Hate

Hate   By Nolricae          
Hate has many meanings in my life. I hate Seattle Stein. I hate Suzie Neiman. And most importantly I HATE my former Grandma Joyce. I hate all of these people. I hate Seattle Stein for being obnoxious, a stupid clumpy person, and girl crazy. I hate Suzie Neiman for all the mean things she did to me and after she stopped (after I forgave her) acting like she was my best friend again while I loathed her and was just polite. Finally, I HATE Joyce for the things she’s done to the people I care about most. All in all, she’s affected everyone I know.
My Grandma Joyce wasn’t my actual grandmother. She was the third wife of my late grandfather. A five years after I had moved from California, I was exiled to a night of tears. My mother told me that my grandma Joyce and Grandpa Jack were getting divorced. Before that night, I actually thought that Joyce had cared about my family and I. How wrong I was. Now, I have learned from her actions that she truly did not care.
My Grandfather and Grandma Chris had my mother, my two uncles and my two aunts together. They were a good family living in Princeton, Massachusetts. Princeton was and still is a quiet town out in the woods. Around the time my mother was in high school, they separated and decided on divorce. I, who never has really witnessed a close up divorce, can only imagine what this was like. In the time in which they were separated, and were not yet divorced, my grandfather was already having an affair with Sally, his second wife to be. My grandmother lives on with her second husband Dave, whom I like very much.
After he was divorced from Sally, my grandfather met Joyce. I don’t really have all the details, but apparently, she and a friend had figured out the ‘fast track’ to wealth. So the two of them went to a sky resort and got all dressed up in skimpy, sexy little outfits, trying to get some rich guy to fall in love with them. I’m sorry to say, Joyce succeeded. I’m also sorry to say that the man who fell for her was my grandfather. So they were married.
Then, along came me, my cousin Eli, my brother Christopher, my cousins Walter, Charlie and Tommy. To make matter’s even worse; my grandfather’s cancer was back. He was dying. My Grandfather and Joyce lived together in Florida until their divorce. The weekend after I found out about the divorce, my Mom took my brother and I down to see my Grandfather. Even with the shadow the divorce had cast bearing us down, we were excited about getting to see Beethoven, his Shih Tzu, and him. I had fun bopping around The Villages over that week, I enjoyed it. When we returned home, my brother and I flew by ourselves. My mother was driving my Grandfather up to Massachusetts to stay with my Uncle John, who was also visiting at the time. A year passed. The cancer was worse. He was admitted into hospice. We started visiting more; trying to keep his spirits up, telling him he’d pull through it. I actually believed it, too. At first I thought he didn’t need to be in Hospice, he was fine. He could walk which was a lot to say.
Then it got worse. He was in a wheelchair the week we all went up to my uncle’s house for the reunion. He actually was better that week, I think it was because we were all there, he felt he needed to act okay, even if he wasn’t. After that week, he didn’t have anything to look forward to. Fall passed, and then winter came. Christmas was approaching quickly as December began. My mother had been on trip the entire month of November. I was glad to see December start. On her last trip she went on a trip to Miami, it was a week long. I remember leaping for joy at the thought that she would be done with traveling for a while. The last day of the trip passed. She didn’t come home.
She went straight to Massachusetts. My Grandfather was worse, a lot worse. I don’t think I saw my mother at all for three weeks. Those weeks were the hardest part. Not only did I have to go through the death of my grandfather, but I had to go through them without my mother. Two weeks before Christmas, my Father told me my Grandfather was dead. I think I actually breathed for the first time in weeks right then. It took about ten minutes for the tears to kick in. That was the first time I experienced death.
The funeral was really hard. We went up the next week. The viewing was the night of our arrival. I remember telling myself I wasn’t going to go see his body, telling myself I would never in a million years be able to handle it. I went earlier with my mother. The two of us were the first ones there. Funeral buildings are the worst places on the face of the earth. I walked into the room the viewing would occur. People in Europe must have heard me gasp. There, across from me, had been my Grandfather’s body. He was dressed in his old army uniform; he lay on an American flag. He was in a coffin even though he was to be cremated. His skin was gray, and by the look of it they had tried to make it look livelier. Now, it was greenish gray. I hated the funeral people for doing that to him. Not only had his skin been deformed, but his mouth had been twisted into a sick, fake closed smile. I strategically placed myself with my back facing him. It didn’t make any difference.
That picture was burned forever in my mind. I kept glancing at the body lying in the coffin. Flowers decorated area around him. I found myself thinking that that wasn’t him, that it couldn’t possibly have been him. My cousin Walter and my Aunt Lori came earlier too. My cousin and I took refuge in the hall, and hid our frowns by sucking on old jolly ranchers. After a while, I had to be next to my mother. I stuck to her side for half an hour. I didn’t really have to do anything, just stand there and shake any person’s hand that stuck their hand out. I don’t really remember anyone crying. No, they were all adults. They were to mature too cry.
The one person that did was my Great Uncle Herby. He was my Grandma Chris’s brother. He’s a ‘small person’ and now he has a disease where he can’t walk and you can’t really understand what he says when he talks. He was one of the later to show up and when he came in on his scooter I just watched for a moment. He came up to the side of the ‘family line’ where my mother and I stood. My mother wasn’t even halfway through thanking him for coming when he let out a curling groan. He burst into tears, and my mother bent down to hug him, also crying. It struck me hard, and I couldn’t breathe for a moment. He moved on, leaving my mother I there to try and get through the rest of the people.
The funeral was horrible, and I had to bring up the Eucharist with my mother and brother. I found myself breaking into tears nonstop.
A month after that, Joyce came to my house to collect Beethoven, who had been staying at my house. I watched her drive by from the window of my house and I could have sworn I saw devil horns on that horrid little head of hers.
I blame Joyce for the death of my Grandfather. She is the one who caused him trouble during the divorce and she’s the one who pretended to love him. I hope dearly that karma will catch up with her and she’ll get what’s coming to her. I hate her.