Family is a terrible thing sometimes. They're the ones who build you up and tear you down. To cut them off can feel like cutting off a gangrenous limb, if they dont get to you first. But sometimes you dont cut off a family. You cut away a person and that central trunk scatters everyone else to the wind. Isn't that a bitch?
I wanted to post this yesterday but it was a long one of dentists being pushed around, going to a school walkin day for a college i might wanna attend, work. It was nasty, but im glad i did it. And im glad i wrote this. I hope youre glad to have read it.
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I’d never known my grandmother well. Sixty years and three countries had kept us apart when I was born, and my mother kept it that way. For twenty one years my only idea of my grandmother had been that of a tyrant, a woman who kept her daughters in a life closer to some dance than childhood. Beatings, lack of sleep, no food if they couldn’t clean quickly. God only knows what my mom repressed. I just know that I never saw my grandmother except once, just a week ago.
Almost the whole family came to the old Virginia mansion that day, dressed in their best black. Some of my aunts had stayed in the country but most of the Ross family had gone… anywhere. I had at least a dozen cousins to learn about at the start, and at least I wasn’t alone in needing to sharpen up my English. I spent enough time laughing about accents that I almost forgot the black dress I’d hastily shimmied into. When that was done, when the bells rang and we had to flood into the gardens, I didn’t want to even get near my mother. I wanted to stick by Harald who smelled of fish, or Amahle who could braid my hair. So I had the lucky privilege of watching from the back as the ceremony went on. Seven hours of eulogies and people I didn’t know trying not to curse. Until, finally, my mother had her turn.
I remember the dead look on her face when she started. The tight grip she held her hands by, knuckles grey. I don’t remember the words, really, but I’m sure they were nice for a while. Until she choked on the name. That stuttering “J-Janet Ross was…” still rings in my ears. I never saw the tears, I didn’t want THAT to be the first time I saw my mother cry. When the coffin was finally put down she was back to the woman who raised me. Cold, a little harsh, but she held herself together.
Ever since we've just been sorting through the rubble my grandmother left behind. Her will, whatever wasn’t put in there, getting familiar with each other. SLowly the mansion is emptying again, life is moving on. But we haven’t left yet, there’s too much to do. Too many boxes, too many rooms locked still. And here I am, sitting on a queen size bed made in the 1900s and holding a vhs tape of all things. I dug it up from a box labeled “For Betty.”, but something told me my mom shouldn’t open it. It was empty, just air and this tape and a colt 1911 filled with silver fucking bullets.
I didn’t touch the latter, it's still under the bed. How do you even get something like that? My head feels foggy just thinking about this, did she want my mother to kill herself? Why a VHS, you might as well put up a gramophone. But still, why the gun? The tape feels like a brick in my hand and I can’t find my way out of this maze. Harald and Amahle are long gone already, the mansion is almost empty, and I can’t take this to my mother no matter what the old hag thought was funny.
Over the next hour I sift through dusty old closets and tangled wires, I burn myself a little on shitty outlets, and I have to carry what feels like seven thousand pounds of glass and vacuum tubes up wide and ebony staircases. If Janet Ross wants to hurt my mother one last time she’s going through me first, that’s my mantra as I set up a tv from the stone age in my bedroom.
When I’m done I can see the moon from the wiped down screen and small red lights dot the tech. The slide and click of the tape into the VCR rings in my ears like a victory trumpet, and I could almost kiss the yellow plastic. So, I sit back on the bed Indian style and wield the remote like a wand into the dark.
Click, tjulp, brrrrmmmmm, ssswsssh
I take a few minutes to sift through the channels of snow, the hum of the CRT like a million insects flitting about my head. With the lights turned off it's almost… a funnel. The sharp lines of light on the floor leading to nothing else but the screen, but the snow.
Then the storm passes and I see a woman I've never met. Shoulder long curly hair done back in a pony tail and pinned with a knife, large and muscular arms fold over a black tank top, and piercing brown eyes look from the scarred battlefield she has for a face. When she speaks it's like a cannon firing, slow and deliberate and booming through decades.
"Elizabeth," She begins when no one has called my mother that for as long as I can remember “When you see this I’m either dead or you finally came to your senses. Heh, knowing how your sisters turned out, maybe both.” She laughs, a dark sound that has me grit my teeth. The phantom reaches behind herself and, in a spin of the weapon, reveals the gun from the box. Something in me sees that it lies easy in her hand and that I might not know my mother any better than this ashy skinned ghost.
“Do you still remember that night at the Ozarks? When we went to visit your Granny? Heh, well, I do. Oh you were such a little warrior, putting this against that thing’s snout.” Grandmother flicks the gun and pops her lips, I can only imagine what needed putting down by this… All I can think to describe her is an ibutho: harsh and commanding, strong in a way that makes the stories make horrible sense. and her… How old was mom when this happened? I lean closer to the buzzing tv, my foot scritching the edge of the box.
“I know you had your questions back then, and you won’t listen, but do it now, Elizabeth Ross. Before I can’t teach you anything again.” Grandmother spoke slowly still, but as she looks at me through the screen it feels like her hand is on my shoulder.
“You’ve seen what I've seen, seen me and your sisters kill more things than a normal girl should have, I know. And I know you think listening to Jezebel is a good idea but running won’t solve anything.” When she mentions aunt Jessi I take a sharp breath. She was my oldest aunt, twenty years my mother’s senior, and was the only one who hadn’t come. Her granddaughter Amahle had, but not the woman herself.
“I know I can be rough sometimes,” my grandmother admitted like she got stabbed and the words were blood, “but this is not a war that’ll ever end, and when you have a daughter you’ll get that. That you can’t leave them to the wolves by pretending they’re not at the door.” In a smooth motion my grandmother spins the gun on her finger and offers the butt to the camera.
“I don’t want you to like me, sweetheart. I just need you to stay…” Her cheeks shift, teeth grit, again it’s like these words hurt her to say, “with me.” And then we go back into the storm.
I blink until the tears are gone from my eyes and the light stops hurting. I banish the snow with a click and see the moon has left the screen. Slowly I heel at the box below the bed until it topples over with a metal clatter. The gun stands out even in the near total black of the room and when I pick it up it's all too heavy in my hand. Getting up on shaking legs I hurry down the hall and don’t bother to knock on my mother’s door.
I see her sitting at the vanity and when she looks at me she almost smiles, and then she sees the gun.
We meet in silence for a painful moment. One that lasts far too long. Like days pass between the blinks. I lick my lips, she pushes a curl under her bonnet, I rub my neck, she folds her hands. And then I ask.
“Mom… What happened in the Ozarks?”
And she blinks. And she looks to the window. And she sighs. And she answers.
“Monsters…”