Chapter 6 - The Recording
The recording was thirty years old.
My voice sounded impossibly small.
I stood beside my father while the cassette played.
At first, there was only crying.
Then my mother's younger voice.
"Stop crying."
My child voice answered:
"I'm trying."
"You're always trying."
Then a door slammed.
My father closed his eyes.
I looked at him.
"You knew."
He nodded.
"I heard it."
"That night?"
"Yes."
The recording continued.
My mother said something I couldn't make out.
Then my grandmother's voice appeared.
"She needs to learn."
My stomach turned.
My grandmother.
I had spent my childhood remembering her as gentle.
But there she was.
On the recording.
Telling my mother to continue.
The tape crackled.
Then I heard my father's younger voice.
"That's enough."
Everything stopped.
My mother spoke.
"You stay out of this."
My father answered:
"She's your daughter."
"And I'm her mother."
"She's terrified."
"Fear teaches respect."
"No."
The word sounded different coming from him.
Firm.
Final.
Then came footsteps.
The recording ended.
I stared at the machine.
"Why didn't you stop it?"
My father looked at me.
"I tried."
"But you left."
He nodded.
"I did."
"Where?"
"To call your grandmother."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because I thought she would make your mother stop."
"She didn't."
"No."
He looked at my mother.
"She made it worse."
My mother began crying.
"I remember."
I turned toward her.
"What happened after the recording?"
She wiped her face.
"You ran away."
"Where?"
"The pantry."
I closed my eyes.
The memory returned.
Small hands.
Darkness.
The smell of flour.
My knees against the floor.
My own breathing.
I remembered whispering.
"I want Daddy."
My mother stood outside the door.
Then my grandmother said:
"Let her stay until she learns."
I opened my eyes.
"You locked me in there."
My mother nodded.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Forty minutes."
I stared at her.
"Forty minutes?"
She cried harder.
"I know."
I stepped away.
My father said, "That's when I realized I had to choose."
"What did you choose?"
"You."
"But I still left."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because your mother threatened to leave with you."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"She said if I reported her, she'd disappear with you."
"So you were afraid."
"Yes."
I looked at the recorder.
"That was thirty years ago."
"Yes."
"Then why keep the recording?"
My father looked toward my mother.
"Because I wanted proof."
"Proof for what?"
"That the cycle existed."
My mother whispered, "I kept it too."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because I was terrified I'd forget."
I couldn't speak.
She continued.
"When I saw your daughter standing on that crate, I suddenly remembered everything."
Her voice broke.
"And instead of stopping, I repeated it."
I nodded slowly.
At least she was finally telling the truth.
But truth wasn't forgiveness.
It was only the beginning.
I picked up the recorder.
"What happens now?"
My father said, "You decide."
I looked at my mother.
"You need help."
She nodded.
"I know."
"You need to admit what happened."
"I will."
"To me."
"Yes."
"To my daughter."
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
"And you will never be alone with her again unless I say so."
"I understand."
The conversation was interrupted by a knock.
We all turned.
A woman stood at the front door.
She was holding a folder.
My father went pale.
"Who is that?"
My mother stared.
"I don't know."
The woman raised the folder.
"I need to speak with Elizabeth."
I stepped toward the door.
"Who are you?"
She answered:
"I'm from the school."
My heart stopped.
"My daughter's school?"
She nodded.
"There is something you need to know about what your daughter has been saying."
I opened the door.
The woman held out the folder.
Inside was a report.
At the top was my daughter's name.
May you like
And beneath it was a sentence that made my hands go cold:
Child has repeatedly described being instructed to keep a secret from her mother.
