36. WEAPONS
WEAPONS
I don’t have anything else to say to you because it doesn’t matter.
Olivia places pink roses and a bundle of lavender by the base of the old oak tree. She’s at the house to collect her old journals and drawings. Isela’s ghost follows behind her, floating inches above the ground.
What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?
Specks of dust glitter the old house and Olivia’s nose transports her to the past. She remembers the first time Isela ever hit her. It was across her face with a rolled-up magazine. Then, the first time Isela called her ungrateful.
Then, selfish.
Then, a nuisance.
A brat.
A waste.
A regret.
There were a lot of different names for daughter. Olivia thumbs through her journals and grazes the frayed edges of ripped out pages. She used to burn them so Isela was unable get her hands on them. It was a small act of rebellion that made her smile.
It doesn’t matter because anything I say won’t get through to you unless it’s how you want to hear it. You see the world how you want to see it. That doesn’t change because you’re dead.
Her mother’s expertise was in slow forms of manipulation. The kinds that slip into your sleep or crawl under your skin. Olivia was inundated with invasive questions her entire childhood. Questions disguised as concern. Questions meant to sound harmless. Isela could spin any answer into a weapon.
Is that what you want to say to your dead mother? I only asked you why you aren’t taking better care of yourself. I can tell by your face. You're bloated. Look at the state of you.
Isela was dead.
Olivia felt relief and a sense of euphoria which she could never admit out loud. She slept like a baby the day after her death. Then, her ghost showed up.
Ma, you only listen for snippets of words to use against me. You don’t actually listen to anything I have to say. I am not doing this today. I don’t have the energy. I am not responsible for you.
I did love you. I tried to.
I know.
Your grandma never protected me. Your grandpa was a terrible man.
I know.
You don’t have to forgive me, you know.
I know.
Olivia knew not to say that, but the only power she had over her mother at that moment was that she was alive and her mother obviously wasn’t.
You won’t forgive your dead mother? You won’t forgive ME? You don’t know what I went through for you. You don’t know what I sacrificed for you. You should be asking me for forgiveness!
Olivia took a deep breath and chose to say nothing. It never mattered what words she chose around Isela. What mattered was control.
So, I’m a burden to you? After all I did for you? I chose you, my little olive. I chose you over your sisters and I’m the burden?
Oliva wants to say yes.
A burden.
A stain.
A nightmare.
A liar.
Olivia wants to slap her mother into oblivion. Violence is easy enough. It’s just a passing thought. She would never physically hurt her mother if she were alive. Olivia is not like Isela, not in that way.
Olivia wonders if Isela could fathom the pain she’s caused. Does she even understand her own pain?
Olivia walks out of the house and leaves her mother’s ghost behind.
She drives away, saying her silent goodbyes to the oaks and the house.
For a moment, she wishes things could have been different, but death has a way of bringing permanence to the past. Who her mother was will never change.
It’s etched into the lineage. It’s etched into her DNA.
An ancestor Olivia will never call on. An ancestor who would fan the flames to watch her turn to ash.