The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

My hands shook as I ripped open the package. Inside were pictures of me and a note in Mom’s unmistakable, childlike handwriting: “I’m no longer your mother. These are yours.” I flipped through one photo after another—from the EPNG days, a few from Albuquerque, and two from my tenth birthday party in Gallup. One had Violet hugging me as I blew out the candles. How I faked that smile I’ll never know. Each picture brought back a worse memory until I couldn’t look anymore. It was as though I’d witnessed my own funeral and no one had come to say goodbye. I couldn’t stop crying. My childhood replayed in my mind—along with a voice telling me that every horrible thing that happened had been my fault. I hadn’t hurt this much since the day in Gallup when Mom begged me not to leave her in that cold, empty house. I deserved this for not going with her. Since her awful visit in Kensington, I hadn’t been in touch. Comforting her seemed impossible, so I’d given up. I sat alone in the parking lot, feeling lost. I had begun to lower my guard to let in a few of my fraternity brothers, but if they really got to know me, they’d want nothing to do with me. Choking on guilt, struggling to inhale, I vowed never to let anyone get close enough to hurt me again.