Journal of Rose Ingrid Castle

JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE

After that first time at the swimming pool, Gary touched me all the time. He said if I told Mum, she’d blame me, which I’d already figured out. Mum was mad enough with me already; I wasn’t going to provide her with new reasons to hate me. It was frightening how many opportunities Gary found. Officially, Gary didn’t live with us, but you’d never know it with the amount of time he spent at our house. He was often there even when Mum wasn’t.

And so, I stuck to Fern like glue. Safety in numbers, I figured. It worked to some extent. But if Fern took a shower, if she went to the bathroom, if she just wasn’t paying attention, Gary would come and sit next to me. He was discreet. His hand could slide into my shorts or up my skirt without making a sound. I didn’t make a sound either. No matter how much I wanted to, every time I clammed up, became mute.

Sometimes, he even did it when Mum was there. We might be in the kitchen or sitting around, watching television, and he’d suggest we start a massage train. He’d be at the back, of course. I was always next, then Fern and then Mum. Since Fern and Mum were in front, they couldn’t see when he fondled my breasts and groped me. I think he enjoyed the danger of it. I couldn’t figure out if I wanted Mum to turn around … or if I didn’t.

But even that was nothing compared to what Gary did when no one was around. The first time it happened was on a weeknight. We’d been watching television and I’d decided to take a shower. I locked the door and put a chair in front of it to be safe.

When I emerged twenty minutes later, the house was quiet. As I crept to my room, I passed Gary, sitting on the couch.

“Your mum and Fern have gone to the supermarket,” he said.

My blood ran cold.

Mum often had to do a late-night dash; she wasn’t organized when it came to food. Fern often went along to make sure Mum didn’t just come home with wine and cigarettes.

And so, there were Gary and I, alone in the house for god knew how long. I was wearing just a towel.

“How about I give you a proper massage?” he said. “Not just the shoulders?”

That time, I did try to protest. I said I was tired and wanted to go to bed. “Good,” he said. “Let’s do it in the bedroom. It will be more comfortable.”

“No,” I said. “I really think—”

“You need to stop thinking,” he said. “This will help you relax.”

He laid me down on my bed for the “massage” and did things to me that I didn’t completely understand until I was much older. But I knew what he was doing to me was bad. And I figured, for him to do those things to me, I must have been bad too.