When They Asked Me, I Lied

Three girls stand in the front row at my grandfather’s funeral. Three cousins, arms linked as if they’re playing that old game Red Rover, as if at any moment someone might barrel into them to tear them apart. Everyone present knows that someone already has; at least, he tried.

I wonder if any of them are thinking about desecrating his body. Violating him somehow. An eye for an eye; a violation for a violation. I don’t smoke, but the temptation to stand up and light a cigarette just to put it out on his skin is strong. The urge to cause a scene, to yell, to smash something, is boiling within me.

But I’m not in the front row; I haven’t earned the right.

I stand a few rows back, because I lied.

I lied when they asked if he’d touched me, too. I listened when my mind told me it didn’t count. That my experience wasn’t bad enough. That it wasn’t the same thing my cousins had lived through, so it wasn’t worth mentioning. He’d never touched me, I said. Tried only once — put his hand on my upper thigh and it made me so uncomfortable I never went anywhere alone with him again.

The main points of this, I tell myself, are true.

I don’t mention that in the weeks before, he’d arrived at the house when I was home alone. Gave me a hug that lasted so long I felt I might throw up, but I didn’t understand why. His thumb brushed the side of my breast, over and over, so casually and gently that I was convinced it was a mistake — that he didn’t realize.

It was afterward that he took me out for a drive; opened the sun roof of his car and told me I could stand up on the seat of the car, stick my head out if I wanted. Of course I did; what teenager could say no to such a freedom?

The top half of my body was outside the car less than a minute before his fingers started traveling up my leg. On my calf at first, like a steadying hand in case I fell.

It only took moments for the steadying hand to make me uneasy. By the time it reached my upper thigh, I wasn’t paying attention to the freedom of the road anymore.

My mind was screaming: why why why, what is he thinking what is he doing, why why why. He must not realize. He’s trying to steady me and doesn’t realize.

I stopped thinking he was trying to steady me when his hand slid up to the crotch of my jean shorts and rubbed. What is he doing, I still thought, why why why.

I got down from the sun roof, moving suddenly and abruptly to dislodge his hand from whatever he’d been trying to do. I sat back in my seat, buckled my seat belt.

And I said nothing.

I said nothing to my grandfather, who had just molested his teenage granddaughter. I didn’t say a word as he drove me home, and neither did he.

The next time he showed up at my house, I pretended I wasn’t home. That part, at least, is true.

Afterward, I said nothing. To anyone. I thought it was just me, you see.

Years later, three of my cousins would possess a bravery I never had: they spoke up about what had been done to them. They called it out in the open, in front of the entire family. I wondered if I could have saved them; if I’d have spoken up, if it would have changed anything. I was scared the answer might be yes.

So I said nothing. Their experiences were worse, I argued with myself. Theirs were real. Mine was nothing in comparison. I said nothing.

So three girls stand in the front row of my grandfather’s funeral.

I stand a few rows back, because I lied.

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