The Secret

The hallway smelled like lemon soap and old wood. You could hear the sink drip when the bathroom faucet was quiet. I was small then, five or six. My mother’s voice was sharp. It cut through the quiet like someone snapping a towel. She said, “If you tell, I will have you locked up where Charles is.” The words landed like cold pebbles. I remember visits to the institution my uncle Charles was committed to. It was a very sterile, uniformed environment. Guards locking and unlocking doors, it wasn't the kind of place anyone would choose to live let alone a 5 year old.

Grandma said Charles had been sent there when he was young because nobody could control his anger.” When my mother spoke I knew she meant what she said. I could picture the locked doors, and the guards, fear poured over me. I swallowed hard and knew I would need to keep the secret folded deep inside me, like a paper airplane tucked away in a drawer.

At night, with the sounds of the house settling, I would lie awake listening to the violent presence piercing through the darkness. Coming from people who claimed to love and keep each other safe, the only thing safe now, was their secret.

Even in my dreams, of locked doors and guards, I wasn't safe from my mother's threats. Those dreams followed me into my adult life. They were not loud or big; they were soft and stubborn, like the smell of soap on your hands.

More challenging than keeping the secret was shifting from the violent reality at night to the counterfeit "leave it to beaver home" my parents designed. I heard someone say once "street angels and house devils," this described my parents perfectly.

I could still hear my mother's voice each morning. "Time to get up Raymond, you'll be late for school." She said it like nothing happened, as if the shouting, the fear and the threats, all belong to another house. I wondered if pretending, was how everyone kept the secret.