A Seat at the Table
by Zoë E. Sprott

Runestone, volume 5

A Seat at the Table
by Zoë E. Sprott

Runestone, volume 5

I remember the glass of water.

I remember the road of every conversation we’ve had because they all wind to the same crossroad of arguments. Twisting, turning, until I forgot what feeling was like. I remember because I can’t sense it any longer.

I was at least forty years younger than the other three women in the room. My mother still was not home. I decided not to speak.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember my mother laughing as she told me that my voice changed when I spoke to certain people. My voice rises in pitch. My words stretch in length. My lips tighten, taut like the strings of my first violin. My customer service voice. It rang through the cramped coffee shop where I worked, crackled on the phone with my extended family, clawed its way out of my throat when fear made my heart pound faster and tears prickle the edges of my eyes.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember my mother bragging that I first learned to lie when I was in third grade because it meant that I was smarter than my classmates. I remember telling my teacher that I knew my strings. A lie just big enough to force me to quit weeks later when I was too afraid to correct it. I was seven and already I understood that it was better to lie, to suffer, than to be any less than perfect.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember the parallel lines of family dinner. I remember sitting up straight at the end of one, watching as my father filled my cup with water from the jugs I had filled minutes before. I picked at my food, crossed and uncrossed my legs, took sips from the glass. I remember that they were all drinking wine, beer, even juice, but untouched, sweating glasses of water sat before each one. I remember that I was the only one drinking from mine.

I remember nothing of the first time. I remember nothing of the second time. I remember the numberless dozens, packed between moments of relief and peace, the next reckoning patient on the horizon. I remember my rage licking away at the sepia memories.

I remember the way my grandmother sounds when she’s saying something she knows will hurt me. The matter-of-fact tone, a defense against the citations I have spent afternoons memorizing. She spoke to everyone except for me. Her eyes darted to mine once she finished.

I remember her leading me into the dark church, deep reds the only lighting in the hall. I watched her dip her fingers into the water, swiping it across her forehead, chest, shoulders. I remember dipping my own fingers in, wondering how many people had done the same before me. It wasn’t cold. My nose crinkled, and I yanked my hand back at the thought of bathing in it, drinking it.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember my mother’s advice. That I should not speak. Focus on something else. The battle is lost before it has even begun.

I remember wondering if she had practiced that look. I wondered if she had learned it, sitting at a dining table, drinking from a glass of water. I was drowned in the roaring silence of that moment.

I remember the glass of water. I remember bringing it to my lips and sucking in a mouthful of water, even as the air in my windpipes was begging to be released. I swallowed, hard, even as my vocal chords were cursing me. I remember my grandmother’s satisfaction. I noticed that my fingers could, in fact, be paler as they willed the glass the break.

I was eighteen and already understood that it was better to be silent, to suffer, than to be any less than perfect.

I sat in religion class as a four-year-old, as a twelve-year-old, as a seventeen-year-old. I wondered, realized, hated. I bragged that my mother was kicked out of confirmation classes for asking too many questions. I wouldn’t make the same mistake. I wouldn’t be taking those classes. I remember my grandmother telling me I should take the classes with my mother. My mother laughed, told me I could meet a boy if I did.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember whispering to my ceiling. I didn’t have a title then, but a secret is a secret even if it has no name. I’m not straight. I told myself that I was not afraid, but I remember the spikes she drove into me, clueless, careless. I could never be a good Catholic. I could never be a good granddaughter. I would never be remembered the way they wanted. They had envisioned me before I was even born. A picture of perfection that they had prayed for. Papery hands clutching beaded rosaries.

I remember that my grandmother would not stop. I admired her stubbornness, until I sat at her table wondering how strong I would have to be to shatter the glass.

I remember that the church was so quiet that day. My ears rang against the silence.  I wanted to scream. I remember whispering to my grandma instead, trying to make as much conversation as a four-year-old could. She told me to be quiet.

I remember the glass of water.

I remember that I could not speak for so long. I remember because I could not speak for so long.

I remember drinking glass, realizing that she would never love me the same way that I loved her. I remember understanding the conditionality of love, learning it slowly, on my own, then all at once at that table.

I remember my grandmother telling me that she was the first person to hold me after I was born. I remember because she tells me every few months. Had she ever held my crying form the same way? Had I ever been held the same way? Would I ever hold someone the same way?

I remember feeling forgiven.