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By the time I’d climbed the three flights of stairs that led to our apartment， my short legs were 1）wobbly and my stomach felt like a whirling top. My mother was going to be so angry， but there was no way out.
I slipped into the kitchen just as I did every afternoon when I walked home from kindergarten. My mother turned from the stove where she’d been stirring something.
“Where have you been？” Mom shouted.
If I explained that a girl in my class had shown me a shortcut home but I got lost， all would be well. So thinks an almost-six-yearold mind.
“Answer me，” my mother screamed. She was shaking， and before I could say anything， she slapped my cheek.
It was so unlike her. My face 2）stung， but it hurt my feelings even more. She’d scolded me earlier in the day for 3）dawdling on the way home， being late and making her worry. I’d tried so hard to get home on time that day. If only Lois’s directions for the shorter way home had been easier to follow！ I’d gone up one street and down another until I finally saw familiar territory. I ran the rest of the way.
In that 4）split second after the ringing slap， I decided to make my mother feel bad about hurting me. The lie formed in my gut， bubbled up and out my mouth between sobs.“You’ll be sorry when you hear what happened. I’m late because a man took me away.”
Mom 5）gasped and put her hand around my upper arms. “Man？ What man？ Where did he take you？ What did he do？”The questions came like the firing of machine guns in the movies we saw during those WWII years.
Once the first lie emerged， the next one erupted with ease. “He held my hand and we walked to Roosevelt Road.” Mom’s 6）hazel eyes opened wider at hearing that the man had taken me to the street lined with bars and liquor stores.
Now， she wiped the tears from my cheeks and hugged me to her. “Then what？”
“Nothing，” I said. “He brought me back to school and I came straight home. I’m really sorry I’m late， Mommy， but the man made me go with him.”
“What did he look like？” Mom’s voice was so quiet.
“Well，” I said， 7）stalling for time， “he looked a little like Uncle Christie.” My father’s Uncle Christie came to mind as he was old and 8）grizzled， always needing a shave. But he was kind to me.
She had a funny look on her face when she asked me another question. “Did he touch you？”
“He only held my hand.” I wondered why she seemed so upset. I had to repeat the story to my father when he got home. I kept the same lies going， never changing my story. We ate dinner that night with me chattering as usual， my baby brother banging a spoon on his 9）high chair tray and my parents talking only through looks passed across the kitchen table.
Grade school and junior high years slipped by， and even though I thought about the horrible lies I’d told， I’d reached a point where the guilt proved easier to bear than the thought of 10）confessing. Finally， when I was sixteen， Mom and I were doing dishes one summer evening. We were chatting and laughing as she washed and I dried. Why I suddenly decided to confess that night， I don’t know.
During a 11）lull in the conversation， I said，“Remember the day the man took me up to Roosevelt Road when I was coming home from school？” Even all these years later， my heart beat harder as the memory of my lies surfaced. My mother stopped 12）scrubbing the potato pan.“How could I ever forget？ Your dad and I worried ourselves sick. We didn’t know what to do so we called the police， and they had a police car follow you to school every day for about two weeks. They never found the man， but it was a terrible time.”
I never knew that I’d had a police 13）escort. I nearly swallowed my big confession right then and there， but I went on. “Mom， I 14）made it all up.”
“You what？ But why？” Her face turned red and her hands were shaking as she dried them on the tea towel by the sink.
I could barely get the words out. “You hit me before I had time to explain that Lois told me a shortcut to go home but I got lost.” I started to cry and so did Mom.
When we both gained some control， I said， “I didn’t think you’d get so angry ten years after it happened.”
She sank onto a kitchen chair and put her hands on her cheeks. “I barely slept for two weeks. I couldn’t walk to and from school with you every day because your baby brother was sleeping then.”
I’m sure she told my dad that night， but he never said a word to me about the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Stupid or not， I learned that one lie leads to another， and once you’re deep in a pile of lies， the way out might take years.
