Razi stood at the grave site, her right hand in her pocket, fingering a stone. She did it absentmindedly. It had become a habit with her, carrying that stone, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger whenever fear nipped at her heals. Must have been a lot of fear in her life of late because the stone’s rough edge seemed to have a new smoothness to it, unlike herself who had noticeably hardened in the past months, her soft spots roughed up. Or at least that’s what her mother had said. But what did her mother know? The old woman spent most of her time trying to chase down a lucid thought. It didn’t matter if truth were attached to it or not, just as long as it made some kind of sense.
Razi shook herself slightly. The action probably stemmed from thoughts of her mother rather than the cold wind that was picking up steam as it blew up the hillside. She forced herself to look at the name plate laying in the earth. Didn’t want to, in fact had avoided it as she had read the Psalms. The sight of her brother’s name shook her, made a lie of the denials that had filled her imagination for the past year. If Chaim’s name were etched in stone then it was probably true. It was probably him that was buried beneath the mound of dirt, dirt that was sprouting weeds, symbolic, she believed, of the mess he had made of his mind, not to mention his life.
She sighed softly. Maybe he hadn’t been the one who had muddied up his thought processes and fouled up his life. Maybe it had been all her fault. Her mother had said so just as her brother had so many times throughout the years. Had said it even when they had been children, Chaim screaming his baseless accusations and their mother accepting them because it had been easier and because she had wanted to believe them. Razi had tried to understand her mother’s thinking and willingness to sacrifice her daughter to lies. In fact she had spent almost thirty years trying to understand them then one day her father of very blessed memory had informed her of her mother’s very close encounter in a motel room nine months before Razi’s birth. It was then that Razi had begun to understand her mother’s actions, understand in an intellectual sense, that is. Would never do it emotionally. How could any mother blame a child for the teaming up of sperm and egg. But some did, she guessed and her mother was no doubt one of those that did.
But why Chaim? Where did his resentments come from, resentments that had collected interest and blossomed into full blown anger? “Tell me, Chaim, why was it me that you hated and blamed. You were the oldest, the one born within the proper time frame, or more importantly, with the proper paternity. You elicited no guilt from Mother. You were no reminder of a seedy relationship in a seedy motel. You were no reminder of her weaknesses. You were the golden child so where did your anger come from?”
Razi knelt suddenly, ignoring the damp earth that began to soak through her denim skirt. She began pulling the weeds, thinking somehow that it would clear everything up, that she would be able to discern the answers once the gravesite was cleared. But no answers came, just a burning pain as she yanked at the weeds. Quickly she brought her hand to her mouth and sucked on her thumb and forefinger. Stinging nettle. Just like you Chaim to grow this noxious weed on your grave. She imagined his hollow laughter from beneath the piles of dirt. She shivered once more and stared at her fingers, willing the burning to diminish. “Always wanting to cause pain, weren’t you Chaim, deep emotional pain. Made you proud, was your purpose in life. Made up for all the mistakes you made, mistakes that you blamed me for. Well why not? If you had enriched some shrink, taken up time on her couch, she would have encouraged you to pass the blame. Couldn’t have been your fault. Nothing is anyone’s fault anymore. All the misery is due to monetary deprivation or some such thing. Forget ethical and moral deprivation. Morality is relevant to popular opinion anymore and so are ethics.
The facts were that we were poor and I breathed your air and had the things you should have had–whatever they were. Is that why you hated me?
Razi shook her head. She sounded like some wacko shrink herself, spouting some specious theory from a specious textbook. The truth was, she didn’t know why her brother hated her, didn’t know when the hatred had sprouted or why it had flourished. But it had been encouraged, she knew. Encouraged by their mother. Back to her again.
Maybe, that’s why Razi was so angry not to mention fearful of late. Maybe it was because Chaim had thrown away his life, leaving their mother for her to care for. What kind of justice was that? Caring for a woman who had constantly inflicted emotional pain on her younger child and often times, even physical. The old woman didn’t want Razi in her life. Never had. So once again, no one was happy. Razi stiffened. She was sure that she could hear Chaim’s laughter once more, from six feet under.
Razi stopped the weeding. It was pointless. Clearing the gravesite wouldn’t unscramble her own thinking, give her any answers. It was a symbolic gesture, that’s all, one that she really didn’t want, if she were to be honest, that is. What she really wanted was to hop a plane and escape the reality of her life, the unwanted responsibilities, and an unwanted past. She wanted to reinvent her history and pretend that her family had not been her family at all—except for her father, that is. She didn’t want to abolish his memory. In fact, his memory became more blessed every day.
Razi sighed deeply and zipped up her coat. A suitable atmosphere for a grave yard, a cold wind coupled with the dampness from the previous day’s rain. She stuck her hand into her pocket searching for her gloves. She found the stone, instead. Bringing it out, she stared at it, trying to remember where she had picked it up. Had it for ages, she thought. Usually kept it in the saucer on her dresser. Ah yes, she remembered. Avi had picked it up in his tight fisted little hands and schlepped it outside to play with a month or so ago. She had taken it from him, feeling childish in doing so. After all, if her grandson wanted it, let him have it. She gave him everything else he wanted. A grandma’s privilege. But she had made an exception then and had taken the stone from him and slipped it into her pocket. And there it had remained, forgotten until she had boarded the plane to her childhood home after the call from the RCMP.
The scene with her mother had been a disaster, the old woman latching onto fictional memories, memories that were poisoned by ancient resentments. Too bad that the old woman’s quirky memory couldn’t have relinquished the anger and out-right hatred of her daughter. Too much to expect. Too much brooding on the old woman’s part. The anger had become a part of her. She would probably bleed out if she were severed from the anger.
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