My Mama's Secrets

I knew I should have worn pants instead of shorts, but the house was sweltering.

The air conditioning unit was broken, the ceiling fans didn’t work, and it was the middle of summer in Georgia. My shirt clung to my back drenched in sweat. The hardwood floor bit into my knees as I kneeled and looked into yet another box that my mother had tossed useless stuff in.

The hard floors and heat were replaying memories of the abuse I had endured at the hands of my mother.

Trying not to wander down memory lane, I started looking at the contents of the box. Most of it would be thrown away anyway. This bin contained some old magazines, newspapers, and random notebooks I had written in when I was in school. The notebooks were probably the ones she use to make me write in, writing the same thing over and over again, “I will be obedient to my Mama, I will listen to my Mama, I will not question Mama.” I never understood why she wanted me to call her Mama when she lacked affection and didn’t deserve it.

One time after I had forgotten to set my alarm to get up early to get eggs out of the chicken coop for breakfast, she marched into my room and forced me up. I still remember her hand grabbing my arm and squeezing as hard as her boney fingers would allow. I cried for her to let go, but she just dragged me out of bed to the kitchen and sat me in the hard wooden chair, and handed me a notebook. Daddy was nowhere to be found; he must have already left for work. I was just six, but that was no excuse for being lazy and oversleeping. After I filled up two sheets, she finally let me get up from the table and eat my cold breakfast. The older I got, the harsher she was, and soon I gave up looking to her for love.

I closed the box and got up, and walked away. This box was just one of many that filled the living room. Some surrounded the sofa; others lined walls. They all were filled with different items, some with dishes, other with clothes she used to sew with, some with my Daddy’s clothes, his work tools; I just never knew what I would remember when I opened a box.

I just didn’t understand my mother. She should have realized that most of this stuff could have been thrown away.

I could do nothing but shake my head and walk out, needing to go outside for fresh air. Standing on the porch, I took a deep breath and turned my head to the squeaking of the swing moving in the wind. I gently put my weight on it and tested the strength of the wood. When it didn’t give out, I leaned back and rocked in it.

My mind was wandering again, and I remembered the last time I talked to her was a few months ago; she said she wanted to see me, she felt that she did not have much time left. I just couldn’t talk to her. What did she want me to say? “Well, thank you, Mama, for helping me become an author. All it took was for you to destroy any love I may have had for you. All those times I had to write for punishment, I will be obedient to my Mama, I will listen to my Mama, I will not question Mama, really helped.”

I needed to finish what I came here to do so I could get out of this place. I didn’t belong here anymore.

Going back into the house, I passed by the living room and headed toward my old bedroom. The faded yellow walls had seen better days. My old bed, hard and uncomfortable, was still in the middle of the room with a small nightstand to the left of it.

I knew the bitterness was useless, but how was I supposed to feel when she tossed me out at sixteen with a bus ticket and a packed bag, when I had to walk to town and board a bus all on my own. When I wanted to ask for help, but the words she made me write over and over were on repeat in my head, “I will be obedient to my Mama, I will listen to my Mama, I will not question Mama.” And the special day Daddy promised never came.

But I wasn’t that little girl anymore. And mother was dead.

Turning to leave the room, I noticed the closet door was ajar. Opening the door fully, I noticed a brown paper box sitting in the corner of the closet. I picked the box up and carried it to my old bed and sat down with it. Neatly printed on the brown paper box was my name, Sarah. The wrapping was so neat I knew that only one person wrapped it, my mother. As neatly as she wrapped it, I unwrapped the brown paper, only to reveal another box with a lid. Opening the box, I was shocked to see the books I had written lined up neatly in the box, a few magazines I had written for, and pictures of me winning awards. On top was a plain white envelope.

Picking up the envelope, I opened it before losing my nerve and putting it and the box back in the closet. I don’t know what she was trying to accomplish by this box and letter, but maybe once I read it, I would have closure and be able to move on with my life.

I pulled out the papers that had been tightly folded and opened them.

Dear Sarah,

I have so many regrets, but you must know that I have loved you since the moment I discovered I was pregnant with you. And while I knew that I wanted to give you all the hugs and kisses in the world, I knew I couldn’t. I needed to keep you safe, and so I trained you to listen to me at all costs. My heart couldn’t bear the idea of what I knew would happen to you if I did not teach you early on.

Your father was not a kind man, and I know you don’t believe me. You, like most people, only saw what he allowed you to see. I, too, was like that when I first met him. I thought he hung the stars and outshone the sun, that is until we said, ”I do.” Those two small words sealed my fate. As soon as we were married, we moved to this town where his family was from. The first night of being married wasn’t perfect, but I was in love, and so I accepted the pain. But the pain never went away. And when he bored with me, he would find someone else to inflict the kind of pain he liked.

He always made sure that if he had to deal with me, you couldn’t hear it or see it. He wanted the perfect image. And I would have been fine with that life, but he started making comments about you. Comments no father should make about his child. You were five, and I started making sure you knew to listen to me at all costs. He would do to you what he was doing to me. So I always made sure that you went to bed before he got home, you were working when he got up, and you were away when he was home.

Your granddaddy protected him but refused to protect us from him. The only person who knew how he was, was your uncle. He was the one who brought your bus ticket. If I had tried to buy it, they would have refused to sell it to me. But your uncle knew, and he was the one who told me I had to get you out.

You were still fifteen, and I knew I couldn’t protect you any longer; you would soon be sixteen, and nothing would stop him. I went to your uncle, and he came up with a plan to get you out. I am so sorry that I couldn’t be a better, stronger person. The last time I talked to you, there was so much I wanted to say but couldn’t.

Love,

Mama

P.S. I know you don’t believe me, but maybe the evidence behind this letter will be the proof you need.

I couldn’t understand the words.

I placed her letter in the box and looked at the evidence she said proved everything. They were police reports, and with each one I read, I became numb. I couldn’t help but toss the papers back in the box and put the lid on. That still wasn’t enough; I rewrapped the brown paper around the box until it looked the way it did before I learned what I did. I placed the brown paper box back in the closet and closed the door.