当我爬完通往我们公寓的那三段楼梯时，我短小的双腿摇摇晃晃的，胃里就像个急速飞转的陀螺般旋转翻腾。妈妈准要大发雷霆，但我别无他法。
如同往常每个下午从幼儿园回到家一样，我溜进了厨房。妈妈在炉子上炒动着什么，然后她转过身来。
“你去哪儿了？”妈妈吼道。 如果我解释说班上的一个女生告诉我一条回家的捷径，但是我迷路了，那一切都会没问题的，快六岁的我这样想。
“回答我”，妈妈尖叫道。她气得发抖，我一句话都还没来得及说，她就扇了我一耳光。
这很不像她。我的脸上感到刺痛，但我的心更痛。她那天早些时候就责备过我，责骂我不应该在回家的路上瞎逛，迟迟不归让她担心。我那天已经尽力按时回家了。要是洛伊斯指的那条回家的捷径不那么难找就好了！我在各条街道间上上下下，直到看到熟悉的街区，就一个劲儿地跑回家了。
在那清脆的耳光声响起后的一瞬间，我决定了要让妈妈因为伤害到我而感到愧疚。一个谎言在我腹中生成，往上冒，在我的啜泣声中从嘴里吐出。“当你听到发生了什么事儿，你会后悔的，我回来晚了是因为一个男人把我带走了。”
妈妈倒抽了一口气，用手绕着我的两个上臂。“男人？什么男人？他带你去哪儿啦？他做了什么？”一连串的问题犹如我们看过的二战电影里那些机关枪的炮火般袭来。
第一个谎言一旦说出，下一个谎言就变得容易了。“他牵住我的手走到了罗斯福路。”当听到那个男人把我带到酒吧和酒肆林立的那条街上时，妈妈睁大了她那双淡褐色的眼睛。
此时，她擦干我脸上的泪水，把我拥进怀里。“然后呢？”
“没什么，”我说。“他把我带回了学校，然后我就直接回家了。真的很对不起我回来晚了，妈妈，但是那个男人带走了我。”
“他长的什么样子？”妈妈的声音柔柔的。
“嗯，”我说，停了一会儿，“他长得有点儿像克里斯蒂叔叔。”我爸爸的克里斯蒂叔叔映入我的脑海，因为他年纪大，头发斑白，还总是满脸胡茬的。但是他对我很好。
当她问到我另一个问题时，她脸上的表情有点怪异。“他有碰你吗？”
“他只是牵了我的手。”我疑惑为什么她看起来如此心烦意乱。
当我爸爸回家时，我不得不向他重复了那个故事。我一直说着那个谎，从没改变过。那天晚饭时，我像往常那样吱吱喳喳说个没完，我年幼的弟弟用汤匙敲着高脚椅子的托盘，而我的父母则在餐桌上只通过彼此的表情交流。
小学与初中匆匆而去，尽管我会回想起那些我撒过的可怕谎言，但当时忍受愧疚显然比坦白更容易做到。最后，当我十六岁时，夏日的一个晚上，我和妈妈正在洗碗。她负责洗刷，我负责擦干，我们边聊边笑。为什么那天晚上我突然决定坦白呢，我也不知道原因。
在谈话间歇时，我说道：“还记得那天当我从学校回家时一个男人把我带到了罗斯福路吗？”即使过了这么多年，当有关我的谎言的记忆浮现时，我的心仍砰砰直跳。妈妈停下了刷土豆盘子的动作。“我怎么忘得了？你爸爸和我担心死了。我们不知道该怎么办，所以我们报了警，他们让一辆警车每天跟着你去学校，持续了两个星期。他们没有找到那个男人，但那段时间真是糟糕透了。”
我从来不知道警察还护送过我。我差点当场把我的坦白之言吞了回去，但我接着说。“妈妈，这全是我编出来的。”
“你什么？但这是为什么？”她涨红了脸，抖着手用水槽边上的抹布把手擦干。
我差点说不出话来。“我还没有时间解释，你就打了我。洛伊斯告诉我有一条回家的捷径但是我迷路了，”我哭了起来，妈妈也哭了起来。
当我们俩都稍能稳住情绪时，我说：“这件事都过去十年了，我没想到你还会这么生气。”
她坐到一把厨房的椅子上，双手放在脸上。“整整两个星期我几乎都没睡着过。我没法每天陪着你上下学，因为你弟弟那个时间还在睡觉。”
我肯定那天晚上她把这事儿告诉了爸爸，但他从来也没有和我提过这件我所做过的愚蠢至极的事。无论愚蠢与否，我明白到：谎言一个连一个，一旦你身陷一堆谎言之中，要从中走出可能得花上数年的时间。
I slipped into the kitchen just as I did every afternoon when I walked home from kindergarten. My mother turned from the stove where she’d been stirring something.
