The Stories We Don't Tell

Every family has stories. Some are funny, some are embarrassing, some are inspiring. But every family also has other stories, the stories we don'’t tell. These are the ones we feel ashamed of, the ones we think are our fault, that happened because we are bad.

I have those stories. Mine are not as bad as some, worse than others

One of these stories took place when I was about 5 years old. I remember it mostly as a series of images, like looking through a photo album, though these aren’'t the kind of pictures that ever get put in the family album.

The first snapshot is of my and my younger brother. We'’re sitting at the kitchen table, eating lunch. It’s an old kitchen in a old house. The flooring is cracking in places. Our mother is working in the background. You can see an old oven, a few cabinets, one small counter, and a sink.

The next image is that of my mom turning around. Her face is twisted with anger, and she'’s yelling. I don’'t know what provoked her; this image is a close-up of her face, and you can'’t see what’'s going on in the foreground. Maybe my brother was goofing around and knocked over his milk. I don'’t know; it'’s not in the picture.

In the next frame, my mother has snatched my brother out of his chair, and is holding him by the upper arm. In her other hand is a worn black belt, one my father no longer wears. It’'s folded in half, with the buckle and the other end in her hand, which is raised. The door to the back porch is in the background, with thin curtains covering the window, and the piece of wood nailed to the jamb that serves as door look is blocking the door from opening. My brother is crying and struggling. My mom’s face is still contorted with rage, and even in this still picture, you can see the fire in her eyes.

The final image is that of my brother on the floor. He had squirmed out of our mother’'s grip, and fell to the floor. There’'s blood on his face; the fall has knocked a tooth out. He'’s only three, so it’'s just a baby tooth, but there'’s still a lot of blood. My mother looks scared and a little sick; blood always makes her queasy.

The images stop there. I don'’t remember clearly what happened next; it’'s blended with images from the time my brother tipped over backwards in his chair, and was again on the floor of that kitchen with blood on his face.

The image that sticks with me, that’'s burned into my head, is not that of my brother on that floor with a bloody mouth. It'’s the close-up of my mother’s face. That'’s the image I saw repeated, even after we got too big for her to hit us anymore. It’'s not an evil face. It’'s just the face of someone who has her own stories she doesn’'t tell.