But let me explain what I mean when I say lie (here, some fragments from an old essay):
The DHS investigator thanks my mother for coffee the way one thanks a waitress, smiling (secretly, an almost undetectable smile) at the fake plastic bricks glued to our wall, the plastic Garfield clock, the burnt and peeling surfaces of our counters.
Why dont you tell me what happened? She asks, nodding toward me.
I hate her for questioning me in front of my father: How can I possibly tell the truth with Dad right beside me?
This is bullshit, my father says. He clenches his fists, grinds his teeth. (Does DHS record this on the legal pad? For all I know she plays tic-tac-toe, makes note of the stained carpet and vinyl tablecloth, or rates the wait service and coffee: 1 star for the coffee; 3 stars for the service.)
The investigator nods. I want to snatch her legal pad and write it all down in my own words.
___
Maybe it was an accident, I say, looking the investigator in the eye. Maybe he was swinging his arm and I just walked into it.