“Where have you been？” Mom shouted.
If I explained that a girl in my class had shown me a shortcut home but I got lost， all would be well. So thinks an almost-six-yearold mind.
“Answer me，” my mother screamed. She was shaking， and before I could say anything， she slapped my cheek.
It was so unlike her. My face 2）stung， but it hurt my feelings even more. She’d scolded me earlier in the day for 3）dawdling on the way home， being late and making her worry. I’d tried so hard to get home on time that day. If only Lois’s directions for the shorter way home had been easier to follow！ I’d gone up one street and down another until I finally saw familiar territory. I ran the rest of the way.
In that 4）split second after the ringing slap， I decided to make my mother feel bad about hurting me. The lie formed in my gut， bubbled up and out my mouth between sobs.“You’ll be sorry when you hear what happened. I’m late because a man took me away.”
Mom 5）gasped and put her hand around my upper arms. “Man？ What man？ Where did he take you？ What did he do？”The questions came like the firing of machine guns in the movies we saw during those WWII years.
Once the first lie emerged， the next one erupted with ease. “He held my hand and we walked to Roosevelt Road.” Mom’s 6）hazel eyes opened wider at hearing that the man had taken me to the street lined with bars and liquor stores.
Now， she wiped the tears from my cheeks and hugged me to her. “Then what？”
“Nothing，” I said. “He brought me back to school and I came straight home. I’m really sorry I’m late， Mommy， but the man made me go with him.”
“What did he look like？” Mom’s voice was so quiet.
“Well，” I said， 7）stalling for time， “he looked a little like Uncle Christie.” My father’s Uncle Christie came to mind as he was old and 8）grizzled， always needing a shave. But he was kind to me.
She had a funny look on her face when she asked me another question. “Did he touch you？”
“He only held my hand.” I wondered why she seemed so upset. I had to repeat the story to my father when he got home. I kept the same lies going， never changing my story. We ate dinner that night with me chattering as usual， my baby brother banging a spoon on his 9）high chair tray and my parents talking only through looks passed across the kitchen table.
Grade school and junior high years slipped by， and even though I thought about the horrible lies I’d told， I’d reached a point where the guilt proved easier to bear than the thought of 10）confessing. Finally， when I was sixteen， Mom and I were doing dishes one summer evening. We were chatting and laughing as she washed and I dried. Why I suddenly decided to confess that night， I don’t know.
During a 11）lull in the conversation， I said，“Remember the day the man took me up to Roosevelt Road when I was coming home from school？” Even all these years later， my heart beat harder as the memory of my lies surfaced. My mother stopped 12）scrubbing the potato pan.“How could I ever forget？ Your dad and I worried ourselves sick. We didn’t know what to do so we called the police， and they had a police car follow you to school every day for about two weeks. They never found the man， but it was a terrible time.”
I never knew that I’d had a police 13）escort. I nearly swallowed my big confession right then and there， but I went on. “Mom， I 14）made it all up.”
“You what？ But why？” Her face turned red and her hands were shaking as she dried them on the tea towel by the sink.
I could barely get the words out. “You hit me before I had time to explain that Lois told me a shortcut to go home but I got lost.” I started to cry and so did Mom.
When we both gained some control， I said， “I didn’t think you’d get so angry ten years after it happened.”
She sank onto a kitchen chair and put her hands on her cheeks. “I barely slept for two weeks. I couldn’t walk to and from school with you every day because your baby brother was sleeping then.”
I’m sure she told my dad that night， but he never said a word to me about the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Stupid or not， I learned that one lie leads to another， and once you’re deep in a pile of lies， the way out might take years.
