Hereditary

Elaina Bonner

       At the beginning of monsoon season, my dad took my little sister Katrina and I to see Pixar’s Brave. We sat in the backseat of the family van, driving past the little corner store and the long stretches of a dry mesa. Dark black rainclouds stretched along the wide New Mexico sky  looking full. I stared out the window expecting the clouds to burst at any minute, but the ground remained dry. Fog clouded the windows but there were no droplets of water to watch race down them. My fingers were cold and wet from drawing smiley faces on the gray windows as entertainment

 

       It was opening week, and my family and I have been excited about this movie since the teaser came out months before. It’s a Scottish princess — "just like us," my parents tell me. The dad had red hair, just like our dad. The mom has brown hair and green eyes like our mom. When you’re twelve and nine, that’s more than enough evidence for you to think a movie is about you and your family. 

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       My parents were constantly comparing me to Merida, the spunky, curly-haired princess, with a penchant for trouble and a disinterest in boys. It was the summer in between 7th and 8th grade, which meant I was young enough to still like princesses and Pixar movies, but too old to be arguing with my mother, apparently. Which had started to become a common occurrence in our house. 

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       Merida was also a stubborn, independent girl, who fought with her mother. If Merida lived in modern America, she would probably get in trouble from her mom for constantly wearing holey three-year-old jeans like me. If I lived in the medieval Scottish Highlands, I would probably also bring home swords and practice dueling in my room. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t let me wear my “trashy” jeans, and wouldn’t even let me be around lighters and matches, much less sharp objects and weapons. Maybe Merida was the only one who could understand me.

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       On the TV, the Pixar lamp bounces on the “I” and a shooting star flashes over the Disney castle. Crying out that she doesn’t want to get married. Merida flops onto her bed. She just wants to be free, wants to climb mountains and be an archer and fight bears. Her mother scolds her and tells her that princesses should be learning about history and practicing their curtseys and embracing traditions. 

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       “Elaina! Elaina, look, I’ll rewind it for you.” My mother shouts, despite me being in the same room. 

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       I watched the movie ad one more time. Just like you, my parents said. Being compared to the princess who liked to fight, and could shoot three bullseye's in a row, and ripped her dresses, and rode a horse was awesome, but coming from the woman who constantly made me change my outfit before I left for school and told me that one day she would send me to boarding school to teach me better manners, I knew it was a sort of backhanded compliment. 

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       The Brave trailer faded to black, and the commercial switched to a Sonic advertisement. My mom played with my hair, which was not as fiery ginger as the princess’, but was equally as messy. 

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       “Your hair was almost that red when you were born.” My mom liked to tug my curls down and watch them bounce back up. 

 

       Curly hair was something I inherited from my grandmother, and I was the only one of four who got lucky enough to look like grandma Jewel. Or so I’m told. I was the first one to get grandma’s curls, and the first one who never got to see them in person. Cancer took her when my older brother was a toddler; before my mother even met my father. “Princess Elaina,” cooed my mother, pulling a lock of my hair and watching it spring. 

 

       “I’m so jealous, look at those little ringlets! Do you know how often I brag to my coworkers about my daughter’s gorgeous hair?” 

 

       Mom liked bragging. Especially about her accomplishments. In college she was in the top of her class. “I had the only A+ in the entire class,” she would say. Everyone including our barber knew that mom raised two kids on her own for years before she met my father. Parent-teacher conference day never stressed me out because I mostly got good grades, and because I knew my teacher wouldn’t be able to get a word in about my bad behavior because my mother would spend half an hour talking about how she taught herself how to paint. “I only took one art class in community college,” she would say as she showed Mrs. Knippenberg a photo of a painting she did of her sister. And since she gave birth to us, that meant that we were an accomplishment of hers. Which meant the neighbors, and our aunts, and strangers were always in the know of which of Beth’s kids were doing what, when, and how cute they were while doing it. That meant I had to run to my room and plug my ears every time mom showed our cousins that video of me singing Love Story by Taylor Swift in the 5th grade talent show. It meant I had to listen in agony as my mother talked about my volleyball match loudly on the phone to her coworker. It meant I had to stop myself from turning red when she showed everyone photos of me from last Halloween to brag about my hair. "Look at my daughter’s beautiful curls," she would say, and I would turn away and refused to look anyone in the eyes. 

