The Sea Monster (Underwired, July 2010)
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have spoilt that summer’s day. My 6-year old self was oblivious to the throngs of half naked bodies, rhythmically spit-turning in the roasting sun; the odd cigarette end between my sand-encrusted toes; the bad man up on the dunes, relieving himself in the long grass.
I was oblivious to my little brother’s pitiful pleading to help him with his sand castle. I was oblivious to everything but the sea: soup-warm with peaks of salty cream, murky-grey, forever shifting and a little dangerous. Like a flying fish, I was in and out, rejoicing under Mother’s watchful eye, conscious that soon it would be time to go home again.
But she hadn’t paid attention, not really, not when the sea monster called it a day and invited my little brother in. The sea monster held onto Peter tight, baptising him one more time, playinga game of tug-of-war with Mother until she promised him the world. They made a pact that day, the sea monster and Mother, and someone was going to have to pay.
Peter grew up, loving the sea, the memory of that day eluding him. There is a forgotten drawer in everybody’s parents’ closet. The one with old photos and school certificates. My brother must have been 10 or 11 at the time, jumping a wave, arms stick-thin up in the air, his swimming trunks sodden, stretching down to his knees. What a funny sight.
Peter grew up, made a few promising sketches at the art college and checked into his first rehabat the age of 18. By the time he was 25, he nearly drowned in the bathtub twice, fell through frozen ice once and walked into the sea several times. Heroin did this. Or, was it the sea monster? I moved away, putting another sea between me and my family, and didn’t want to know.
Cocooned in my own house by my own sea, I watched the years go by, hideous in their ordinariness. Peter was often on my mind but I didn’t want to know.
Mother met a clinician once, who told her some people were born this way. “A gene or two gone wrong create a human being pre-disposed to addiction and habitual behaviour.” They push the self destruction button over and over again. Mother didn’t tell him about the sea monster. I didn’t tell her Peter’s life was not worth living.
There was hope once, when Peter told Mother he got some girl pregnant. I had not seen him for a few years but started planning a trip back home, hoping for a new beginning, hoping to get to know my brother at last. But there was no pregnancy and no girlfriend, only an unpaid debt and a gun to Peter’s head. What else? I didn’t want to know.
I did go back, once, for Mother’s 60th birthday. And he was there, my little brother, only not so little any more, and not my brother any more. He was temporarily sober, out of another rehab, but I didn’t know him at all.
I got a glimpse of what he might have been when we went to the beach once more, the two of us, alone. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have spoilt that summer’s day. I watched as he sketched, the greenish expanse before us pulsating in its slight disquiet. Out of sight, the sea monster was watching, too.
It was the last time I saw this man I never knew. Peter took his own life a year later and I crossed the sea again.
I watched Mother wash his body; his arms and legs stick-thin again, ravaged by years of neglect. I watched her tears caress his emaciated face, so lovingly and tenderly, forgetting years of despair. She unclasped the sea monster’s clutches and her little boy was hers again. She baptised him once more, in death.
How I then wished I had got to know my brother, the broken man he was. I wished I’d told him I loved him despite it all. And I wished I’d told him his life was worth living because my Mother loved him, more so because of it all.
We took his ashes to the sea and nothing spoilt that summer’s day. The ocean of blue and calm, inviting and comforting, and not the least dangerous, the sea monster gone.
The pact had run its course, the price was paid, the long day had ended. I could see them on the beach: Peter, whose life was never truly lived; my Mother, whose grief began that day thirty years before. And my 6-year old self, who didn’t know.
Now my Mother is broken, staring into the sea alone, and I know she would have those thirty years back, and more. I think I’ll stay, I will not go back to my house on the distant shore.
Author’s bio:
Iwona Tokc-Wilde is a Polish freelance writer who now lives on the south coast of England. She has an eclectic background: a Masters in English Literature and Literary Theory; a teacher of English; and a people development manager. She is also a qualified accountant but words, not numbers, are her first love. She writes articles, book reviews and travel features for various publications in the UK.
