My father taught me things. They weren’t always the right things, or the best things, but he taught me all things, well.
One winterkill night while driving home alone together, he taught me his truth about lying. I was 7, then.
My mom was working as a confidante and caregiver at a private cottage for forlorn cancer patients. Her curtailed quietus watch of 11 to 7 promised us six kids we wouldn’t awaken without her.
“I’ll always be here to tuck you in and be back before breakfast,” she assured. It was enough for them, but not for me.
“I’m riding along,” I reckoned.
“Maybe in the morning, if you’re up.”
“Then, too,” I determined, set as cement.
She gently pressed the nub of my nose, lighting me up in her eyes. “You’re my little lion,” she said. “You give me courage.”
My parents weren’t friends then, if ever. Lovers once, no doubt. He as dashing as she was beauteous. Each with ebony locks. His, glossed waves. Hers, coiled curls. His jaw, chiseled. Her cheeks, rubicund. His eyes, bruin black, set tangent to an arrowed nose. Hers, bairn blue, gracing a Gaelic bob. Both seeped sheen and sensuality. The two as one? An envied ornament hung among plebeians.
But that was all ephemeral, lost long before the happenstance of me.
Oh sure, photos find him masterful in monochrome. Meritorious. Certainly indubitable. And it can be quibbled he didn’t become deriding and distant until after he began colorizing her with kids.
Regardless, I never espied demonstrative signs of affection between them. Neither gentility, nor joy. She endured his disrespect as wifeliness, while zesting motherhood. He husbanded acrimoniously, fatherly only to his firstborn.
And so it was, of all the trips we made together with mom in tow or mind, I remember that worst one best.
“DammitallMaggie,” he one-worded her. “It’s nearly 11. Move it!”
“Don’t get your dander up,” she growled back while winking my way. The dishes, nearly done. The laundry, almost folded. The house in chaos but cleaned down the middle and after-a-fashion. My siblings accounted for, kissed and sleeping. “I’m ready when you are.”
It was the most they’d spoken to one another all day, remaining silent in their seats until he skidded to the stop where we left her – just in time.
I remember watching her maneuver the hard packed snow and patches of ice while edging her way up the embankment toward that halfway house of enduring desperation. And how my father peeled off, leaving her without help, headlights, or sentiment for her safety.
During the drive home I kept my face glued toward the passenger window, contented to imagine mom in the morning, and it being my nose pressed against the frosted pane, greeting her return to us.
My father spoke to the back of my head when he said, “People lie to you because they don’t respect you enough to tell the truth.”
I remained removed; brown eyes searching boundless skies.
“They’ll cloak their words in omission, feigning innocence, thinking you’re too stupid to recognize the lie.” He paused, letting it etch.
I counted stars.
“That’s what they’re saying though. That they think you’re stupid.”
I yearned for Jupiter and Mars.
“The more deliberate and petty the lie, the less value they make of you.”
I found Venus.
“You know you’re utterly worthless when someone lies to you for sport.” He reiterated and enunciated, “Utterly.”
…and more
THE ABOVE EXCERPT IS FROM:
Seriously, Mom, you didn’t know?
by Marguerite Quantaine © Copyright 2019
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This freshly edited, updated essay by Marguerite Quantaine first appeared in the St. Petersburg Times five years ago. (Copyright by Quantaine © 2008 • 2013)
IMPERFECT CHILDHOOD? Lessons learned? Please select REPLY to share your thoughts.
I’m all eyes and heart.
M A G P I E à la modus operandi 
Ah, the burden, the joy, the weight of memories- and the freedom of letting go with our words. Thank you for sharing a lovely, heartfelt piece!
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You’re so right, Demet. It is all of that. I so appreciate your kind words.
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A very unpleasant man, beautifully described.
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To put it mildly, yes. And, thank you. Truly.
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Thanks, Donna. I don’t think that kind of contempt can be attributed to any one generation. He was who he was and I don’t dwell on it – never have. But now and then a button is pushed and the lesson floods back. I’ll say this – it’s kept me from wasting time on disingenuous people.
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Your father did not impress me. My father was much the same, his life lessons, ment to teach me about the truths of life came in much the same brash, hurtful way. Maybe it was just their generations way, I don’t know. I learned my fathers life lessons well, I still live by them. This lesson although given in such a painful way, is a lesson you will never forget.Thank you for sharing, love to read your blogs
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Wow, what an incredible piece of writing. I am left speechless, and broken hearted. Life can be cruel, and yes, we can learn valuable lessons from the cruelty, and the love. I am so glad that you had the two extremes to give you a compass.
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Yes, Lisa I had two wonderful role models in my mom and grandmother. I only wish I could say what he taught wasn’t true. Alas, the number of people who are willing to look another in the eye and lie is too many, and too often.
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Your words make my face ache from smiling, Kieran. Thank you. But no on the autobiography. I do incorporate some of my life into my novel (as I’m certain all writers do whether they admit it or not) and derive many the characters from combined personalities of people I’ve known. I can only hope that will suffice. You’re a dear. Again, thanks!
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Marguerite, you are amazing! Amazing woman; amazing writer. I would love nothing better than to read your autobiography – in your own dynamite, heartfelt words. The way you tell a story absolutely entrances me. From beginning to end, you take me with you on your journey. And when the trip is finished – I think, I feel, and there is an emotional burst of knowing something very important. I hope you’ll do readers a favor and think AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
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Yes, everything you say is so, Mary Anne. And yet, what I learned proved invaluable and has served me well ever since. I’m a firm believer that with every burden comes a blessing. I’d like to think my father made me a better person by default.
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I can only say “Thank God for your Mother!” Thoughts on the lesson your father taught that night go with the words cruel and callous. The world is hard enough. A man has to be a first class bully to do that to his own child.
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