Lies

Most parents tell their kids not to lie. Mine told me to lie better. I suppose you could say it sums up a rather unusual childhood.

My mother was a beauty, I'd heard that from enough people to know it must be true. Folks liked her, they couldn't help it. She was charismatic, her smile as infectious as her laugh.

She had a voice of angels, and could lie the stars from the sky if she chose, or so father liked to say.

He, by comparison, was a solemn man who rarely smiled. He clung to the shadows, preferring to stay up in the attic with his birds. Well, I said they were his, he didn't. He believed in freedom, and would never cage the creatures. The windows were always opened wide for them to come and go as they pleased. I sat up there with him sometimes. It was tranquil.

How he ended up with a woman like my mother, I was never sure. Maybe, like so many others, he had found himself ensnared by her lies.

It took me awhile to realise the extent of my mother's power. I knew she could lie, but her acting was extraordinary. It was a Wednesday, and I had been brought home in disgrace after a fight at school.

She had answered the door, all fretful, reduced to tears at the thought of her darling girl in a fight of all things. The teacher was very sympathetic of course, and had assured her he wouldn't cause further embarrassment by punishing me at school. My mother could do what she liked. He apologised more times than I could count, though I knew it was not his fault, and promptly left.

As soon as the door closed, mother brushed aside the fake tears and told me that Mr. Doleman was a terrible bore, and his stutter was most frustrating. She bent down, and said to me in a stern voice, "I don't care what you do, Sophia. You can punch, kick, bully. You can chew their ears off if you want. Just do one thing. Don't get caught. Promise me."

This was what she valued above all things. The pretence of innocence.

I didn't see what was so important about it. Why did a few school scraps matter? People deserved to know that I would lash out if they called me names, it would keep them safe and me happy. Mutually beneficial.

What bothered me more though was that, at any time, my mother could be lying to me and I wouldn't know.

It unnerved me, this wicked skill she had. When she said she loved me, was that even true? I liked to believe it was. She doted upon me, and although she never 'spared the rod', she would never hurt me.

I promised and she took me to the kitchen and cleaned up my cuts and scratches.

Father took me to bed early to read me a story about a little girl in a red cape, and a wolf that pretended to be her grandmother so that he could eat her. The wolf died in the end. I felt rather sorry for him. I couldn't help but think if he could act and lie like my mother, things would have taken a different spin.

My father could lie too, I knew that. He wasn't an actor though. When he lied, he did it with the same sad indifference he always had. He never delighted in deceit. He didn't have a tell I could discern but I could often sense when he lied. It was just... a feeling, really, but I knew.

I chose to ask him a question I never would have put to mother for this very reason. I asked him why it was so important to lie.

He looked at me with a bewildered expression, or as close as his inanimate face could achieve. He asked me what I meant.

I explained as best I could that I simply didn't see what was wrong with telling the truth. I had visited Emily's house. Over there they never lied and they seemed happy enough.

He mulled over it for a while, tossing crumbs to the birds on the windowsill.

"Sophia, there is nothing wrong with the truth as such but in this family it is something we cannot afford. Lies protect us, lies keep us safe. So long as you use them sensibly they are a great tool. Don't squander them."