If You Lied

Let me promise you something; I was not wanted in my family. I was not the celebrated, exalted pregnancy, with a cutesy baby shower and banners that screamed “It’s a girl!” and women commenting on my mom’s round stomach and undeniable glow. No. I was the last thing they expected. Because, in their perfect world, condoms do not break, and mistakes do not happen. Though she doesn’t have to say it, I know Mother thinks that not having an abortion was the nicest think she could have ever done. She gave me the gift of life, and that, she won’t let me forget. Maybe I want to return her precious gift. Maybe I want a better, improved version. A version where my father didn’t cheat on my mother, and have the kids he never wanted with one of his bronzed and blonde interns. A version where my mother didn’t micro-control every second of my life, throw herself into it, like since she is the reason I’m alive, she has to be right in the center, like I have to revolve around her. For the first few years of my life, I did. But then I learned better.

It was the day Daddy left. I was eleven. She did not know he was gone yet. Neither did I. He chose an opportune time to run, Friday afternoon, when he’d be expected to be at work, sitting in his nice oak desk and talking on the phone to executives lower than him on the food chain. Daddy did not waste his time on people that were better than him. In his mind, there were none. “There’s always someone better than you, Ellie,” he’d say, “but at some point, someone must be the best.”

I brought a girl named Alice home from school. I do not remember much about her, only that I never spoke to her after the sleepover. I didn’t want to.

“Hey there, Ellie,” Mother trilled, pulling sugar cookies out of the oven, too much like a movie to seem real. Then, however, it was expected.

“Hi, Mommy,” I said with a smile, “Mommy, this is Alice.” I gestured to the girl, and she grinned and waved at my mother.

“Hello, Mrs. Whitley,” Alice said. One thing I do remember is that she spoke loudly, and very proper.

Mother sat the pan of cookies down on the oven, and looked Alice up and down before embracing her. “It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you!” She said, as sweet as the cookies. Alice didn’t know that the line was rehearsed. I had some hints, but I buried them. Alice tentatively hugged my mother back.

Pulling away, Mother gestured to the cookies and told us to give them time to cool, so we went up to my room and gossiped. I had been head-over-heels for a large number of boys, and Alice was more than willing to talk about them with me. The fact that we were sixth graders made us mature enough to suppose that boys would fall in love with us now, because we weren’t still going to school with kids who couldn’t tie their own shoes.

We snuck back downstairs close to six. Mother’s bedroom door was shut when we passed it, and I assumed she was napping. As a stay-at-home mom, she had all the opportunities in the world to nap.

What startled me when I came downstairs was that Daddy was not there, sneaking a cookie with a goofy grin on his face. That was the way he did things, with a tacky grin that clashed with his fancy suit but matched his vast collection of strange ties. Another thing startling was the darkness. All I remember was that it was dark at six. It was probably winter time, but the fact that all the lights were off was just too much dark. And the wine bottle sitting on the counter made Alice give me a condescending look, as though I had somehow downed the bottle inconspicuously while we had talked for three hours.

We grabbed our cookies, which were stale from sitting out on the pan, and crept silently up the stairs. As we passed my mother’s door, I stopped. Alice stuffed a cookie in her mouth and pressed her ear to the door, her face full of mischief. I, being your stereotypical follow-the-leader child, did the same.

What I heard frightened me.

When you hear it, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s a low, guttural moan that honestly makes you want to bury your head in a pillow and join in, because it just hurts you to hear it. The scariest part about it is that it fills your lungs, so as long as you breathe, it comes out of you, until you can’t possibly keep up, and you wallow in your sadness. The sound of it hurts everyone around you for miles. That noise was coming out of my mother.

Alice looked as scared as I felt. My fear filled my every pore, and though Alice and I were not close, she grasped my hand to support me. I must have been crying. The confusion, mixed with fear and sadness over something I didn’t understand then made me feel hopeless. I wanted to go back to my bedroom, and curl up, and talk more about boys. I didn’t want to be stuck in front of that door, but I was. Alice somehow understood all this, as she tried to pull me from the door, but it was a lost cause. Instead, I lost my balance, and my nerves went haywire, my limbs flailing all over, trying to stop myself from falling because I felt I might break if I did.

In my struggle, I kicked the door. Before I could scramble away, the moan had stopped, and my mother was opening the door.

“Eleanor.” It was a whisper, the scary kind.

Alice whimpered. I cleared my throat. “Yes?”

“That girl,” Mother pointed to Alice, “goes home. Now. Call her parents.”

Alice sniffled.

I was in shock. “But, Mommy--”

“Do as I say!” she shrieked. “I didn’t ask you a question! Just do it!”

I called Alice’s parents. She went home.

The last thing Alice ever said to me was a whisper as she climbed into the car.

“I’m so sorry.”

I knew she was, which was reassuring. But my mother was not, which she would later make clear to me as she slammed her bedroom door in my face and yelled “He’s gone!” through the cracks. Daddy would never see me again. He paid child support, managed our bills, and even sent me a birthday check. But money was nothing to a man who had almost all of it. And Mother was right. He was gone.

That night, crying in bed, I was certain of one thing. I would never again let people play me like that. I was not a game. And I wasn’t about to let my parents win.