Silence

I hadn't precisely seen the mouse, just a quick, scampering blur of motion in my peripheral vision but it was enough to startle me and I fell off the piano stool onto the concrete floor with a screech. My daddy's face was not quite clear as he leaned over me but I heard his words, Lie still, you're bleeding.

Paramedics arrived and an ambulance, I was distantly aware of flashing lights and a stretcher and when I woke up next it was in the emergency room with my daddy holding my hand. It's ok, he said with a reassuring smile, You took a tumble but it's ok. I wanted to tell him about the mouse but he shushed me and it was easier to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I had broken my arm and wrist and had a mild concussion and it was the first night I was to spend in a hospital room alone. I was to go home the following day but instead I went to my grandmother's for several weeks and my daddy came to see me every night, stayed for supper, and saw me tucked in before he left. It was an oddly peaceful time with my grandmother carrying me to and from school each day, my daddy there each night, and no sign of my mother for the duration.

The broken bones mended, the cast came off, and I got to go home again. My mother never mentioned the accident or my absence and for a time was almost subdued. Although the words were never said outloud, I slowly came to realize that no one had trusted her to care for an injured child. It was a frightening and disturbing idea and one that I struggled with for a very long time. I had no illusions about her but somehow it was a shock to discover that my daddy and grandmother knew her the same way I did.

The things we don't talk about or bring to the surface can often do the most harm. Sometimes we have to pay attention to the silence to hear the words.