She remembered hearing about “lies of omission.” What a funny phrase, a phrase no doubt left over from the early life of going to catechism – not from mass. Although she and her mother and sister went to mass every Sunday (her dad stayed home), they wouldn’t have learned much since mass was all in Latin—so it must have been part of catechism that defined what was considered a sin. The world of not sinning was a strict path to navigate in her childhood, but, of course, as with all children, she accepted these things as truth.
There were all kinds of deliberate lies: eating meat on Friday, not genuflecting at an altar, biting on the communion wafer, missing mass, and the interesting one of thinking impure thoughts. Or “doing” “impure” things. For a child that was sometimes hard to figure. Another sin was the sin of omission – – that is, not admitting what you know, which would be a lie of sorts, and lying was a big sin.
And so she wondered, these fifty or so years later, whether her life was a lie—a lie when she was in company of others whom she didn’t know. She didn’t think so. It couldn’t possibly be a lie to consider that other people would be shocked or hurt to hear her announce her losses. So she didn’t. She became a non-entity at such times, smiling and nodding and listening: “Oh, you must have such fun with that granddaughter! She sounds delightful.” Or: “You and your husband do so much traveling together- – it’s wonderful. Where are you going next?” Or: “You’re meeting your sons and their families at Disneyland? What a good idea.”
Nobody ever asks, What about you? So she doesn’t need to lie not to say anything. People ultimately want to talk about themselves and are not that curious about others. They seldom ask questions. They just go on about themselves, apparently assuming their captive audience will be intent on hearing what they have to say.
So: ultimately she doesn’t “lie.,” but she omits information. She doesn’t say, “Oh my husband and I loved to travel, too. But he died six years ago and I can’t tell you how weary I get of driving myself around. I don’t venture anywhere unless I have a real destination.” Or, she doesn’t say, “You have more than one son? And they have families, too? My son—oh I was so close to him, he was brilliant, and so caring of me after my husband died—also died, a year later. “
She wouldn’t add “I was devastated” because she hates that word: devastated. It is used so easily to describe and dismiss pain. A good friend of hers even uses it in anecdotes: the woman was devastated.
“Yes, they both died, husband, son. I was devastated.” Good lord, she’d never say that. And of course she wouldn’t add “I lost my daughter, too. Sometimes I can’t believe they existed.” That in itself is a lie— the idea of “sometimes.” Because she functions in the world of disbelief all the time.
Social commerce is easier with people she knows well because they know and she knows that they know and they are all in on the sort-of pact to not talk about it all or bring it up much. In this way she lives on the surface of life and does fairly well carrying out that charade of being happy anyway and doesn’t admit to, nor lie about, her losses.