当我爬完通往我们公寓的那三段楼梯时，我短小的双腿摇摇晃晃的，胃里就像个急速飞转的陀螺般旋转翻腾。妈妈准要大发雷霆，但我别无他法。
如同往常每个下午从幼儿园回到家一样，我溜进了厨房。妈妈在炉子上炒动着什么，然后她转过身来。
“你去哪儿了？”妈妈吼道。 如果我解释说班上的一个女生告诉我一条回家的捷径，但是我迷路了，那一切都会没问题的，快六岁的我这样想。
“回答我”，妈妈尖叫道。她气得发抖，我一句话都还没来得及说，她就扇了我一耳光。
这很不像她。我的脸上感到刺痛，但我的心更痛。她那天早些时候就责备过我，责骂我不应该在回家的路上瞎逛，迟迟不归让她担心。我那天已经尽力按时回家了。要是洛伊斯指的那条回家的捷径不那么难找就好了！我在各条街道间上上下下，直到看到熟悉的街区，就一个劲儿地跑回家了。
在那清脆的耳光声响起后的一瞬间，我决定了要让妈妈因为伤害到我而感到愧疚。一个谎言在我腹中生成，往上冒，在我的啜泣声中从嘴里吐出。“当你听到发生了什么事儿，你会后悔的，我回来晚了是因为一个男人把我带走了。”
妈妈倒抽了一口气，用手绕着我的两个上臂。“男人？什么男人？他带你去哪儿啦？他做了什么？”一连串的问题犹如我们看过的二战电影里那些机关枪的炮火般袭来。
第一个谎言一旦说出，下一个谎言就变得容易了。“他牵住我的手走到了罗斯福路。”当听到那个男人把我带到酒吧和酒肆林立的那条街上时，妈妈睁大了她那双淡褐色的眼睛。
此时，她擦干我脸上的泪水，把我拥进怀里。“然后呢？”
“没什么，”我说。“他把我带回了学校，然后我就直接回家了。真的很对不起我回来晚了，妈妈，但是那个男人带走了我。”
“他长的什么样子？”妈妈的声音柔柔的。
“嗯，”我说，停了一会儿，“他长得有点儿像克里斯蒂叔叔。”我爸爸的克里斯蒂叔叔映入我的脑海，因为他年纪大，头发斑白，还总是满脸胡茬的。但是他对我很好。
当她问到我另一个问题时，她脸上的表情有点怪异。“他有碰你吗？”
“他只是牵了我的手。”我疑惑为什么她看起来如此心烦意乱。
当我爸爸回家时，我不得不向他重复了那个故事。我一直说着那个谎，从没改变过。那天晚饭时，我像往常那样吱吱喳喳说个没完，我年幼的弟弟用汤匙敲着高脚椅子的托盘，而我的父母则在餐桌上只通过彼此的表情交流。
小学与初中匆匆而去，尽管我会回想起那些我撒过的可怕谎言，但当时忍受愧疚显然比坦白更容易做到。最后，当我十六岁时，夏日的一个晚上，我和妈妈正在洗碗。她负责洗刷，我负责擦干，我们边聊边笑。为什么那天晚上我突然决定坦白呢，我也不知道原因。
在谈话间歇时，我说道：“还记得那天当我从学校回家时一个男人把我带到了罗斯福路吗？”即使过了这么多年，当有关我的谎言的记忆浮现时，我的心仍砰砰直跳。妈妈停下了刷土豆盘子的动作。“我怎么忘得了？你爸爸和我担心死了。我们不知道该怎么办，所以我们报了警，他们让一辆警车每天跟着你去学校，持续了两个星期。他们没有找到那个男人，但那段时间真是糟糕透了。”
我从来不知道警察还护送过我。我差点当场把我的坦白之言吞了回去，但我接着说。“妈妈，这全是我编出来的。”
“你什么？但这是为什么？”她涨红了脸，抖着手用水槽边上的抹布把手擦干。
我差点说不出话来。“我还没有时间解释，你就打了我。洛伊斯告诉我有一条回家的捷径但是我迷路了，”我哭了起来，妈妈也哭了起来。
当我们俩都稍能稳住情绪时，我说：“这件事都过去十年了，我没想到你还会这么生气。”
她坐到一把厨房的椅子上，双手放在脸上。“整整两个星期我几乎都没睡着过。我没法每天陪着你上下学，因为你弟弟那个时间还在睡觉。”
我肯定那天晚上她把这事儿告诉了爸爸，但他从来也没有和我提过这件我所做过的愚蠢至极的事。无论愚蠢与否，我明白到：谎言一个连一个，一旦你身陷一堆谎言之中，要从中走出可能得花上数年的时间。