Chapter 2 - What Happened When I Was Six
My father called me the next morning.
I was making breakfast when his name appeared on my phone.
I stared at it for several seconds before answering.
"Hi, Dad."
His voice was quiet.
"Is she with you?"
I looked toward the living room.
My daughter was sitting on the floor coloring.
"Yes."
"Good."
"What happened when I was six?"
Silence.
Long enough that I could hear the refrigerator humming.
Finally, he said, "I knew you'd ask."
"Then answer me."
"I can't do this over the phone."
"Why?"
"Because your mother is home."
I closed my eyes.
"Is she listening?"
Another pause.
"I don't know."
That answer frightened me.
My father had never sounded frightened before.
"Where should we meet?"
"There's a diner near the old library."
"What time?"
"Eleven."
He hung up.
At eleven, I left my daughter with a trusted friend and drove to the diner.
My father was already there.
He sat in the corner booth with both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.
He looked older than he had the night before.
I sat across from him.
"What happened to me when I was six?"
He stared at the table.
"Your mother made you wash dishes."
My heart sank.
"That's it?"
"No."
He rubbed his forehead.
"You were small. Smaller than your daughter is now."
I said nothing.
"You couldn't reach the sink."
"So she put me on a crate?"
"Yes."
My stomach turned.
"What happened?"
He looked at me.
"You fell."
I stopped breathing.
"Did I get hurt?"
"Not badly."
"Not badly?"
"You bruised your shoulder."
"And Mom?"
"She said you were being dramatic."
I stared at him.
He continued.
"You cried because you were embarrassed."
I remembered nothing.
Or thought I remembered nothing.
But suddenly I could see something.
A wooden crate.
Water.
A plate slipping from my hands.
My mother's voice.
Useless.
The memory vanished as quickly as it appeared.
I looked at my father.
"Why don't I remember?"
"You were six."
"That's not an answer."
He looked away.
"Because we never talked about it."
"Why?"
"Because your mother didn't want you to."
I felt anger rising.
"You let her?"
His eyes filled with regret.
"I did."
The admission landed harder than I expected.
"You watched."
"Yes."
"And you did nothing."
"I thought keeping peace was protecting you."
I laughed bitterly.
"It wasn't."
"No."
He looked down.
"It wasn't."
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then he reached into his jacket.
He pulled out an old photograph.
He placed it on the table.
I picked it up.
It was me at six.
I was standing beside my mother.
Behind us was the same kitchen.
I stared at my own face.
I wasn't smiling.
I was holding a dish towel.
On my wrist was a dark mark.
"What's that?"
My father looked at the photograph.
"That's why I kept it."
I turned the photo over.
There was writing on the back.
June 14. She fell again. Margaret says nobody needs to know.
My mother's name was Margaret.
I stared at the words.
"Who wrote this?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because I knew one day you'd need to know."
I looked up.
"Why now?"
His expression changed.
"Because your mother started doing the same thing to your daughter."
I felt my hands tighten around the photograph.
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"How long has she been doing this?"
He hesitated.
"Your daughter has been spending afternoons there for almost three months."
Three months.
I felt sick.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I tried."
"When?"
"Several times."
"I never got anything."
"I left notes."
"I never saw them."
His face went pale.
"What?"
"I gave them to your mother."
He stared at me.
Then whispered, "She never gave them to you."
My stomach dropped.
"What notes?"
"Three."
"What did they say?"
He looked toward the window.
"The first said your daughter was afraid to be alone with your mother."
I felt the blood leave my face.
"The second said your mother was making her do things she was too young to do."
"And the third?"
My father looked directly at me.
"The third said your daughter had started asking him why you didn't believe her."
I couldn't speak.
My father reached into his wallet.
He pulled out another folded paper.
"This is the third note."
I opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakably my father's.
She keeps asking why Mommy won't come sooner.
My eyes burned.
I folded the paper.
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I was afraid."
"Of my mother?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
"Because I knew what she would do."
"What?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the diner entrance.
His expression changed.
I turned.
My mother was standing across the street.
Watching us.
She couldn't see what was on the table.
But she could see us.
And she knew.
My father whispered, "Don't look at her."
I looked anyway.
My mother raised her phone.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from her.
We need to talk about what your father just told you.
My father read my expression.
"What did she say?"
I showed him.
He went pale.
Then my phone vibrated again.
Another message.
You don't know the whole story.
I looked at my father.
May you like
He whispered four words.
"Neither do I."
