FORGIVENESS

by Alison Hammer Winans

“Alison, come and eat your breakfast now. And don’t bring your book with you,” called my mother in her whiny voice. She always sounded like she’d been crying even when she hadn’t.

I buttoned my green cardigan so that the embroidered collar of my white blouse showed, put down What Katy Did, and came reluctantly to the table. Oh no it’s boiled egg again. Ever since starting at the new school I felt sick every morning. I hated always being different from other children. My parents, sister and I had recently come back from Japan to England for a year’s furlough in Cambridge, where we lived in a third floor furnished flat above our landlord and another family.

“Where’s Daddy gone?” I asked, sliding onto the wooden dining chair.

“He’s in Oxford for a two-day conference. I’ll be taking you to school until he comes back.” She was wearing a beige cardigan she knitted herself and a brown tweedy skirt. She frowned as she took the knife and sliced the top off my egg. I scrunched up my face trying to pull my eyebrows together, wondering how she made such deep furrows and what it felt like to frown all the time. Besides that and her bulbous nose, she was quite pretty with her dark brown curly hair and motherly figure.

“Don’t make such a face. I did my best to cook it how you like it, with a soft yolk and firm white.”

“I wasn’t making a face at the egg.” It’s useless trying to explain. I nibbled at my wholemeal toast and picked up my small egg spoon, sprinkling salt and then scooping a mouthful of yolk and white together. My mouth was dry, and the food went down into my stomach like an animal swallowed whole traveling through a boa constrictor.

“My tummy’s all squiggley, like tadpoles swimming around.”

“Alison, you’re six, you’re a big girl. Can’t you eat without making a fuss, like Liz?” Liz opened her mouth displaying her half-chewed food, trying to make me feel even worse.

My mother continued, “Now, don’t you start. Keep your mouth closed when you’re eating.” I glared at my younger sister, looking so innocent with her wide green eyes and halo of light brown curls, and tried to kick her under the table. Unfortunately, my parents knew better than to seat us within reach of each other.

“I don’t like going to school.” She’s not even interested in finding out why. Sighing, I decided to explore my egg further, taking a rich, orange-yellow mouthful. Then I dug my spoon deeper, knowing that runny white was often hiding down below the yolk.

Liz said, “When a chicken lays an egg, does it come out the same place as the pooh?"

“You beast, you’re only saying that to make me feel sick.”

“Girls, just stop bickering and eat. We have to leave soon.” I scraped out some of the white from the bottom of the egg and left it on the side of my plate, hiding it under some pieces of brown eggshell. Runny white reminded me of the strings of snot that end up on your hand after an especially strong sneeze. I took another mouthful, forcing myself to swallow the rapidly cooling egg and chased it down with some toast.

“Alison, your teacher told me you’re still not talking. And you don’t do as you’re told.”

“I do all my work. I just don’t know what to say.” Doesn’t she know I’m scared?

“Daddy and I decided to tell Granny not to make you any dresses for next summer, unless you start talking at school. Now, hurry up with that egg.”

When I heard that, my stomach moved like a nest of worms writhing. My breakfast was cold, and just thinking about boiled egg made me gag. “I can’t eat any more. I’m not going to.”

She came and hovered over me saying, “Liz, clean your teeth and put your shoes on.” Liz quickly got out of the way. Picking up the spoon, my mother scraped the inside of the eggshell, bringing the mountainous pile of congealed egg towards me.

“Open your mouth.”

Clenching my lips together and trapped in my seat, I dodged, pushing away her hand holding the spoon, the hand I usually admired with soft, smooth skin and perfectly oval fingernails. Then she pounced. Her other hand held my nostrils closed tight and as I opened my mouth, she filled it with the detested food. Somehow I made the muscles of my throat choke it down. I didn’t dare say anything else. Holding back tears, I ran to the bathroom, eager for once to clean my teeth.

As we hurried to the bus stop, rode the bus for a mile or so and then walked down a tree-lined street to the school, Liz chattered while I was quiet. I wasn’t going to talk to my mean mother. Besides I had to think about what to say to the other children at school. Shall I just start by saying hello? What would I say next? But even my worries did not stop me from crunching and swishing through piles of autumn leaves and searching for conkers fallen from horse chestnut trees. Somehow nature clothed me in courage, and when my mother dropped me off, I was ready to face the classroom.

When she came to pick me up at the end of the day, a crowd of excited children ran up to her saying, “Alison can talk. She spoke to us today.” After so many weeks they must have thought I was mute. I said proudly, “Now I can have my dresses, can’t I? Can they all be pink?”

Decades later my mother and I had a phone conversation. “I was always bothered that you bribed me to start talking instead of finding out why school was so difficult for me.”

“When you went to the Japanese kindergarten, you didn’t say anything until you learned some Japanese. In Cambridge, we thought you were doing something similar. I always knew you could fit in, and felt that all you needed was a bit of a push. On your first day, I wanted to tell the teacher that it was all new to you, that you were accustomed to a Japanese kindergarten. But the teacher looked like she was going to cry, so I didn’t want to bother her. But I wish I had.” She sounded so sincere that I had to believe her motivation was kind and caring.

As for the egg, “You know back then I didn’t like boiled eggs. Do you recall the time you held my nose to make me eat it?”

“I remember making you eat your scrambled egg when you came home, if you didn’t finish it at breakfast. But I don’t remember holding your nose. Oh dear, I’m sorry about that.”

“You are forgiven.” I felt peace like a clear light filling my chest, as I said these words. I realized that I also forgave myself for the time when, as a teenage nanny for a six-year-old girl, I replayed that horrible scene. And for all the times when I ate more than my stomach wanted.