Sandy

"Because."

That was Sandy's usual answer to her mother's usual long, intricate question. Sandy would say,"Why bother with syllogisms?" when asked "why just 'because'?" And then, her face would just turn away and her mouth would just mutter something about an unwanted prolonged discussion from her mother.

Sandy's mother worked as a talk-show host. A respectable career, in many people's minds, as it was evident now, judging by the swarm of black attires gathered here. A funeral was being held in honor of Pierre. He was not famous, not even moderately known, but Sandra's mother was famous, and more than moderately known. She was always on TV. So other celebrities came and paid their respects to Pierre. But the rest of the public knew that they were there to pay their respects to Sandy's mother.

Sandy was a thorn in her mother's shoulder, as she was just now when her mother asked why her daughter was laughing. "Because," Sandy answered. Her mother never quite understood her; she had thought that Sandy loved Pierre as well as she did. With this thought, she kept on persisting that Sandy should answer the question "properly." That meant more than a one-word answer. So Sandy said, "Because I am not crying."

Sandy did not feel that it was her right to cry. She did not think that her tears, however many, would pool sufficiently and reach Pierre's heart. She even questioned whether Pierre ever had a heart in the first place. She even doubted Pierre's ability to hear her now.

Sandy had met Pierre when she was eighteen. That was the time when she started hating herself. But she never could live without that feeling. Pierre had told Sandy one day that he would do her face; he felt that Sandy had put on her make-up all wrong. He never had the courage to tell her that she's not beautiful. Sandy had thought that Pierre was trying to get a chance to caress her, in some way, in any way. But she was always misunderstood.

Sandy glimpsed at the woman who was her mother, and whenever she did this, she cannot help but remember Pierre, who was laying snugly in his coffin, near the buffet table, and this was here not by mistake. Many gatherers had wanted to spare only an hour; they might as well put all the proper proceedings together in that short span. Their only purpose was to show their faces.

Sandy sometimes wished to trade places with Pierre, especially at this hour of mourning. But she admitted to herself that it gave her a sense of pleasure to see him there. After all, Pierre had taught her many things. He had taught her never to take a puff of smoke nor down any alcoholic beverages. He said that he had learned it from TV. So she never did. Pierre also had taught her how to love hating herself.

Pierre had his insights, one of them being this mantra: that hating one's self could turn out to be a wonderful, healthy feeling. The problem with Pierre was he never could be consistent with his own character. He had broken Sandy's spirit, and that was not the first time. Nevertheless, Sandy hoped and hoped. She had hoped for Pierre's unrequited love. She loved him but could not bear the thought of being with him. But still, she hoped. She had hoped before that she would grow taller, and she did grow. She had hoped that she will never be poor, and now they're rich. She also had hoped that Pierre would never know how he broke her spirit, and he never did. He believed that he had only broken her heart. But Sandy never blamed him, his only fault was being French.

And now Pierre's dead. He had died on a Sunday. When others asked around about the story of his death, people just shrugged and said, "He just couldn't wait." He just couldn't wait for Sandy's birthday. If he had lived for seven more days, Pierre wouldn't have missed it. But he was too excited that he died, and as they said, "He just couldn't wait."

Sandy could not believe that it had been already six years since she met Pierre at his parlor. She only thought it was yesterday; this was not a cliché. But it had been a quick six years trying to get accustomed to pain. Sandy felt the pain now in her mouth, in her tongue: it tasted salty. Somehow, Sandy knew, from instinct she supposed, that Pierre would never offer her painkillers, only pain. Like that time when she knew that Pierre would someday abandon her for another woman. Only she didn't know that it would be her mother.

Sandy soon found out one Sunday. She had been sauntering to his parlor when she saw him standing near the pink door. She had remembered Pierre's smile across the street, and she had thought that it was meant for her. She had waved back, and he had smiled more. He had white teeth, or was it yellow? It had been sunny that afternoon. But then Sandy remembered that Pierre rarely smiled at her, at least not that smile. So she turned and looked, and there she saw her mother standing beneath a shade. From then on, she had felt more insecure, more than she ever thought she could ever feel.

Sandy knew that she needed help, but she never asked for it. She never asked for anything. She somehow knew that what she wanted will never be given to her. She seemed to want something that did not and will not belong to her. She had wanted the world, but it did not want her.

The hour was almost over. Sandy went to where Pierre was laid and kissed his lips. She never had gotten a chance to do it when he was alive. She had not kissed him while his taut body had been in church this morning, in private. She disliked churches as she disliked Sundays. Sundays never did anything good for her. But for Pierre's sake, she came. To do it for Pierre's sake was doing it for her mother's sake, who was taking Pierre's death badly. Her mother had just known that Pierre had never been an admirer of females. And she had learned this from her ex-husband, not Sandy's father, who had known it along all this time. And he was now in this crowd.

But for all this Sandy never wept. Pierre had taught her well. Her six years of practice had paid off. She knew now that she had never loved anyone, or anything, but Pain.

Copyright 1996 by Blue