Such a Weak Boy

He was always a soft-hearted boy, and it showed in his features too – his big, round eyes and dark lush hair were the making of a beautiful young man. He was, by most standards, quite handsome. The fact that he was always getting into arguments at school with his teachers was driving me insane and I made sure to give him a proper beating each time it happened, with hopes it would make him stop. He had this defiant air about him when he told me the teacher was wrong. He never seemed to understand that being right was not always the same thing as being smart about things.

Because I was born on a farm and raised with eight more siblings, I knew how good Michael had it. I knew he was being ungrateful and spoiled. His father was always so easy on him. They were always playing chess or reading, never fishing, or camping, or playing football like I’d hear some of the men at work talk about their weekends with their kids. It’s true that John was often away for work so I suppose some one-on-one time was expected when he got back. I just thought it would be outdoors and not so passive. It made me resent John for not toughening our boy up. Whenever he left for work, I was back in charge. That’s when I got Michael back under control a bit.

After I had Michael, the doctors told me that under no circumstances was I to have another child. Something about blood clots, something about the high risk of that pregnancy for myself and the baby. But when it happened, how could I possibly not go through with it? I clearly made beautiful babies – surely things would work out. And I was right, of course. Ana came into our lives twelve years after Michael and she was every bit the blonde fairy princess I expected her to be. Everyone had always commented on my beauty growing up, so she was bound to be at least as beautiful as I was.

Michael didn’t pay much attention to Ana. But I made sure he took her to school, got her home and made their lunch, helped her with homework until I got home in the afternoon. I suppose being twelve years apart had its benefits. He could properly handle this type of responsibility.

There was a winter, back in ‘75 or ‘76, when Ana was a little baby and she spiked a fever. I was going mad, not knowing how to bring it down on my own, call the doctor, or call an ambulance. I remember holding Ana tight in my arms, praying she'd get better but she only got worse. I took her out onto the balcony thinking the cold air would get her to calm down a little. It’s quite possible I blanked out for a minute from all her screaming, from all my crying, because I remember Michael pulling at my arm and lifting Ana from my arms into his. The window of the balcony was wide open and I was leaning out. The paramedics were pounding on the door when Michael opened it while holding his crying sister.

As a teenager, Ana fell into the same book obsession as her brother. Always scribbling things on the edges of novels, always signing up for writing competitions. I never understood why she tried so hard. She was so beautiful – everyone said so. All her teachers adored her, every boy in school knew her name. Why did she need to be clever? Beauty was the thing that opened doors, I knew that better than anyone. I’d used mine well enough – I’d married a diplomat. She was wasting something I would have killed for at her age.

Their college experience was quite different. Michael was my boy, my firstborn. He was obviously going places. As long as his mouth didn’t get the better of him and he stayed in his lane, like I told him to, he was on his path to success. With John’s influence and, let’s face it, money–it would be impossible for him not to be accomplished and successful. Leave it to Michael to find a way to disappoint. He was always lazy. Lazy around the house, because I always had to make him do things. Lazy at school, because he only ever cared about English and Math classes. Lazy, lazy, lazy. Senior year, he just wouldn’t care about anything. I told John he wouldn’t get into college like this, I called it. He kept saying he was too smart not to. Well. Smart will only get you halfway, won’t it?

I remember my dream from the night before his exam. It’s still clear as day to me. I dreamt of this goose who got lost on the country road where I grew up. I’d lost it in fact, while walking it to a patch of grass. I woke up sweating, knowing he’d botch the exam, so I told John to get ready to grease some hands. He looked at me with such disbelief and dare I say, hurt. The joke was on him, because Michael failed his exam spectacularly. John ended up doing what I’d asked. He talked to the right people, promised certain things and would you look at that, Michael got in!

He went on and off to classes and ended up failing enough of them to basically flunk out. We did the whole dance one more time and spent enough money in getting him re-admitted to basically buy a car. God, the money we wasted on this boy!

Surprisingly enough, we didn’t need to go through this again twelve years later as Ana got into college all on her own, with little effort. She’d gotten a bit out of hand with partying though. She needed a tighter leash, and I was going to tug on it often, given all her late nights and endless number of gentlemen callers. These children were never going to grant me a moment of peace, no matter what I did.

Michael started working a job his dad had obviously gotten him, making good money but with tough hours. Of course, this girl he knew from middle school had reconnected with him, now that he was making money. We spent those years of his childhood in a small town, 5 hours away from the capital city we now lived in. It was close to the village I was from and we were living with John’s mother so she could help out with Michael. I knew all about this girl’s poor family and I really expected more from him, better. With those dashing looks and how well off he was, he could have chosen anyone! It had to be the quiet girl from the middle of nowhere. Sometimes I even wonder if he’d actually been with her through the whole college debacle – maybe she was the distraction that derailed his future. I wouldn’t find it hard to believe.

