The Forgotten Lie

The Forgotten Lie

This blog was to focus on answering questions, but viewing a criminal trial sent me in another direction. What follows is a story of a crime perpetrated on my parents. I call it The Forgotten lie.

In the fifties most middle class families only had one car, we had two. Our family car was a 1956 indestructible, four-door, yellow automatic with power assisted steering. It was the car Dad used for my driving lessons.

His teaching was brief. With each mile traversed he became more nervous and his instructions more panicked. 

            When we spied someone standing on a sidewalk his voiced warned, “Watch out                   you never know when they may want to end it all;

            When we drove on country roads, “Get over, there may be a tractor lurking ahead;”

            When we traversed the many Wilmington estates,  “For God’s sake don’t kill any of             Mr. duPont’s cows.” Dad's foot never left his imaginary brake.

Soon Mom took over. She had been driving her own car since 1927; the year Dad turned sixteen. After a few lessons, Mom dubbed me the family driver. I chauffeured her shopping trips because I was adept at parallel parking. When Wilmington got its first parking garage, I thrilled to accelerate up the curved ramps on our weekly trips to the library. My high school years were carefree until I broke the one rule our family lived by, honesty. My folks believed that a lie was the intent to deceive and avoidance of honesty was a sin.  

I was working that summer in a corporate mail room, earning $1.00 an hour. One day, a co-worker asked if I could give him a lift to the auto repair shop. Sure. We chatted and laughed all the way to the parking lot where he stopped and stared. His jaw hung open in absolute awe as he moved toward the bright yellow Buick. He caressed the hood ornament, focused hopeful eyes on me and said, “I’ve always wanted to drive a Buick.” Well his wish was easy to grant. Why not? It didn’t cost anything to give him a half-hour of happiness. Off we went.

Bob was one of those friendly salesman type guys, who always talks while looking at the person next to him. One second he was immersed in a funny story and suddenly I was looking at an indestructible Buick hood resting in my lap. 

I ordered, “Get out of the car” and took his place in the driver's seat.His face showed fear of losing his license, "I can't let you do that." My face showed fear at losing my mother's trust. "I'm dead if they ever find out. Believe me."

Soon everyone arrived. the cops, my folks, the neighbors and of course, my older brother with a camera lens glued to his horned rimmed glasses. He insisted on recording the event.

My parents never admonished or grounded me. They were happy I was safe and continued to loan me the car as needed. Dad called the insurance company and lowered the deductible from $250.00 to $50.00. This carefree teen knew nothing about insurance, but she did know never to let anyone know the truth. 

For the next twenty-five years life was idyllic. I graduated from Syracuse, lived in Japan, got a teaching job in New Hampshire, married, bought and restored two homes, and at age forty-one had a child. Over the years I forgot about my crashing lie until the day I dropped my guard..

I was forty-one when my husband, John called to tell me he had been in an accident. I hung up the phone, turned to my mother and said, “That’s something I never want to experience.” 

My Mother, with an eighty-two year-old memory like an elephant said, “Remember the Buick?”It was time to relieve my conscience. “Weeelll, I guess now I can tell you the truth about that event.” She looked confused.  “I wasn’t driving, Bob was.” She  blurted out, “ I’ll never trust you again” and walked from the room.

It was a mom-daughter moment. She blamed herself for my lapse of honesty.  I spent the next seven years as the caregiver/companion, who kept her going. It was worth it because when she said her final Sayonara, I had her both her trust and her respect.