A YOUNG WOMAN is breezing through the kitchen on the way to the refrigerator. Wearing tennis shorts, a T-shirt, her long red hair in a ponytail, she’s bare-foot, 22 years old, and the phone rings. I can do this with this scene—make it third-person—the way we can at any of those moments just before life takes a tilt; that old where were you when thing.
And just like anyone else, I can make two lists: On one side, what I knew before the tilt and, on the other side, what spills into those things I thought were true and changes them forever. At this age, the sum total of what I knew about my mother could be pretty much tallied up on two hands: She had been my best friend, my sailing crew, my tennis partner; she was unhappily married to my father, who I also adored. That my sister hated her was something I had known when Margaret moved out the first chance she got and had never looked back.
I had a lot to learn.
And the phone rings.
A friend of my mother’s simply said, “You should know that,” and then she said a name I knew well, “has just been killed. Call your mother.”
A dutiful young woman, I called my mother at work and had to wait a long time while they found her, got her off the playground at the preschool where she taught, and nowhere in that time did I think about what I was doing, or that it was anything more than what it appeared: that this young man, brother of my oldest friend, middle son of our family’s closet couple-friends, had just been killed. I stood there in my bare feet with not very much on my mind.
My mother came to the phone and I told her the news.
“How long have you known?” was her reply.
“About two minutes,” I said, thinking her question odd.
“No.” She said. “How long have you known.”
“Oh,” I said, as the facts of twenty-two years recombined into a new narrative.
“About thirty seconds,” I said as I hung up and dialed Margaret.
“I think Mommy’s having an affair.”
“How long have you known?” The question of the day.
“How long have you known?” I asked my sister.
“Since I was nine,” said Margaret.
Related posts:
First time here? Here's the idea: 
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
Well. I just finished reading every post. I am sold on so many levels.
I have a best friend/little sister. She is 52. I am 54. There are older siblings, separated by a 10 year gap, and we are still ‘the little girls’. We are very close and share all, believing that between us, we may have a somewhat complete memory of what all went on. In my heart, our relationship transcends description.
I appreciate the memoir suggestions and coaching. One of our older sisters was lost to ovarion cancer 20 years ago. I am going to use ‘the list’ suggestion.
Dear Becky: Welcome to TSP. And thank you. We are humbled by you being sold on us.
That you believe–between you and your sister–that you possess, “a somewhat complete memory of what all went on,” is the sense Margaret and I had as we first thought about this site. Parents dies, spouses come late to the game, but siblings, we realized, hold a key to our tales; and sisters, well, they are unique.
We think that sisters are brothers who communicate. Just saying. Could be wrong (though I doubt it).
Thank you. Please come back soon.
It makes me want to cry. Such a burden to bear at that age. No wonder she left home as soon as she could.
Hi, Kathy, a kindred gardening spirit from the North Country. So glad to see you here with me and Marion (two of the same on both those scores).
Hello, Kathy. Welcome back. Thanks for your understanding. We appreciate it. Please visit again soon.
Family secrets are the stuff of memoir and sleepness nights. Sorting out wheter I wanted to know or be trapped in my suspicions was always a fearful thing. My brother denied that our parents where capable of betrayal. When faced with evidence he used the retreat method of processing disagreeable information: “pretend very hard and it will either go away or I won’t have to deal with it. ” Many of us are selected as peace makers to soothe the sins or help carry the lie into family lore. That was my job. About five years ago, I quit ( the benefits were sub-par) and I started to tell myself the truth. As strength grow, which I believe it does when you tell the truth, I may begin to write it down. Now it’s a choice, not a burden. That is a wonderful thing. Those wiser than I folks are right: the truth shall set you free. Donna
Hi, Donna: Welcome back. Ah yes: If one is the genealogist, http://thesisterproject.com/roach/mystery-photos-closer-to-home/ perhaps the other is the peacemaker. It’s something to ponder. Quitting one role to tell the truth: now there’s an interesting memoir. Thank you. Please come back soon.
I am an only child. My mother died when I was 16. I don’t have anyone to play, “remember when?” with and sometimes I doubt my own memories! My dad is a great man but he was a dad of the 1950s who was a career Navy office and who wasn’t home much of the time. That and the fact that he doesn’t discuss anything unpleasant make it hard to check in on a lot of what I remember. He’s also 85 and what is the point of making him recall or hear about stuff he can’t do anything about? I have many friend-sisters, but it sure would be nice to have a real one around. I love your blog, I came from Mason=Dixon Knitting. Thanks.
Welcome, Mary Alice. I am saying hello in Marion’s place while she is away from the computer. Because Marion and I have been on our own for decades, and never had any extended family (both parents only children so no aunts/uncles/cousins; no grandparents since a young age etc.) we, too, often wish we had somebody to ask about so many things. More later when the redheaded baby sister returns…
Hello, Mary Alice. And welcome. Doubting our own memories is as common an occurrence as having a sister tell you that what you think was the best day of your life never actually happened. Ah, memory: it slips and slides and that, in itself, is a great topic for memoir. I wonder who in your life provides some sisterhood? We’d love to hear about that. Thanks for coming to see us via Mason-Dixon. We love them. Please visit again soon.
This is pretty compelling stuff, as most family stories are when you learn the real truth. I can’t say I’ve experienced any revelations this powerful, although I was quite shocked to learn that my mother’s mother had been adopted. My aunt was showing me a family geneaology project she’d been working on and it showed that my grandmother had been adopted. “Grandma Roche was adopted?” I asked. My mother very nonchalantly said, “Yes, everyone knows that.” Well, not me! I always thought I got my artistic side from Grandma Roche’s father, but I guess not, at least not genetically.
Now my husband experienced a shocking revelation related to a photograph. When he was about 10, he found a photo of his father and another woman he didn’t know. He asked his mother who that woman was and she said, “Oh that was your father’s first wife.” “Dad was married before?” “Yes, she was your brother and sister’s mother.” “Aren’t you their mother?” “No, I’m their stepmother.” He said all the pieces that never quite fit before suddenly fell into place. All because of a picture.
Hey, Sandy. Welcome back. “All because of a picture.” You bet. It’s the small stuff–sometimes even only wallet-sized–that’s the really big stuff in life. Please keep telling us your tales, sister.
My cousin and I would love to know more about our grandparents. There were so many opportunities when we were young to ask them but they are long gone now so our questions cannot be answered. When you are young these things are not so important, but later in life they are. We need to talk while the chance is there. Do I talk enough with my grandchildren? probably not as far as my life is concerned. Are they interested right now? probably not, but as the years go by, they likely will want more information about their family roots. Keeping a diary is a good thing. My wife’s mother wrote in her diary throughout WW2 and it makes fascinating reading. What was going on in her life as well as the World.
Truth is elusive and is only our perception of the way we believe things happened/were. We can change the truth in our heads by using excuses for others or ourselves to help make the past more acceptable. We can make events of the the past pleasant or horrible. We can miss out the bad things when we talk to others or dwell on all the negative issues. So the truth is not easy to accertain. I could blame my mother for an unhappy upbringing if I was to ignore how she was affected by WW2. Among many things she was recued from rubble when a house collapsed during a bombing raid. Everthing needs to be considered when we examine our past.
Hi, Alan. And welcome. That your wife’s mother kept a diary during WWII is a wonderful gift, though yes, your point is well made that we need to talk while the chance is here.
You are also right that “truth is elusive,” and that “everything needs to be considered when we examine our past.” How wise.
Thanks for visiting. Please come back and share more. Have you seen that here at TSP we run memoir writing tips?