Parental inversion

Mummy found out--and it was my fault.

I knew that because Daddy had made it clear what we did together, the two of us, had to be kept secret and he assigned me to keep that secret. I was the one responsible to keep her from knowing--knowing she had failed as a wife and he was having to find sexual gratification in her little girl instead. Responsible to keep her innocent, keep her happy and fulfilled and productive and--everything I wasn't.

The consequences of her finding out, he somehow communicated to me, would be really, really bad. She would feel bad about herself, ashamed, guilty, because she couldn't meet his needs. It was really, really important that she not feel bad. She might kill herself!

I knew my job was important because Mommy was so important. It was hard but Daddy praised me, made me feel proud I could do what she could not. He said I was really good at it. I loved my mother so much I would do anything for her, even this.

Still, there were times I didn't want to do it anymore. Times I thought, If only she knew, maybe she would stop it and I wouldn't have to do it anymore. Times I squirmed and thought about crying out for her. Did he warn me not to, did he really cover my mouth with his hand--or did I just know? She could not hear me from downstairs and even if she did, would she come? What if she came and actually saw what was happening--would she intervene and rescue me? Would she see I needed rescuing? If she didn't, would I be able to use my voice and say, "Help!"?

That was before. Then the worst happened. She came upon us unexpectedly and saw it happening. I froze. My heart caught. I couldn't breathe. She was there, in the bedroom. In the possibility of that paralysis of fear, there was a flicker of hope. What Daddy said must not happen, what I had longed would happen, what Daddy said I must not let happen--was happening right now. She knew. She was even saying so, telling him she had seen it and known what was happening, bringing the terrible secret into the uncomfortable light. It could go either way. It could be the disaster Daddy had warned about or rescue, with the relief of knowing it was over.

She was angry. She was saying angry words to him. I waited, hoping this meant I would be free. But he was angry back. It was like the tennis matches that had won him the Tri-State title. Slamming the ball back past her, lobbing it over her head, putting English on it so it bounced funny and her return dribbled at her feet. As I watched the master, watched how deceit was done, I learned what I did not want to know.

Game, set, match.

And watching, I knew he was playing his very best, all out--desperately in fact--for my sake. All the skill, all the finesse he had ever put into anything he had ever done (and he had done a lot, working his way up from "poor white trash" born to high wire artistes in a small, traveling circus to a doctorate in anthropology from a top university), he put into what I realized was defending me. I had messed up, I had blown it. Maybe by wanting her to know (there could have been no other way) I had failed to keep the secret. Her knowing was my fault.

But he made up for my wrong-doing. He saved the match, pulled it out when it was impossible to win, took the game right from doubles to singles so he could slug every ball himself--and he did that for me. He rescued us both, thereby protecting her.

From then on, I did my job like a trouper (just as he and his parents had done in the circus). Unwavering. She would never know, never again have reason to suspect from the slightest glance or sigh on my part that anything was wrong.



(September 13, 2012)