I told a lie.
It was a white lie, as white as the puffball clouds that dotted the sky the day I told it.
You had prepared a tea party in the backyard, complete with your favorite stuffed animals and little paper doilies under flower-printed teacups. I was honored that you included me, your grumpy older brother, in the event. And truly, I was. I knew you didn’t have many friends since we’d moved, and you’d been lonely, too, ever since Mom passed.
But you added an ungodly amount of sugar to your “tea”. I could feel the cavities developing on my teeth from the first sip I took. Giving you an admittedly forced smile, I told you it was delicious; the best tea I’d ever had.
I told a lie.
It was a grey lie, as grey as your tear-stained eyes as days passed, then weeks, then months, but our dog Buddy still hadn’t come home. He couldn’t come home, because he didn’t run away, like I told you he did. It was by far less cruel than telling you the truth. That our father had brutalized the energetic pup, then left the body for me to find when I got home from school. There was no time for me to process my shock and grief; you would be home soon, in less than an hour, and he sure wasn’t going to clean this up. Teenagers shouldn’t have to see such cruelty and violence in their own house, let alone a nine-year-old. No, this had to be gone before you could see. Before you could learn that our father’s violent fits of anger weren’t only directed at me for “misbehaving”.
There were other grey lies, too many to count. The ones I told the teachers about being clumsy; the one I told the doctors, that I stumbled getting out of the car and landed wrong on my wrist; and more that I told you, that my bruises were from fights I got into at school.
I told a lie.
It was a black lie, as black as a raven. The way its dark wings curved a circle above the lake is still etched in my mind.
Our father had been in a surprisingly good mood the last few days, something about a job bringing him good money. It didn’t matter to me. He wouldn’t spend that money on us. Not for new clothes, or shoes without holes, probably not even to keep the fridge full of food. And I knew his good mood wouldn’t last; it never did.
But it lasted long enough for him to take us on a little fishing trip, just for a day. How strange it felt, with the sun shining down, and a soft breeze making the warmth of a June day perfect. And our father’s body lying face-down in the water.
You hadn’t wanted to go in the boat. I didn’t want you in the boat, either. Instead, I let you stay on the shore to pick flowers. At twelve now, you knew to be careful around the water, and even how to swim enough to not drown. I warned you to stay out of the water anyway.
The man who’d never earned the right to be called a dad always preferred bottles over cans. He’d once told me it was because a bottle made a better weapon in a fight. It was easy to slip the drugs into the bottles, since I was his “beer bitch” and had to open them for him.
I waited until his eyes drooped, and he stopped jerking awake. In the warm sun, it didn’t take long, and I was patient; eighteen years’ worth of patient.
I flipped our boat.
It wasn’t hard, tiny vessel that it was. I even managed to crack the old man over the head with one of the oars before we both fell in the water.
This was an opportunity, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I yelled and splashed, making a show just for you. After all, you had to believe it was an accident. You’re a terrible liar.
All the while, I kept our father’s head under the water. He didn’t really struggle. How could he, between the drugs and the hit he took to the head. But I was going to make sure he didn’t come back up.
By the time I “gathered my wits” and swam to shore, you’d already called for help. A friendly couple who’d been hiking nearby heard the yells and came running. They helped me out of the water and asked if I was okay, if there was anyone else with me, and where the heck were our parents.
I pretended to be scared and concerned, saying our dad was out there, but I didn’t know where he’d gone. They called the police.
When the police arrived, they fished his body out and asked me what happened. I told them how he’d been drinking, then tried standing up, flipping the boat in the process. They believed every word of it, patting me on the shoulder and giving me condolences.
We’ve been staying at our house in the week since it happened, while things get sorted about who will take care of you and where we’ll go, and now I need to craft another lie. About the water and muddy footprints you found by the back door. You were up earlier than me today, too early, and I didn’t have time to clean them up like I did the past three mornings. I don’t know what the lie will be yet, but I can’t tell you that the mess is from our father.