All That She Saw

by Alana Terry

  Don’t look at me with a mix of both pity and fear when they realize who I truly am.

  I wasn’t an obvious candidate for the secretary opening at Gospel Kingdom. I responded to an ad in the paper and showed up to my interview wearing a gray pants suit. That was strike number one.

  “Is this a Mennonite church?” I asked Russel when I saw the photo in his office of his congregants posing in front of the spotless, white steeple.

  He gave a little chuckle, which led me to believe that this man was always that easy to laugh. “No, not Mennonite, although you certainly wouldn’t be the first to jump to that sort of conclusion.”

  I apologized for wearing trousers, for not having my head covering. I acted as if I had a closet full of floor-length skirts and color-coordinated hair kerchiefs to match, but Russel told me not to worry.

  “It’s an old-fashioned dress code,” he explained, “but we’re a family here, and we like our traditional ways.” Somehow he managed to speak these words, to sum up the entire personality of his church in a single word — traditional — and yet did so without making me feel at all inferior or ashamed of my more contemporary appearance.

  “Can you tell me about your spiritual journey?” Russel asked. It wouldn’t have boded well for my prospects at landing a job if I were to tell him that honestly, I thought about spirituality as much as I thought about garden slugs or tennis-ball-sized hail. So I offered some sort of noncommittal response like, “Oh, well, I grew up going to church pretty regularly, then kind of fell away … Still love God, just haven’t been connected to an actual congregation for a while.”

  Before I knew it, Russel had opened up his Bible, set it on the table between us, and was explaining to me truths about Jesus I’d never heard before. Answering questions about the Lord that I never even realized I was wondering.

  “Do you want to ask Jesus to forgive your sins? Are you ready to make him Lord of your life?” he prompted.

  I told him yes, but it wasn’t just to land the job. And it wasn’t that strange magnetic force I felt when we were talking together. I think those things may have played a part, but there was more to it than that.

  Far more to it.

  I’ve always believed in God. Even during those two years I’ve never told my husband about, when it seemed like everything had been taken away from me, I had a sense that God was there. That he was with me. That he would somehow see me through the hell on earth where I was trapped.

  But when Russel talked about Jesus, I realized this man knew the Lord far more deeply than I ever dreamed possible. So I told him yes, I wanted what he had. Then I prayed with him. Recited this little prayer about getting God to forgive my sins, saving me from hell. Russel looked pleased with me when I was done, and that’s when I knew that if I got this job as his secretary, I’d keep on trying to find ways to make him smile at me like that.

  No matter what it took.

  No matter what I had to give up.

  I started working at the church office the very next day. In addition to helping Russel print bulletins, schedule appointments, pay the bills, I sat at his feet (in the metaphorical sense at least), learning daily from him as he led our little office “staff” (consisting only of him and me) in morning Bible study, in closing prayers at the end of the day.

  I wasn’t deliberately keeping my past from him. But things moved so quickly from there. I was excited about my newfound faith, and it was impossible to distinguish my spiritual awakening with the emotional connection I felt with Russel whenever the two of us were together.

  We fell in love. Before we’d even known each other a full season, he introduced me to his children, proposed courtship, then announced our engagement to the entire congregation.

  And now here I am. Stepmother of four, struggling to work my way into this family that managed to get along swimmingly on their own before I came around. A grateful bride, thankful for the sense of protection and security that comes from belonging to Russel and his family and his church, even if they are a little strict by worldly standards.

  I’m happy to be with Russel. I’m happy to call his children my own. Once we return from meeting his side of the family, Russel wants me to adopt the kids. I’m not one to argue. I’ll never be able to bear Russel the quiver full of offspring his heart is set on. The least I can do is formalize my relationship to the four he already has.

  I’m not who he thinks I am.

  But maybe, with a little luck, a lot of prayer, and some very powerful miracles, things will work out all right in the end.

  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll look back on these past few months and realize how blessed I really am.

  And if Russel finds out the truth … Well, isn’t he the one who said that we’re united now? That nothing but death will ever part us?

  I keep waiting for the day when I’ll wake up and actually feel like Anastasia Strickland, wife of Gospel Kingdom’s pastor. When I can look at Russel’s kids and not feel the pangs of guilt at my deception when they call me Mom.

  And if that day never comes, I just have to remind myself it at least beats where I came from.

