Swear You Won’t Breathe A Word to Your Mother

I promised to do whatever I had to as long as she would help me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Will must be thinking. I worried he hated me for what my father did.

He couldn’t possibly still love a girl whose father had treated him so badly. I felt so ashamed.

Troy kept telling me how sorry he was that he’d told Mom about what Will and I had done that day. I snapped back that sorry didn’t help. Though deep down, I could no longer put all the blame on him.

Mom was the real villain. She made Troy follow us. Probably forced the truth out of him.

She made others do her bidding, like an evil queen. Troy never set out to cause Will and me harm. Troy enjoyed having Will around and he was an innocent in it all.

I was desperate. Will’s father was in the Navy and they were moving to England for the next three years. I needed Will to get a message to me before he left. Once he left, I’d have no way of reaching him.

My only hope was Dorothy.

She and I had become closer over the years, both sharing the common goal of wanting love and happiness and escape from my mother. I needed her as a lookout, a spy.

Dorothy was at home all day. Close enough to keep an eye on my mother.

When I got Dorothy alone, I said, “You’ve got to help me.”

“I’d like to,” she said. “You know I would, Barbara Ann, but…”

“No buts, Dorothy, you are twenty-eight years old now. Do you think things will ever change for you? Do you think my mother will allow you a boyfriend after you just saw what happened to me? If I never see Will again? You’ve no hope for your future.”

She stared back at me.

“You’ve gotta help me. Please,” I said. “Helping me is the only way to help yourself.”

In the end, I convinced her we shared a common fight — my problems were her problems. We shared the same enemy, and she agreed to do whatever she could.

Three days went by. Each day, I became more hopeless.

Every day after school, I sat in my building crying, unable to figure out how to fix my broken life.

One afternoon, a knock on the door startled me. At first, I ignored it, figuring it was one of the many boarder kids in our home just trying to gain entry into my private place.

The rapping on the door got louder, sounding urgent. So, I stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes, and blew my snotty nose. At the door stood Dorothy. “Quick.” She pushed past me.

She paced around the small space.

“What’s going on?” I asked, grabbing another tissue to finish wiping away my tears. “What’s wrong?”

“You must promise,” she said. “Swear to me. You’ll never breathe a word to your mother.”

“What? Yes, I swear! What is it? Just tell me.”

“Will wrote you a letter,” she said in a gush of air.

“What?” I sprung alive.

“Quiet.” She grabbed hold of me to keep me from running off and doing something foolish. “Listen,” she said, “you can’t get upset. You can’t let your mother know anything.”

“I won’t. I won’t, I swear,” I said, relieved Will had written and eager to know if he still loved me. Not knowing what to do, I stood shocked and confused, my mind racing.

“There’s more,” Dorothy said, gripping my arm.

“More?” I feared what she would say.

“She read the letter.”

“What?” I couldn’t imagine. It was beyond comprehension.

How could she? How could she do that? I couldn’t believe my mother could stoop so low.

I pulled away from Dorothy, but she stopped me from reaching the door. I started sobbing. Dorothy led me over to the bed and sat me down. “Listen,” she said, “you got to listen.”

I nodded and took the tissue she handed me.

“The letter came today. I saw her open it. Saw her read it. I said nothing to her. I pretended not to notice.”

The news sank in deeper and deeper, cutting to the bone.

“She didn’t burn it,” Dorothy said. “She put it in the downstairs closet. Under a stack of old bills on the second shelf.”

“Thank you, Dorothy,” I said. “Thank you so much.” I let out a long, shaky breath and worked on calming myself down. I couldn’t go off half-cocked, out of control in anger. I had to do what I needed to do to get Will’s letter.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Really, I am.”

“You sure?”

I nodded and looked up at her with dry eyes. She let go of my arm. “Just be careful,” she said.

“I will. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. I won’t get you in trouble, I promise.”

“Okay,” she said and moved toward the door.

I opened the door and looked out to make sure nobody would see her leave. I came up with a plan.

After another good cry and calming myself, I walked out of my building, not even locking it.

