To Tell the Truth

“No matter what you’ve done, if you tell the truth, we won’t punish you.” Our parents drilled this directive into my head from the moment I understood the English language. Telling a lie was like starving an animal or shooting Grandma. The promised retribution for lying (a willow switch hanging in the mudroom) instilled unmitigated fear in my brother, sister, and me. Therefore, when my mother unknowingly forced me to lie to protect my sister, Cookie, the act wracked me with terror and guilt, but not regret.

The middle child, (Cookie) it seems, oftentimes suffers from insecurities, a “where do I belong?” complex. She is too young to do grown-up things with an older child (me), and yet she is too big to be petted or coddled like the baby of the family (our brother). Cookie, desiring visibility in the family structure, continually “acted out” to gain favorable or negative responses. And she paid dearly for it.

At the end of a sauna-like summer day spent hauling hay from the fields to the barn on our farm in Wisconsin, tempers crackled like lightning. My mother’s favorite dime-store vase lay shattered on the hardwood kitchen floor.

“You did it, didn’t you?” screamed my mom, yanking my little sister’s spindly arm. “You’re such a klutz! I know it was you! Tell me the truth!”

“No, Mommy, I didn’t do it! I found it broke. Please don’t hit me!” Cookie’s sobs cut deep into my soul. I dearly loved my siblings, although as a budding teen, I sometimes resented the responsibility of their care.

Now, terrified of confrontations, I backed into the pantry and peeked through the crack in the door. I realized I was crying.

“You’re lying to me, I know you are! What have I told you children about lying? Tell me you broke it and I won’t spank you any more.”

Enormous teardrops spilled from Cookie’s wide blue eyes as she looked up at my mom. My little sister shook her head, her golden ringlets bouncing from side to side. With her stubby little hands, she tried in vain to ward off each new blow that was raining down on her shoulders and backside.

Then my mother, her eyes wild, kicked my baby sister; her small body crunched and crumbled on the floor. I could stand no more.

“I did it! I broke the vase. Punish me! Please don’t hit her any more!” My voice broke into the din of screams and cries as I fearfully stepped into our shabby kitchen. Bracing myself, my chin rose as I waited for the first slap.

It never came. Instead, my mother looked scornfully down at my sister who was whimpering, lying in a fetal position on the floor. Calmly, Mother said, “Why can’t you be more like Bonnie? She told the truth and I won’t punish her. She’s earned some chocolate ice cream.” Then she walked to the icebox as though nothing had happened.

My sister’s red-rimmed eyes beseeched me from across the room: her unspoken words sliced through my bruised heart. “I told the truth and she beat me. You lied and you get to eat ice cream. But thank you for saving me.”

As I choked down my once favorite treat that now had turned to dry, flaky sawdust in my mouth, our gawky, clumsy younger brother quietly slunk into his bedroom, his chin nearly resting on his chest.

A lie is a lie is a lie.