough to assuage her grief. “Something bad.” I breathe. “Something that’s made you…made you…”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice is full of such pain, such defeat, that all thoughts of my own pain, my own need for answers, disappear. I know I’m right, that I need to go to her. Now.