The burden of knowing someone's secret when they didn't disclose it

It was the summer of 1963, and I was five years old. My family had gathered at my great Aunt Beckie's house, which was very old and often dark even with the lights on. The home was usually filled with people, music, and laughter, which compensated for the shadows.

Aunt Becky's abode had large ceilings and looked like something out of a horror movie, only the home had a nice family feeling. I was standing in the dining room where there was a large curio cabinet, a long dining room table, and a couch draped with a cover.

An armchair was in front of the corner window, and a pot-bellied stove heated the room. On this Sunday afternoon, I was reading a book from her bookshelf when I noticed everyone speaking in hushed tones.

The adults were whispering, and I figured there must be something going on that little ears were not supposed to hear. In those days, children were told they should be seen and not heard and to stay out of grown folks' business.

I heard someone in the living room mention a doctor and saw a few people going up the stairs. There were sixteen steps and a string around the downstairs banister that connected to the lightbulb in the upstairs hallway. You pulled the string to turn the light on and off so you did not have to walk up in the darkness.

When the shades were down and the bedroom doors were closed, the hallway was pitch-black. I used to stand downstairs looking up into the blackness, imagining that ghosts and demons were lurking. Once I pulled the cord, there was nothing except the light, and I would walk up to the bathroom.

On this Sunday afternoon that was turning into evening, my young mind was putting things together. Right after the doctor was mentioned and people went up the steps, I was pushed from the dining room into the kitchen by my grandmother as if I were being protected from something I should not see.

Somehow, my five year old spirit knew what no one was telling me. The gift I was born with gave me an answer, but I did not get it quite right. I asked if Aunt Becky was having a baby, and my grandmother bent down and told me to "Shush" but did not answer.

I don't recall how long she and I stood in the kitchen, but no baby ever came. Time went on, and no one spoke about this day again. I assumed that Aunt Beckt's child had been born dead.

Over the years, the memory would return to me at random times. I told myself my great aunt had a stillbirth or miscarriage, and the doctor was needed to assist. It never crossed my mind that she should have been in a hospital.

When I was 16, which was eleven years after that summer afternoon at Aunt Beckie's house, I finally asked my mother and grandmother about that day in 1963.

"What happened to Aunt Becky's baby that Sunday we were at her house, and ya'll pushed me into the kitchen?"

Both of them widened their eyes in surprise, and my mother asked,

"You remember that?"

I shared the story from my point of view, and my grandmother then revealed that the doctor came to the house to give her sister an abortion. She said Aunt Becky was 44 with four grown children and did not want another child. In that moment, I understood why there was so much secrecy surrounding the event. I recalled that Roe versus Wade did not go into effect until 1973.

My aunt, like many other women, had an illegal "back door" abortion, which was dangerous. The procedure done at home could have gone wrong, and my aunt could have died. Many years later, I was told of another woman I knew who had a secret abortion and went back to work on a job where she stood on her feet all day.

My grandmother said she began hemorrhaging, passed out, and had to be taken to the hospital. Thankfully, she and my aunt both survived their ordeals. For years, when I saw these two women, I would feel guilty because I knew their secrets that they did not choose to disclose to me. Both women passed away years ago, yet I still have the burden of remembering what they may noy have desired me to know.