A Matter of Inheritance

By Natasha Ranawake

You hovered the phone over the stovetop dilemma of clay pots and frying pans. There was this mug on the counter, with the chipped brim, filled with cold tea. It had been the first thing on your mind that morning, that and the thought of the weather. You had never cared about weather before, and you wondered about what had changed. A part of you had wanted to leave a note for the tenant; you were desperate to confront them in person, but you had been taught patience; something attractive for a woman. So, you resort to the idea of tea. There's orange juice in the fridge, but it's not yours and someone's left their milk carton from last term, which had reached the shelf life in the month of November. It still looked you in the eye in February. 

There's a question floating in your head as you move about your room, with the stacks of books and piles of papers. Your brother's just made something of a breakout performance. You don’t recall the name of the play, but you know that he won best actor. It went to three boys and your brother had been one of them. It had been one of those moments to you. You had not expected theatre to be his place; but nothing had exactly been his place before. He did not play football or occupy the music room. There was an untouched piano in your house and there was an adamant proficient and a girl who had wanted to play the drums. On the other hand the cinema and its offerings had bored him and driven him to sleep but theatre had been different. The boy had taken a liking to it, and he had thrown himself headfirst into a world of performance, exaggeration and opulence. You are surprised, but not overly so. He's always had something of a dramatic flair, you remind yourself.  No surprises. Tea, bread and you're out to Uni. You decide to call your father. 

Theatre had been somewhat of a common factor in the genetic pool. Your father had been in too many plays, and you had been in a few. Everyone had expected it from you, the father's daughter. You had inherited his features and most of his habits and your brother had been your mother's pride. He had been her mirror; with bright features and a perfect hairline. You had stubby fingers and limbs and had half of the family gutting you for having them. Theatre was your father's only gift to his only son. 

You're going to tell him about how your brother's established this odd name for himself. It is a funny little thought at the start. You remember the hysterics of receiving the news. You had not been there for his debut and you had not been there for this one. You'd have to cross too many borders to get back home. The phone's ringing and you walk, and it's the morning of no thought. 

The call's nothing special, you are just trying to get the words out of yourself and then you finally do. Theatre, the one thing that you three had had as an interest. You are walking, trying not to trip over the cobble. 

"It's great, isn't it?" 

"Yeah…I just hope he keeps it a hobby"

Those words are not the words you want to hear, but you had heard them before. He had been a little more honest about it with you, but he doesn't confront your brother with that same truth. The words are cold and familiar, and you try to think. Your brother had just won and your dad had brushed it away, almost. You had seen that play, play out before and you think that you are ready to rehear the words. You're not. 

You hang up and you walk. Crowds gather at the crossings with their music and morning news. Phones are pulled out and you get the smells of the morning; the aftermath of the rain and the scent of the vanilla vape. You wonder about the words and then it hits you. Your brother had been the leading lady. There's nothing in that, after all you had played men. Your frame had designated that typecast format to you and you had taken it like a shot. 

You think that he's worried about what might come out of it. That’s the thing, you tell yourself. There’s a constant worry for what might happen, the bullying and the words thrown about; cruel and unnecessary. This is in a way, a reconciliation. You couldn’t tell that your son was playing Ophelia. That’s how things work out and there’s little you can do. 

Theatre, like your love of music had to have check boxes. He'd have to fit into one of them; the hero, the villain or the comic relief. The archetypes of the leading man. Your father had played men. The gene pool and the subsequent inheritance like most things, had then felt conditional. 

That's just the norm, bleeding through. And you don’t check the boxes. He wants to play Beatrice, and you can barely hold a tune. There’s an odd norm for you two; breaking from that gene - pool.

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