My mother was talking on the phone like everything was normal. I lingered in the dining room, letting her know I needed to make a call about my homework.

I waited, while my heart raced, feeling like my heart might pound its way right out of my chest. Finally, she hung up, turned to me, and asked, “How was school?”

“Good,” I answered, keeping what I really wanted to say to her locked inside.

“You can call Debbie now,” she said and left the room.

I watched until her back was turned to me and she was busy at the stove frying a pan of meat.

In a dash, I crossed the room to the closet. Opened the door. My hands trembling.

The door creaked. But the music on the radio in the kitchen, along with the sizzle of the frying meat prevented the sound from reaching her ears.

I lifted the bundle of old bills where Dorothy said the letter would be. I searched for the one thing not like the others.

Barely able to breathe, my hands shaking, I stuffed the envelope down the front of my jeans, closed the door, and walked as fast as I could out of the house.

Back in my building, I tried to sit still, but couldn’t.

I held the cream-coloured envelope in front of me and stared at my name and address, not in ink, but typed, appearing not at all like any other letter I’d ever received from him.

I turned the envelope over. Pissed at how carelessly she’d torn it open.

With trembling fingers, I pulled the letter from the envelope, unfolded the paper, and checked the date: Friday, the 13th, the day it happened.

Why had I ever doubted him? My stomach knotted with the realization he had gone back to his grandmother’s that very same evening and had written to me. How I wanted to crumble.

Friday 13, 1974

Dear Barbara Ann,

This letter could very possibly be the last for a long time. First, I hope sometime you’ll be able to forgive me for what I got you into. It was all my fault. There’s nothing to blame on you. Tell your father that sometime, and maybe you won’t get into much trouble.

I’m sorry for all the trouble I got you in. There’s not much I can do about it now. But I think the worst part is not seeing you again.

I got what I deserved, maybe less. But I do hope you didn’t get into much trouble. If you did, then I could never forgive myself. But I do want you to remember in all the letters we’ve ever written each other, that I’ll always love you, even now.

It’s all over between seeing each other, so maybe when things cool down some, I’ll write again. I should have guessed with a date like that something was bound to happen, and it did.

Tell Troy I’m not mad at him, but that he won’t be able to see me again ever. Tell everyone bye and I’ll miss them, especially swimming and playing ball.

I know you tried to get your father to forgive me, but I’m sure it didn’t work. I guess he did what he had to do, and I deserved it. I just pray you didn’t get into any trouble.

We might have enjoyed that day then, but looking back on it, was it worth it? I sure don’t think so. If I knew I would lose this much, it would have been different. But I still love you and always will.

That’s all for now, and I apologize once more and please forgive me for what I did to us. I’ll always love you forever. Bye.

Will

P.S. I don’t know if I gave you my London address, but if I didn’t I’ll wait a few months then write again.

I typed the envelope just in case, so no one would recognize the handwriting. If you want to write me here, please go ahead. It’s the same address as yours, but to me, care of Mrs. J.H. Elliot. I don’t blame you if you don’t write, but please hurry. Never forget, I’ll always love you.

This part is really important. Send me a picture I can really remember you by; a good one, like the one you never showed me. Please, this is what I really want.

I love you,

Will

It was hard for me to fathom the depth of what my mother had done.

She had read private words meant only for me. I could not believe she could be so cold, cruel, so heartless. Could not believe how she looked me straight in the eyes while hiding such deception.

My mother was more awful than I’d ever imagined.

Could she not understand how much Will and I loved each other? Had she never felt the same way in her life?

The pain I was in was like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was equal to a million bee stings, or a hundred million jellyfish stings.

When my hands finally stopped shaking enough to hold a pen, I grabbed a sheet of loose leaf and started writing, the words pouring from me, hoping my letter would reach him before he left for England.

Without his new address, everything depended on his receiving this letter and writing me back before he left.

I couldn’t bear the thought he might think I didn’t still love him. I needed to explain my mother had read his letter and hidden it from me.

I needed him to know how much I still loved him.

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BARBARA CARTER is a visual artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.