My grandmother’s death was the first incident that showed me I was out of step with the rest of the world.
She’d been very fond of me. Even after an illness in her chest meant that she did little other than sleep, she wanted me by her side. She stroked my hair and called me “such a good boy, such a kind boy,” her eyes crinkling with happiness.
But I wasn’t the simple child my grandmother wished me to be. Her emaciated hands, her face guttered by wrinkles, her white, whispering husks of hair, her breath that reeked of medicine—all of it repelled and frightened me.
“You’re a good boy, a kind boy.”
Each time her croaking voice whispered in my ear, I felt as if she were putting a curse on me. My neck stiffened and goose bumps prickled my skin.
I was terrified she would discover that I was not, in fact, a good boy; that as soon as my grandmother saw that in my heart I despised her, she would become a demon, her white hair bristling and her eyes burning red, and she would devour me. I would break into a cold, heavy sweat, and some nights I found sleep impossible.
So I took great care that she wouldn’t notice and showered her with adoration. I volunteered to bring her food and wipe the sweat from her brow. I cared for her diligently; I even went so far as to snuggle against her and kiss her cheek sweetly, telling her that I loved her.
Her cheek was dry as a withered leaf and smelled of the medicine I hated so much. Terrified that I might catch her disease, I would go to the sink afterward and scrub my mouth out with water over and over until finally I split my lip. As it bled, I considered what an awful child I was for lying; my throat clenched, and my eyes burned.
Then one day my grandmother grew cold and stopped moving.
“You are such a good boy, such a kind boy,” she whispered, stroking my head tenderly.
Her hand went suddenly limp and her face turned white, the color of candle wax, but I felt nothing. When she stopped breathing, I deserted my grandmother and went to play in the park.
When I returned that evening, my mother caught me up in her arms and told me my grandmother had died, but even then, my heart was as placid as a forest where no animals ventured to go.
My grandmother’s funeral was held a few days later. During all that time I was distant and shed not a single tear, so the adults murmured to each other, “He’s still so young, he doesn’t understand that his grandma is dead. He was so fond of her.”
Shame welled up inside of me when I heard that. My ears burned red, and I couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. But that was only embarrassment; I didn’t feel the slightest bit sad at my grandmother’s death.
I’ve been this way ever since I was very small.