 

       “How come mom didn’t come with us?” I asked my father. She had been complaining just a few days ago that we always went to the movies without her. 

 

       Mom usually didn’t come to the movies with us. Clue and Pride and Prejudice (the long, accurate word-for-word to the book TV series that came out in 1995 with Colin Firth, not the Kiera Knightly version) were the only movies she really liked. But I figured she would come with us to this one. Wasn’t she excited to see the movie with the princess that looked so much like her “favorite Elaina”?

 

       Our tires driving over cracks and bumps in the road are the only sounds in the car. It’s unusual. Most of the time my parents are turning around and shushing my sister and I’s giggles. Darius Rucker wasn’t playing; mom usually liked to play country music. Dad wasn’t listening loudly to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. No one was singing or clapping or shouting like we usually were. And there was still no rain to cover up how quiet it was.

 

       “Mom’s at home resting,” Dad says. “She’s been very tired lately.” Probably from her 12-hour shifts at the hospital, I thought. She had also gotten sick a few weeks ago when we went on our road trip. The abdominal pain had been so bad that we turned around just as we passed the Welcome to California sign. 

 

       “Your mother saw the doctor the other day. And they did some tests.” 

 

       We’re driving down Unser Boulevard; past the Walmart, Panda Express, and Carl’s Junior, where my mom and I once spent half an hour waiting in the drive through. She told me about the book idea she’s had in her head for years and had always wanted to write, and I told her about my writing ideas, too. Back then, I wanted to write a new version of The Princess and the Pea, and I also had an idea about a sci-fi love story with evil alien overlords and dream machines that the separated lovers used to communicate with each other. Mamma told me about her idea for a fantasy, with a girl who could read minds and her best friend who was a werewolf.  

       

       “They found cancer again,” my father sighs. 

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       The almost-trip to California makes sense now. Why dad was so somber as we drove and why mom had to bite her lip from crying out every time we hit a road bump. Why we suddenly pulled into a scuzzy motel outside of Death Valley, even though we were less than 2 hours away from our destination. And why mom took several pain killers – something we’d never seen her do – and why we had to drive back home the next morning, because mom was in too much pain to stay with her sister for two weeks like we were supposed to. Chlorine bleached Trina and I’s hair while my mom stayed in the motel room the entire night. She had insisted that we swim in the pool and have fun while we were there, even if it was only a night. While we were splashing and getting water stuck up our noses and wondering what mom could’ve eaten to make her stomach hurt so bad, mom was moaning in pain in the musty motel bed from a hereditary tumor that grew from her hip and crept up her spine.

 

       Merida sobs into her mother’s shoulder and begs for her back, for her mother to not turn into a bear forever. Human hands reach out and stroke the princess’ red hair. Curse reversed, her mother is back to normal, smiling at her. They hug. Her mother peppers kisses on her daughter’s face and laughs. The climax is over. Everything is as it should be; everyone is happier and wiser than they were at the beginning of the movie. 

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      In the dark of the theater, I’m glad we’re not sitting near anyone else, so a stranger won’t see the three of us cry. It’s the first time I’ve seen my father cry, I think. The end credits roll, and a sweet, Scottish instrumental swells, as the mother and daughter duo ride their horses off into the grassy hills of the British Isles. The blue light from the big screen washes over the dingy black seats in the theater. I can see the silhouettes of families rising from their seats and walking out together. For some reason, I don’t feel like a Disney princess anymore.  

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       Outside, we had to adjust our eyes to the bright sunlight. The grey clouds were scattered. Black wet gravel and the fresh smell of rain indicated that while we were watching the movie, it had finally poured.

About the Author

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      Elaina Bonner is in her second and final year at Red Rocks and will be graduating in May. She loves writing, reading other people’s writing, and gushing about other people’s writing. During the coronavirus, she is trying to cope by playing an online Dungeons and Dragons campaign with her friends, decorating her Animal Crossing: New Horizons house with lots of flowers and plants, and wishing that she had gotten that Avatar: The Last Airbender tattoo before the pandemic broke out. She also enjoys driving around with her friends, painting, drawing, and has an extreme addiction to boba tea.