Candace Cahill is a silversmith, musician, and writer living in Denali, Alaska. She is a first mother and an LDA – late discovery adoptee – and her debut memoir, Goodbye Again, about losing her son twice, will be released by Legacy Book Press in November 2022. Find out more at https://candacecahill.com/.

Voice

CW/TW – Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Strong Language

1972

Your first memory is of an earache. It’s nighttime; you’re standing in the middle of the cold living room. There’s a console television in the corner with a fuzzy black and white picture that keeps skipping upward; its staticky volume crackles at the edge of awareness. Your head hurts. Your father wraps a glass plate, warmed in the oven, in a yellowed tea towel. He tells you to climb up on the couch and put your ear into the curve of the plate. He then slips in behind you and pulls up your nightgown. You’re four years old.

1981

You’re thirteen and drunk the first time you have sex. Or at least the first time with someone your own age. And someone you’re not related to. Well, it’s not sex, but you didn’t know that. There were no sheets on the hide-away bed, just an old grey blanket with little pills of worn fabric. The rail under the thin mattress dug into your back as he tugged your jeans down. Your underwear followed along as if willing.

A few months later, there’s another boy with a red, fleshy face and bad breath. You’d downed flaming shots of vodka, refilled his parent’s liquor bottle with water, then passed out on his bed. You came to with his hands under your shirt and his gravelly voice in your ear.

“You’re not asleep,” he whispered. “I can tell.” 

But you lay frozen, a visceral reaction to probing hands. It didn’t matter, you told yourself, and disappeared again.

1986

You moved out the day after high school graduation. Your apartment, a converted garage, became a party favorite, and one night a “friend” introduced you to one of his buddies. He didn’t take no for an answer. A few weeks later, you visited Planned Parenthood for an abortion. You were ashamed. It was your own fault.

1991

Twenty-three and sober, you hand out condoms to your younger siblings and their friends behind your mother’s back. You ask them to tell you what they know – or think they know – about sex. You give them accurate information. You talk about consent and coercion. To your sister, you give permission to stand up for herself. To your brother, you say, “It’s your penis, know what the fuck you’re doing with it and be 100% sure whoever you’re with wants it,” because you can’t help thinking about a penis as a weapon.

1994

You graduate from college and take a position at the local sexual assault center. You go to grade schools and high schools and colleges and police departments and corporations and teach about good touch and bad touch and how to build healthy relationships. You advocate for victims of sexual violence, using your voice for others because you never learned how to use it for yourself.

2003

Your sister, all grown up, is loud-mouthed and swears a lot. She scares people. Sometimes she scares you. But she’s assertive and never apologetic. 

Your brother, divisive and often condescending, sometimes scares you too, but he always thanks you for giving it to him straight.

They both have daughters. You’re less afraid for them.

2018
“They called her the n-word. Can you fucking believe it? And the school hasn’t done a fucking thing.” Your sister’s livid, the righteous anger of a mother. “I’m going to the school board meeting. This shit is going to fucking stop.”

You can’t help but be jealous – yet proud – of her voice.