WE
ARE GETTING READY TO LEAVE the rental house that is our temporary home, my parents,
sister and I. We are deep into our annual summer trip to the fatherland,
something you really could not call a vacation. My father’s job stipulates that
our family travel halfway around the world, from whichever African or Asian
country we are currently stationed, to spend one month of every year in the
fatherland. These visits come with many obligations: tiresome hours hanging
around in waiting rooms to acquire new stamps for our passports, vaccinations
against a whole riot of tropical diseases, stocking up on enough Western
necessities to last another year abroad, visiting not just some, but all of our
extended family. No one, no matter how far removed in the family tree, would
lightly forgive the slight of being overlooked.
So
we are getting ready for an engagement, again. To visit some cousin with a new
baby, perhaps, or a whole gaggle of my father’s young step-siblings, all
strangers to us. My father is in a terrible mood. This makes my mother anxious,
but also, because in our family my father is always right, she follows his lead
in being cranky. This perversely feeds the fire of his irritation.
I
am ten years old, my sister two years younger. We are in the small, unfriendly
bedroom we share in this bare house. We are getting dressed, but slowly,
dawdling and arguing in low hateful voices so our parents wont hear us, aiming
stiff dress shoes at each other’s shins with reticent but vicious little kicks.
My mother throws open the door to see what is taking us so long, muttering as,
“As if
this day isn’t bad enough already, to top it all off, we are going to be late.”
Her eye lands on the plastic headbands we were given just yesterday, beautiful
and brittle, lying on our respective sides of the nightstand between our beds.
My sisters black and white checkered one is snapped clear in two.
“Who
broke this?” My mother asks, her voice lashing out.
We
are silent now, fearful.
“I
said, who... broke... this?”
Silence.
“Fine.
Don't tell me, then. Just wait till your father hears of this.” She turns and
leaves. And because she said it out loud, we know she has no choice but to make
good on her threat.
My
throat clenches in that familiar way. “Do you know what happened?” I whisper.
My
sister turns round eyes on me, “No. I didn’t do anything.”
“Me
neither.”
From
behind our door, we hear my father's huge voice, building up a crescendo of
rage. We know it is only a matter of time before he comes for us. We sit
rigidly on the edge of our beds. Waiting. When finally the waiting ends and he
roars into the room, I cannot hear his words. I see only his face, red and
distorted and hideous, the threat of violence so thick it prevents me from
breathing. He rarely strikes us, but the apprehension is always there. We cry
wildly, my sister and I, and deny knowing what happened to the headband over
and over again. Our hysteria irritates him to insanity. We know this, but we
cannot control ourselves.
Finally,
he turns to my sister. “You!” he yells, jabbing his finger into her face. “I
know you did this. There is nothing, nothing worse than a filthy
liar. Speak up!” My sister wails and weeps and denies. I am stunned and
relieved at this unexpected turn of events, suddenly finding myself outside the
interrogation spotlight. But we are not done. The roaring and weeping continue.
My
mother leans down to put her lips to my ear. She hisses, “Say something. Just
tell him you did it. Tell him.”
“But
Mama,” I look at her in horror. “I didn't break it.”
“I
know that! Who cares? We are late, we have to go. Just say it!”
I
choose to face my fear rather than the moral duplicity of this request. When
there is a lull in the fury, I hear myself stutter, “It was me.”
Instantly, I realize I was wrong to think I could weather
the full force of my father's rage now that it turns on me. I retract
immediately, “No, no, no! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! Mama told me to say
it.”
And so this particular episode deflates, with the line between right and
wrong quite completely obliterated. Nobody ever speaks of it again, but my
sister and I do not forget. We learned our lesson: you must believe in your lie
if it is going to save your skin.