I liked this Mia girl even less once they informed us they were getting married. They were both twenty-three and in love. She hadn’t gone to college, although she tried getting into med school twice and failed. I told them we’d take care of the wedding, even though it was sort of a given. Her parents definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford even half of it. I made sure John booked the Athenee Palace as a venue and handled the rest myself. It was a big wedding, and we made sure to gift them half of their new apartment, with the other half somehow covered by Mia’s family. I wasn’t sure how they managed, but it was the least they could do.

I encouraged them to give me grandbabies, because I was going to raise them. They wouldn’t be able to get much time off work anyway, so I offered. I missed little children running around. They had Lily a year after the wedding and I was so happy to get another chance at raising a child. Ana was twelve back then and it felt like kismet to have three kids twelve years apart. Lily was a beautiful baby and all our neighbors came by to see her, bringing gifts. Michael and Mia sometimes came by on weekends for a Sunday dinner and they’d spend a few hours with her. Then they’d run along to their jobs and their social lives.

I raised that child with so much love and care. She always had the most beautiful dresses because I got John to buy her new ones every time he travelled out of the country. People would stop us on the street to rave about her and her outfits. Ana loved her as if she were her own personal doll. When she was in high school, she’d bike around with her friends in the park across the street and would often take Lily with her just to show her off. They were as good as sisters.

I so vividly remember the time when Lily disobeyed me and ran off in the dead of winter to one of our downstairs neighbors in nothing but a nightgown because she thought it was her princess gown. She still remembers that spanking I gave her and how she never dared to do it again after that. We raised Lily from three months to four years old and we had the best time with her around. She brought back laughter and joy into our home.

“We were all so happy back then”, Grandma Liz tells me. I’m at her apartment, which has now lost all its luster and sparkle. I can see spiderwebs in every corner of this place. Dust covers her living room furniture and because of the dirt on her floors I’ve stopped taking off my shoes when I come visit. I feel like she’s a hoarder but not of anything worthwhile, just dirty rags, empty yoghurt tubs and food wrappings. That’s why I’ve suggested multiple times to her that it’s unhealthy living like this and that I’d like to hire a team of professional cleaners to come by and fix the place up for her. She always says yes, up until the day when they’re supposed to come by. That’s normally when she has things to do and asks me to postpone it yet again.

Today, she asked me to come by and help give her a pedicure, because she can’t bend down anymore to clip her toenails. I’m here, but I am really dreading the small talk because it’s always gut-wrenching for me.

“Did you know that your father drank even back then? But I had no idea it was anything serious. I just figured he drank like all young men used to do,” she continues. She doesn’t even realize these are jabs at my own father. She doesn’t read the pain on my face. She’s basically a grenade without a pin, I never know when she’s gonna blow so I do what I always do. I bite my tongue and promise to vent about it to my husband after I get out of here.

“That poor mother of yours! She was always a saint for putting up with him. He was never good for anything. Not even as a kid, did you know that? Worthless,” she piles on. Just like poison, seeping into my pores.

“I remember paying to get him into college. Twice! All for nothing. Now look at me! I took care of those two kids and for what? His sister isn’t any better. She was wasting her youth away until she found Jerome, that nice French doctor. She got so lucky with him. But she doesn’t give a damn about me either. She never comes to visit,” she rages on. By now she’s gotten herself in a place where she’s arguing with fate, God or just herself. If I agree with her, it spurs her on. If I disagree, she argues harder trying to make her point.

“Here, give me your feet, one at a time. Let’s put them in hot water. Here – is this warm enough?” I try to distract her, as if she were a child.

“Oh thank you honey, look at the state of me! I tell you, old age is the worst. I’m just so alone. Your grandfather died, all my friends have died – I don’t know who anyone is anymore in this apartment building, your aunt is so far away and your dad drank himself into an early grave. There’s no one left,” she started whimpering.

I sighed heavily. I hate it when she mentions dad. I know he had his flaws, I know he was actually quite similar to her with those fits of rage that always targeted my mother or me. I deeply hated him for it but I’ve struggled so hard to forgive him, to pick and choose certain features of his personality that were good, and witty, and loving, and soft. I know there was a lot of deep-rooted pain under all of that, pain he needed to drown out.

“I think your nails are soft enough to clip now, should I start?” I look up at her, hoping she can’t see me well enough without her glasses on.