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Seeking Solace

Kerry Lown Whalen

    I recall the sounds of childhood. The tick of the mantelpiece clock. My parents’ exchanges. Unremarkable murmurs. Occasional laughter. Then a change, a nuance, making the hair bristle on the back of my neck. Just as still desert air presages a storm, raised voices in my house foreshadowed war.
    When I was thirteen, my childhood ended. I remember waiting, heart smacking against my ribs, praying for divine intervention. It did not come. The inevitable thwack rang out as fist pounded flesh and Mum hit floor, mouth leaking blood. An exultant warrior, my father stood over her, red-faced, words ratta-tat-tatting from his lips. I’d seen it before. Too often.
    ‘I’ll come and go as I please.’
    ‘Slut,’ she muttered, before unconsciousness closed her eyes.
    What could I do? If I acted, we’d both be laid out like the dead.
    Seeking solace, I sneaked out the front door. I passed little kids in the street shrieking their joy as they played, riding skateboards and bikes, and kicking a ball around.
    Chrissie stopped playing. ‘Katy. Play with us.’
    I shook my head and hurried to the ocean.
    The children’s light-heartedness compounded my misery. I wanted to join them, share their happiness, but I was older and our lives were different.

    Wind-whipped waves frothed on a brooding sea as I mooched along the cliff top. Through a rocky opening I slid feet-first, my toes finding the ledge beneath. Waves roared below, scouring away seaweed and snarled fishing line. My foray demanded careful timing. Salt stung my face as I crouched, ready to jump once the water drained to thigh level. When the moment came I leapt into the swirl, fighting the power of the sea. From the fray the cave beckoned, its footholds leading me upwards. Panting, I scrambled inside and looked at the gale teasing the waves, tossing them in foaming plumes onto rocky platforms. I fixed my gaze on the horizon. It seemed as straight as a ruler, but nothing was what it seemed.
    In my shelter I imagined a place where people cared about each other. It was possible. I had glimpsed it sometimes. But my reality was powerlessness and the need to keep things to myself. I cringed when the neighbors heard the abuse hurled in my house and Mum’s epithet for my father – slut. The dictionary muddied my understanding. ‘Prostitute, whore, streetwalker.’ How did this relate to my father? Who could I ask?
    Waves eddied and sucked at the cliff base as I plunged knee-deep into the receding tide. My gut fluttered as I headed home. When I turned the corner, ambulances and police cars lined the street. Behind the blue and white tape of the crime scene, police officers congregated. On shaking legs, I approached.

    Adulthood claimed me when I was thirteen.

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