My claim: Everything that follows here is the truth.
My disclaimer: The truth may matter a bit too much to me, but there you have it.
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When I was three, my mother, my brothers and I were invited to an audience with the Queen of England. This is not as far-fetched as it may seem, because when I was three in 1956, my mother was one of the most recognized women in the world.
I was a beautiful little girl, dressed just like a princess, in a blue satin dress with white eyelet lace, full petticoats, and blue satin ribbons in my blonde curls. In my mind, as she told the story, I thought of a tiny Cinderella at the Ball.
I was so pretty, in fact, that I just couldn’t resist seeing again how pretty I was. So, as she turned away to do something for the boys, I climbed up and peeked into the huge fountain outside Buckingham Palace. I leaned over to see better, and plop! I fell in the fountain, pretty satin dress, petticoats and all.
The punch line (and there was always a punch line with my mother’s stories) was that I met the Queen of England in a towel.
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I would say, “Really? Did that really happen? Really truly?” Mom would pull back and give me that look, as if to say, How could you doubt me? Then she would answer, “Absolutely, positively the truth. You met the Queen in a towel.”
Now, I know most children are told stories by their parents, some true, and some not. But I had spent so little time with my mother that her stories took on a kind of mythic importance in my mind. As I grew up, this story somehow became a drumbeat in my life.
It was simultaneously very otherworldly (how many American children get to meet the Queen?), and very real (I did, after all, fall in the fountain). It was funny, and possible, and a connection to my mother that became inordinately important. I was special, I was a princess, and even though my mother didn’t tuck me in every night like other mothers, I had the compensation of knowing that this unique thing had happened to me.
And the truth of it, through so many years of telling and retelling, so many times of me asking her, and so many times of her laughing off the asking, was never in question for me.
When I was thirty-five, and my son was six, I was putting him to bed one night. He loved me to tell him stories before bed. Made up stories, real stories, things we had done together. I always told him when the stories were real and when they were made up. I told him the story of Mommy falling in the fountain in front of Buckingham Palace again, and once more, he said, “Really? Did that really happen?” and I said…”Absolutely…
Suddenly, I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I stopped. I held him closer, and said, “I don’t know if it’s true. I need to ask your grandmother.”
Truth was very important between my son and me. I had never knowingly told him a lie…trying always to give him the reasons behind the half-truths and white lies that become a necessary evil in polite society.
My mother, on the other hand, used to say that she got bored with her stories, and tried to vary the endings to keep herself interested. I, at twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen, always the stodgy one, would say, “But what you were just talking about really happened, how can you vary the ending?” Which would usually be met by a good-natured laugh, and, “Oh, Susie, you’re a piece of work!”
She’d told me stories all my life, why was I so sure this was the truth? But now, it involved my boy, and stodgy me wanted to know. To really know.
The next time we drove down to Mom’s, I took her aside. “I need to talk to you about something serious.”
“OK, what?”
“Did I really fall into Buckingham Palace when I went to meet the Queen?”
Her laughter was immediate…the laugh that she always saved for my most serious moments. It was a laugh like a bell, that made her face even prettier than usual. It was a laugh that had gotten her through many a tough interview, and I’m sure many a fight with the men in her life. It always made me feel silly, and usually made me back off. Not this time.
“Is it true? That’s all I want to know.”
“Of course it’s true. I’ve always told you it’s true. What’s this all about?” And on the heels of that question, which never was a question at all, but was the end of the discussion, she turned and walked away.
I hounded her all weekend. She thought I was insane, and said so. If I’d been outside of myself, looking in, I might have agreed with her. I was relentless. Finally, in frustration, she threw her hands up, very angry, and said, “FINE! You want the truth, I’ll give you the truth.” Her tone said I’d be sorry I asked.
“When you were three, we went to England. I was invited to a party by Princess Margaret. You spilled some chocolate milk on your dress, so we had to go into the bathroom to clean it. You met Princess Margaret with a wet spot on your dress.”
She stood, legs apart, defiant, a look on her face that was somewhere between triumph and hatred. Her look said clearly Are you happy? Is the truth so wonderful? What have you accomplished here?
I blinked, and I think my mouth was slightly open. It was such a little thing, I thought, this little lie, this little death of a story. But somewhere inside me, my past was melting away. All the stories in magazines about our perfect life, juxtaposed with the fights that raged in the master bedroom when the cameras stopped.
I knew in that moment that if I was determined to know the truth from my mother, I would only find it like this…with anger, hatred, defiance, and her sure knowledge that a good story was better than the truth any day.
And one of the things that has always made me a mystery to her is that I'd rather have the truth. I'm a romantic, an idealist, and have even been called Pollyanna more than once. But yes, I'd rather have the truth.
Then I take a deep breath. And on the heels of the harsh judgment that rings so clearly in the words I’ve written here, I add a tempered point of view. One that comes with age and experience and the understanding that the world isn’t painted in bold black and white brushstrokes. It’s gray, and detailed, and limitless in its exceptions to the rules.
The land of make-believe was, in fact, the world my mother lived in. Her life was made up of stories, and literally, “made-up stories.” And although I’d like the truth to be concrete, immutable, unflinching…it wasn’t wrong of her to tell me that story. In fact, her truth was that I fell in the fountain at Buckingham Palace on my way to meet the Queen.
Another deep breath. Ah, hell, who am I to shatter illusions? We all get through our days here as best we can.
I have the truth now. I’ll just keep it to myself.
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