  The Lord works in mysterious ways. Maybe, just maybe, he brought me to Russel and his kind, albeit quirky little church in order to offer me the stability and protection I needed so many years ago, those days I’m trying so hard to forget.

  Is it possible that Russel felt like a safe option for me because of the way he and the others at his church avoid technology as much as they do? I admit, the fact that Russel wouldn’t ever think to google my name or stumble across news articles from ten years ago was an added bonus when we started dating.

  I’m not who my husband thinks I am. But maybe, just maybe, if I pray hard enough and try hard enough, God will help me turn into the person he wants me to be.

  And then everything from the past can stay there in the past. Totally secret.

  Totally forgotten.

  Just the way it should be.

  Just the way it needs to be.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’m not who he thinks I am, but no matter how hard I cry, how fiercely or angrily I protest, he doesn’t listen to me. Doesn’t believe me.

  “Jennifer,” he says, “you know how angry I get when you’re like this.”

  “My name isn’t Jennifer.” It doesn’t matter if I scream it at him, if I curse and swear, if I break down into tears and beg him to believe me.

  “Come on, Jennifer,” he says. “Stop pretending like you don’t know your own dad and come here.”

  I hate him. I hate him. My loathing is the only source of willpower it takes to stay alive down here, trapped in this basement. If I were any weaker, I know I would have died by now.

  My survival depends on one thing and one thing only. The hope that one day he’ll forget to bind me up the right way. That I’ll find some kind of weapon in this horrid cell of his.

  And then I’ll kill him, screaming in his face as his breath deserts him for the very last time, “My name isn’t Jennifer!”

  “Mom?”

  I jerk myself to attention. “What?”

  It’s Annie, looking at me with concern in her eyes. Even Andrew has stopped ignoring me in order to gawk a little. Have I done it again? Did I blip out?

  I can’t let things like this keep happening. Not when the kids are around.

  “Mom?”

  “What?” I ask, doing my best to shake off this fear, this pulse-quickening panic.

  “You stopped reading.” Annie points to the book. I don’t even remember pulling this one out of Andrew’s backpack. The last thing I remember was Dr. Seuss and then …

  And then …

  It must have been Henry. He’s been dead these past ten years, and yet he still lives on in my head.

  If I had known it would turn out like this …

  No. I can’t focus on him. Have to keep reading to the kids. I shouldn’t have picked such a familiar book. Too easy
for my brain to turn off. To stop paying attention to what’s going on right now.

  Henry.

  Almost nobody survives two full years of captivity. I’m an anomaly, a strange statistic. My story gives hope to parents whose children disappeared decades ago.

  If that little Reynolds girl can come back from her ordeal, there’s hope for my baby too.

  What they don’t know, what the news reporters and the family liaisons and the sensationalized docudramas don’t tell you is that survival in cases like this can be seen as God’s cruelest curse. How many times did I beg Henry to simply kill me? To get it done and over with quickly. How many times did I taunt him, trying my hardest to provoke him to enough rage that he’d finally end it all?

  Except he never did. I was too important to him. Too much like his long-lost daughter. Jennifer. The dead child I was meant to replace.

  After my escape, I went through a phase where I hated her. Hated Jennifer. She would have been twice my age, but in her father’s sick mind she was still the age she was when she was murdered.

  Nobody back then was convicted of her death.

  And yet I’m the one who paid for it.

  Henry and I both paid for it.

  “Mom, you read that page already.” Andrew’s voice is whiny, and I’m too distracted by these daydreams to feel excited about the fact that he’s voluntarily called me Mom without having to be reminded. It should be good news. A great step forward in our quest for familial unity.

  And yet all I can think about is that we haven’t even left the runway yet. A few stray passengers are still boarding, and the kids and I have hours of travel ahead of us. Russel has the easy job. He’ll fall asleep with his Bible while the two older girls read quietly in their seats. And here I am with a squirrely little preschooler who can’t go two minutes without asking me a dozen questions and her five-year-old brother who wants nothing more than to make my life miserable enough that I abandon his father and leave him alone to miss his mom in uninterrupted solitude.

  I feel sorry for Andrew. I really do. My parents split up shortly after I escaped Henry’s basement. Dad didn’t remarry until a few years ago, and even now it’s strange to picture him with someone else.

  I need to stop thinking about my past. Need to focus on what those books about trauma say. I survived because I’m tough. I’m a fighter. I’m a warrior. I did what I had to do to survive, and nobody has the power to victimize me ever again.

  I think I believe it. I want to believe it.

