I remember the first time I ever lied to my mother. I must not have been more than seven or eight at the time. I had a girlfriend down the street named Kristina and I had walked over to her house with the explicit instruction to be home before dark. My mother was already uneasy with this friendship of mine as Kristina was a couple years older than me. But what did I care? All I know is that she had a pool, we didn't, she had a TV in her room, and we were allowed to eat all the Cheezits we want. Even now as I look at a box of Cheezits, the first thing that comes to mind is Kristina's room.
It had hard wood floors and you were lucky to find a spot to sit with all the clutter. She didn't have to clean her room, or hell, even pick up anything off the floor for that matter. My mother, well if she had to tell me too many times to clean up and I didn't listen? She had her own way of handling that... she would simply walk into my room with an eerie calmness. She would pull out all my drawers, and begin to dump all my precious belongings on the floor in the middle of the room. My eyes would grow large as the pile would continue to grow, and the stuff that I had discretely hide under the bed, were now being yanked out and thrown on top. Once satisfied with her work, she would turn to me and say, 'now clean it up."
Kristina didn't have to deal with an eccentric mother like I did. She didn't have to eat grape nuts in the morning for breakfast and have to hide the mounds of sugar that needs to be added in order to make it taste decently. She didn't have to attend church every Sunday and say family prayer every night. She didn't have to be 'friends' with her siblings and only watch TV on the weekends. And she certainly didn't have a curfew.
Many years later I would recognize a method to my mothers madness. It would come in the form of watching a police car pull next to me as I stood at the top of my driveway. The policeman would roll down his window and ask me if i recognized the teenager in the back seat of the car, that he was trying to find her house. I would look at Kristina with yellow vomit dripping off her chin and onto her skimpy blouse. I would see the drunkenness of her eyes as she tries so hard to stop the spinning, to keep her head back from the strings of puke pulling her closer to resting her chin straight in the mess. And as the shock would begin to wear off, I would smirk, feeling as if me seeing her in this disastrous moment would be my revenge for her cutting off our friendship when she became a teenager before me.
But for the moment, for a few short years, I am sitting in her room, my terribly skinny legs tucked under me as I push my long stringy blonde hair away from my face so I can stuff it full of the most incredible unhealthy cheese crackers. I am too distracted by the fact we actually have the ability to watch a movie in her ROOM to realize the sun has begun to set.
I watch the ending dancing scene of Sarah Jessica Parker in Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, day-dreaming of what it would be like to dance like her, when it dawns on me that I have lost track of time. OH the pain in my heart when I realize that my mother must be worried sick about me. She probably is walking over here right now, head titled down, arms swinging quickly, as if that will mover her body towards me faster, a force that is not to be reckoned with. I drop the box of Cheezits and run. My measly 80 pound body pulls open the dark heavy oak door with the strange knob in the middle, and I sprint up the driveway. Onto the deserted night street I run, with the heavy trees that arch their way over the road adding the sense of total darkness as the leaves are too full to let in any last hint of dusk. I run as fast as my little scrawny legs can carry me, my heart feeling heavy, my fear of disappointing my mother enveloping every part of my being. The fear escalates to me looking around at those dark trees. Those dark haunting trees that have now turned into arms reaching down to grab me and take me away from this world. I sprint as if the devil himself is after me. And as I reach the edge of our property line, I stare at the large home knowing I better come up with something to escape the wrath that is my mother. I move across the field and onto the side driveway, feeling the anxiousness creep into my throat. As I ease to the front door I can see my mother sitting in the library with my sisters. Her dark black hair cut short and permed to perfection. My throat is closing at the thought of disappointing her, and I begin to feel tears stream down my cheeks. I open the front door, turn to the library, and say.. ' oh mom, it was so scary! I was coming home and this doggie comes running after me! I thought he was going to eat me mom, I was so scared!" I wrap my arms around her waist and look up into those dark eyes. I search for the emotions that she is portraying, anything to give me a hint of whats going on in that mind of hers. I search for the wrath, the frown and the furrowed eyebrow. I find myself grasping at this small little lie, hoping that my tears will veer her away from the dark skies. And yet, all I see is concern, and love? She simply wraps her arms around me, kisses the top of my head and says 'well I am glad you are alright. Want to help with the wedding invitations for your brother?' She turns and sits back at the head of the dinning room table. Covered with tissue, pictures, different envelopes, and a roll of stamps, it is the project at-hand. And with it comes a mother that is leading the charge, making sure that anyone within shouting distance is helping. And with that comes a mother that is not so distracted that she can't stop and hug her crying little one, but enough to not realize its black outside. And my lie that I have conjured up, that I to this day am still carrying around, was for nothing.
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