Liar, Liar

<only mild suggestion of childhood mental abuse>

I watch her now as she carefully lowers herself into what she hopes will be a comfortable chair for at least half an hour. Only I notice the wince that escapes her lips before she plasters on her best smile for the family. It’s Christmas. Only tidings of comfort and joy today, please and thank you.

“Are you ok, Grandma?” 12-year-old Emily asks. “Would you like a cushion for your back?”

She shoos Emily away gently with assurances she is fine. Liar, liar, pants on fire! That’s what I used to say to her in that tiny, long backyard when I’d appear out of nowhere to play with her following a weekend with her parents when she was seven. I’d notice the fresh bruise on her arm or the welt on the back of her skinny legs that wasn’t there two days before. I’d ask her about them and I’d see tears brimming on her lower lids. But she’d brush them away and snap, 

“I fell, ok? I’m always falling. Daddy says I’m so bloody clumsy…” and I’d reply liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Shut up!” She’d yell. “I thought you were here to play. So let’s just play, ok?”

Sometimes Mrs. Grady would hear her yelling at me and ask her who she was talking to. Mrs. Grady couldn’t see me. Only she could see me. So she’d tell Mrs. Grady she was talking to herself and Mrs. Grady would smile and reply only old folks like her talk to themselves. I’d giggle silently and hope Mrs. Grady didn’t think she was being rude.

I used to visit her regularly, especially following those weekends. She would never tell Mrs Grady, who minded her during the week, or her teachers, or her classmates about her father. Only me. And I really had to drag it out of her while we played princesses. She always wanted to be the prettiest princess and I was fine with that. I knew she needed to be the prettiest because her father always told her she was ugly and she believed him.

Then one day, I stopped showing up. She looked for me everywhere. Behind the shed. Inside the thick bushes at the back of that tiny yard. Not inside Mrs Grady’s house though because she knew I’d never hide there. Then she got angry. She yelled at me for not coming to visit anymore. Then she cried. I hated seeing her in pain but I knew it was time for her to move on without me.

But I never really left her. That was impossible. When she was 14, she saved up green stamps to buy herself a guitar. And that’s when she found me again. She would lock herself in the long walk-in closet in the family room, bury herself behind all her mother’s dresses, and sing her heart out. She’d write songs about love, something she knew little about but fantasized lots. And I would help her write the lyrics on the foolscap she was supposed to use only for school. That’s when she began hiding her heart and her real self in boxes covered by the long dresses. And I helped her keep that self from her father. She only showed him the person he wanted her to be. That way he didn’t get angry with her. As for her songs, he wouldn’t have liked any of those. They were about handsome young men who existed in TV shows and movies but not in her real life.

Sometimes, as she grew older, her father would ask her if she was happy. She kept up her guard when he asked that question. She’d turn the question back on him and ask why was he asking. He’d reply that she often didn’t look happy. I’d want to say “Ya think?” Just as well he couldn’t see nor hear me. And she’d say, 

“Of course I’m happy, daddy.” 

And I’d scream Liar liar, pants on fire! But she ignored me. Truth hurts. Yes, after all those years of wondering where’d I’d gone and why I left her, she ignored me. Funny ‘bout that.

So is there a happy ending to this story? Yes and no. After all, life isn’t a fairy tale. The good news is that handsome prince she had dreamed about did eventually come into her life. He told her she was beautiful and deserving of love. Through him, she found courage. With him, she didn’t even need me, but I was never far away and when things got rough, as they always do in real life, she would sit and speak to me in whispers of thought so silent that only I heard her and understood what the real problems were. Together we would sort through the issues and decide on courses of action. And I changed “pants on fire” to “do what you desire.”

I know what you’re thinking by now. You’ve figured who I am even though you can’t see me amongst all the friends and relatives in the room, but trust me, I’m there. What’s more, she and I are having a chat. She’s telling me how much her osteo-arthritic hips hurt even sitting in that chair and that she’ll need to get up soon because her bum is going numb. She’s also craving one of those nice almond & dark chocolate pieces on the table and arguing with me when I remind her chocolate is bad for her arthritis. And now, she’s finding all the chatter and the Christmas music too loud but she doesn’t want to be that cranky old bag in the corner and spoil everyone’s moods. But if she could just lie down and close her eyes for a little while, she’d feel so much better. 

Arghhh…her daughter’s voice just jolted us both awake.

“Mom, can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A glass of wine? How about some of that delicious almond chocolate you love? What did you say, Mom? The music is pretty loud, isn’t it. Would you like us to turn it down? You sure your bum isn’t numb yet? Would you like to lie down for a while? Oh,ok. If you’re sure you’re ok…but if you need something, just ask, ok?

Sure you will Mom. Liar, liar, pants on fire!