Mentor

Mom taught us everything.

She taught us how to hide, how to be small. How to be quiet when he came home and how to become invisible when he got mad. She taught us that there were worse things than being hit.

The wedding was nice, she told us. The honeymoon in Cabo was a little rocky, but she figured they were both tired. The first bruises were hard to explain away to family and friends, but it got easier as time passed, Mom said. Like everything else, my brother and I learned early that she was right.

She taught us how to make a meal from condiments and bread. She taught us that sleeping out back in a tent in the summertime still wasn’t far enough away from him to be safe.

He only stopped hitting her when she got pregnant with me, when they still lived in the hot little apartment in the city, but words were even worse, Mom said. The bruises you could get used to; other things never stopped cutting, never stopped hurting. Like everything else, my brother and I learned early that she was right.

She taught us to trust one another, and no one else. She taught us court orders were fairy tales, and a smile was all he needed to charm away the neighbor’s complaints to the sheriff.

Three nights before the police came looking for Dad, Mom took us out in the woods behind the houses on our street and taught us how deep we would need to dig. Like everything else, as we smiled and charmed the state troopers who asked so many questions, my brother and I learned that she was right.

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