THE END
I was oblivious to my little brother’s pitiful pleading to help him with his sand castle. I was oblivious to everything but the sea: soup-warm with peaks of salty cream, murky-grey, forever shifting and a little dangerous. Like a flying fish, I was in and out, rejoicing under Mother’s watchful eye, conscious that soon it would be time to go home again.
But she hadn’t paid attention, not really, not when the sea monster called it a day and invited my little brother in. The sea monster held onto Peter tight, baptising him one more time, playinga game of tug-of-war with Mother until she promised him the world. They made a pact that day, the sea monster and Mother, and someone was going to have to pay.
Peter grew up, loving the sea, the memory of that day eluding him. There is a forgotten drawer in everybody’s parents’ closet. The one with old photos and school certificates. My brother must have been 10 or 11 at the time, jumping a wave, arms stick-thin up in the air, his swimming trunks sodden, stretching down to his knees. What a funny sight.
Peter grew up, made a few promising sketches at the art college and checked into his first rehabat the age of 18. By the time he was 25, he nearly drowned in the bathtub twice, fell through frozen ice once and walked into the sea several times. Heroin did this. Or, was it the sea monster? I moved away, putting another sea between me and my family, and didn’t want to know.
Cocooned in my own house by my own sea, I watched the years go by, hideous in their ordinariness. Peter was often on my mind but I didn’t want to know.
Mother met a clinician once, who told her some people were born this way. “A gene or two gone wrong create a human being pre-disposed to addiction and habitual behaviour.” They push the self destruction button over and over again. Mother didn’t tell him about the sea monster. I didn’t tell her Peter’s life was not worth living.
There was hope once, when Peter told Mother he got some girl pregnant. I had not seen him for a few years but started planning a trip back home, hoping for a new beginning, hoping to get to know my brother at last. But there was no pregnancy and no girlfriend, only an unpaid debt and a gun to Peter’s head. What else? I didn’t want to know.
I did go back, once, for Mother’s 60th birthday. And he was there, my little brother, only not so little any more, and not my brother any more. He was temporarily sober, out of another rehab, but I didn’t know him at all.
I got a glimpse of what he might have been when we went to the beach once more, the two of us, alone. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have spoilt that summer’s day. I watched as he sketched, the greenish expanse before us pulsating in its slight disquiet. Out of sight, the sea monster was watching, too.
It was the last time I saw this man I never knew. Peter took his own life a year later and I crossed the sea again.
I watched Mother wash his body; his arms and legs stick-thin again, ravaged by years of neglect. I watched her tears caress his emaciated face, so lovingly and tenderly, forgetting years of despair. She unclasped the sea monster’s clutches and her little boy was hers again. She baptised him once more, in death.
How I then wished I had got to know my brother, the broken man he was. I wished I’d told him I loved him despite it all. And I wished I’d told him his life was worth living because my Mother loved him, more so because of it all.
We took his ashes to the sea and nothing spoilt that summer’s day. The ocean of blue and calm, inviting and comforting, and not the least dangerous, the sea monster gone.
The pact had run its course, the price was paid, the long day had ended. I could see them on the beach: Peter, whose life was never truly lived; my Mother, whose grief began that day thirty years before. And my 6-year old self, who didn’t know.
Now my Mother is broken, staring into the sea alone, and I know she would have those thirty years back, and more. I think I’ll stay, I will not go back to my house on the distant shore.
Author’s bio:
Iwona Tokc-Wilde is a Polish freelance writer who now lives on the south coast of England. She has an eclectic background: a Masters in English Literature and Literary Theory; a teacher of English; and a people development manager. She is also a qualified accountant but words, not numbers, are her first love. She writes articles, book reviews and travel features for various publications in the UK.
THE END
© Iwona Tokc-Wilde