my home, she stood there, mesmerized by the fish, saying how she wanted a fish too, but figured she couldn’t care for any because of her hectic schedule. She said they’d all be belly up. I know where this goes. The sister is dead. Somehow, she feels responsible, too. She’ll dissect this and then get to a point where she gets stuck. The truth does that sometimes, makes us hesitate, so we don’t want to admit the shit that lies beneath the folds, the rotten floorboards covered by the expensive Oriental rug of our deceits. We all have to die a little in order to get to the truth. Smell the mustiness. The rot. The stench of death and decay. The fact that this is the very first thing she wrote in that fucking journal is telling, to say the least.
“So, yes… Time went on, and it got to the point where Tamia began to have nightmares. I never knew quite what they were about; her vocabulary was limited. She’d say key words here and there, but would mostly point to things, or write something down, though her penmanship wasn’t always legible. I learned to read her writing though. She wrote… beautiful things sometimes. She was never depressed. At least, not to me. Smiling, happy. That was sometimes strange to me. It’s like she didn’t understand the severity of her condition. As time went on though, I grew weary of being Tamia’s main helper. I didn’t really stand still long enough to absorb that… and it felt…”
“Shameful.”
“Yes. Shameful. Now in fairness, when my eldest sister, Cinje, would try to help, Tamia would become angry and refuse the assistance. She’d go as far as to soil herself in protest. I began to… resent Tamia. She was like a ball and chain. The heaviness, the pressure.” The woman’s voice cracked as she clasped her hands tight. “I wanted to go out sometimes by myself or with friends, but she’d become angry because she didn’t want to be alone, without me. I wanted to go on dates, hang out, hell, just get more than ten minutes to myself. Our house was crowded. Time, food, privacy, all of that was practically nonexistent as it was.”
“Why did your parents have all of you?”
Her eyes widened.
“Why would you ask a question like that? What the hell is wrong with you?”
The waiter soon returned with the new bottle and two fresh glasses, and poured the wine.
“It’s a sensible question.” He leaned forward, hooking her gaze. “If your parents were educated and reasonable, had many children but money was tight, and one child was clearly in need of special care—which was an additional emotional and financial strain—why did they continue to have more children?”
“I don’t know, you son of a bitch. I guess you’d have to ask them.” She grimaced and shook her head, obviously enraged and maybe shocked.
“Don’t you sit there looking appalled and like some damn princess. I know your mind. I understand how it works. I am asking you what you wanted to ask them, Yasmine.” She stiffened. “I am asking you the same thoughts you’re dancing around as you sit here looking beautiful, prim and proper, smelling amazing, pouring your guts out about a sister you loved almost more than yourself, but also hated on occasion. And yet, your hate didn’t only rest with her; it rested with your parents who were more than happy to put that big ass burden on you, to allow you to be her caretaker while your life was severely impacted. Never the same. The grief you suffered was different from theirs. I haven’t even heard the whole story, but I know how this shit is going to roll. You suffered. You all suffered. The food in the house was rationed to the point that some nights you went to bed hungry. All because they wanted to keep makin’ people they couldn’t take care of, then use you as the babysitter of a very sick child.”
“Fuck you. My parents are amazing people.”
“Amazingly selfish.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Say it… They kept fucking with no regard to contraception, calling their children God’s precious gifts, but all seven of you had to practically fend for yourselves. They justified it by saying that they kept the bills paid when you would have much preferred they worked less, had fewer kids. But then, of course, your existence would have been compromised if that logic were followed and I wouldn’t be having this lovely dinner with an amazing