Fifty Years From Silence: My journey, my words

Chapter One 

Chapter One

In the little mountain top community of Coker Creek is where Lily Mae’s story begins. This was the kind of rural town where people waved from their porch and people’s business traveled faster than the mail carrier’s truck.  Lily Mae, her momma, and her siblings lived in a little two-bedroom house in a bend on the long driveway that led to her grandparents’ house (her Momma’s parents).  The house wasn’t much; it was covered in tar black paper on the outside and on the inside the walls were cardboard that was insulated with bags and newspapers. There was a living room, kitchen, a bedroom for the kids, a bedroom for the parents, and a bathroom. It was the kind of rural place where everyone knew everyone and their business-except the things they did not want to see or know.

Lily Mae was two and half years old that March of ’78 when her Daddy died. He had been at the veteran’s hospital in Nashville receiving treatment for the dreaded “C” word, and even though Lily Mae did not understand the word gone, not really, she understood the way her momma’s shoulders shook at night when she thought her kids weren’t paying attention. Lily Mae also did not understand the way her eight older siblings moved around the house like shadows trying not to break. See, Lily Mae’s family had experienced loss before she was born, they had lost Timmy when he was but three years old.

The days after Lily Mae’s father’s death blurred together in a way only a toddler’s memory can hold—shapes, sounds, the echo of grief she didn’t yet understand. Lily Mae remembers the way her Momma’s hands trembled when she braided her hair. She remembers her siblings moving around the house with a kind of careful quiet, as if the noise itself might break their mother in two.

Meals became simpler. Chores grew heavier. The olden children stepped into roles they were too young for, and the younger ones learned to stay out of the way. They learned how to survive, not really thrive.

Even at two and half years old Lily Mae sensed the shift when daddy’s friend showed up, speaking softly and offering help that Lily Mae’s momma did not know how to refuse. Offering Momma help and hope when her whole world seemed so dark.

Lily Mae didn’t know how to tell anyone that her chest felt tight when this man smiled at her. She only knew that something inside her whispered no long before she understood what danger meant. Lily Mae did not have words for the unease that curled in her stomach when he would pull into their driveway or when he walked into a room. She only knew she tried to hide behind her brother Jack. No one noticed when she stopped babbling like toddlers too or that her little hands wrung her blanket until the edges frayed, except for Jack.

Lily Mae’s older siblings were too busy to notice. They were teenagers and young adults who were juggling school, marriage, work, and trying to help their mother keep their family afloat. They saw a man helping their mother carry the weight, and in essence helping her siblings bear a burden that was not theirs to carry. Only Jack, who was only two years older than Lily Mae, noticed the way her eyes followed the man with fear instead of trust.

Lily Mae’s momma, Bet, worn from grief and the weight of keeping eight kids fed did not notice the change in her youngest little girl. And who could blame, Bet, her world was turned upside down and she was bearing more than she knew how to do.

When Lily Mae’s daddy died his side of her family was gone too, except for Aunt G and Uncle Jim, who came back in their lives in a few years.

As the months stretched on, the man’s presence became part of the household. Lily Mae’s momma, Bet, welcomed him in their home with open arms, he was after all “daddy’s” friend. He worked as a welder for the TVA so the money he could provide felt like a god send to Bet with these six mouths to feed. He carried feed sacks, repaired chicken coops, and stacked firewood for the winter.  To everyone else, he looked like stability for a mother who was trying to raise all these children alone.

By this time the older ones were all off to their own lives again. It was only the youngest four at home. Lisa had run away, Dianne was finishing up high school and living with her soon to be husband, Sally was already married, Jimmy had his own life of being a wild one, and Sal well he was up north with his wife.  And living at home was Lily Mae who was two, Jack who was four, Lizzie who was six, and Jake who was eight, little Jenn (who was the man’s daughter), would be born two years later.

To Lily Mae, this man felt like a shadow that followed her even in the daylight. She grew quieter and her family chalked it up to the loss of her daddy and that she was after all a toddler, with so many mood changes this was just a phase.

One afternoon, all the kids except Lily Mae were out doing chores, playing, whatever rural children did after school. Supper was finished, the man was now sitting watching Bet clean the kitchen and he had started his usual “drink” for the hard days’ work. Granny called and Bet asked the man if he could keep an eye on Lily Mae and she would be right back; Granny needed her to walk over to their house and help with something.  The request was casual, tossed over Bet’s shoulder as she wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the door to walk over to Granny’s.

Lily Mae’s breath hitched. She did not know why. She only knew she didn’t want her mother to leave. She tried to toddle after her Momma, but Bet nudged her back and said, “Stay here baby, I’ll be right back.”

The screen door creaked shut behind her.  Lily Mae stood frozen, her small fingers curled into fists. The man smiled at her from his chair, a smile that that made her stomach twist. She backed up until her shoulders touched the wall.

Later—much later—her mother would say she didn’t understand why Lily Mae cried so hard when she returned. She would say she thought it was just separation anxiety. She would say she didn’t know.

And she didn’t. Not then.

That night Lily Mae refused to sleep with her Mama and the man in the bed. She had slept with her Momma and Daddy, and then with Momma when Daddy was gone. But that night Lily Mae crawled into her oldest sister Lizzie’s bed, trembling, her tiny body pressed close. Lizzie wrapped an arm around her, half-asleep, whispering, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Lily Mae didn’t answer. She didn’t have the words.

But she knew she wasn’t okay.

And she knew no one had her—yet.