  But sometimes I still wonder.

  I think Russel would understand if I told him the first part. If I told him that the reason I don’t talk about my high school years is because half of them were spent chained in a crazy man’s basement, and after that I never resumed my public education. I could tell him about how Henry dressed me up in his daughter Jennifer’s clothes, fashions that hadn’t been in style in nearly two decades. Nobody would understand unless they’ve lived through that kind of torment, and like I said before, I’m the statistical anomaly.

  My husband wouldn’t understand, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t care. He would listen with those kind, compassionate eyes. It’s his empathy that makes him such a good pastor. He’s the only reason a church as stuck in its ways and traditional as ours can still flourish and prosper. Gospel Kingdom would only work if the members absolutely love and respect their leader. Which they do.

  And with good reason.

  Russel would try to empathize with the trauma I’ve gone through. He’s as patient as a saint with me already, and that’s without knowing anything I’ve endured.

  I should tell him. I would tell him. Except that would lead to other questions. Like how I got myself out of Henry’s basement. How I survived when so many others like me didn’t.

  And then he’d realize I’ve lied to him about other things, too. Like how excited I am to start a family with him. He still thinks I’m going to be able to bear him a quiver full of children. How long will I be able to pretend like this before he grows suspicious?

  I should never have misled my husband. I should never have agreed to marry him so quickly. It all happened so fast I can hardly remember what life was like before we met. It was as if I woke up single, and in twelve hours I was fumbling around through the world’s most painfully awkward wedding night. Now there are kids calling me Mom, kids I’m responsible to clothe and feed and educate. What do I know about homeschooling? Russel’s showed me the curriculum Sarah used with the older kids, but I’m serious that you need an advanced degree just to understand the teacher’s manual.

  It’s a good thing I have God on my side now. I’m not convinced the Almighty has forgiven me for lying to my husband, but I hope that he won’t take it out on the children. It is not their fault. And Russel’s devoted his life to preaching to others. He does it so well too. Just look how he ended up converting me.

  I’ve risen to greater challenges than this. Heaven knows that’s true even if my husband doesn’t. The way I figure, if God wants to develop my character by throwing me into a scenario where I’ve adopted four kids who aren’t my own and agreed to homeschool them and raise them up in a tech-free, sugar-free, wordly-influence-free environment, well, it won’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through.

  Not by a longshot.

  I survived two years in Henry’s basement.

  I survived two years calling him Daddy, pretending to be his murdered daughter, wearing clothes that were two decades too old.

  I survived the beatings, the assaults, all of it.

  More than that. I escaped.

  I escaped because I’m tough. I’m a fighter. I’m a warrior. I did what I had to do to survive, and nobody has the power to victimize me again.

  I repeat the words to myself. If I can handle myself with a monster like Henry, I’m not going to let a somewhat uppity church and a houseful of kids who aren’t sure how they feel about me ruin my chances at happiness.

  When I met Russel, I was drawn to his compassion, to his conviction, to the safety and security I felt in his presence. But that’s not why I married him. I married him because I love him. And if it’s going to take work to make this happily-ever-after thing work, if it means sitting on this airplane for hours with his kids and doing my best to entertain them and keep them quiet and calm so their father can sleep, I can deal with that.

  God knows I’ve fought my way out of worse.

  CHAPTER 5

  There’s some kind of delay on the runway. Could be the weather. I hear there’s snowstorms all over the Midwest right now. Just perfect for flying into Detroit, right? I stop reading long enough to check the time.

  Russel turns around in his seat. “Are you all right?” he asks. I’m not sure what prompted him to check up on me like this. Did he hear me stop reading and wonder what was going on? Did he sense the dark thoughts I’ve been having?

  It’s like this sometimes. I can go weeks hardly thinking about Henry at all. In fact, until I started having panic attacks a couple years ago, I thought I was over my past entirely.

  Shows how naïve I was.

  I smile at my husband, worried that his compassionate eyes will see straight through me. That he’ll know what I’m keeping from him, the truth about what I did in order to become the survivor I am.

  “I’m all right,” I answer, “just tired.”

  That seems to be all he needs to hear. He reaches out for my hand. The gesture is surprisingly gentle. He’s usually not one for public displays of affection. I’m glad to see him looking happy and content. I hope this vacation does him good. He’s been under a lot of stress. I feel bad, like it’s my fault. Like a good wife would anticipate her husband’s needs well enough in advance to keep his life running smoothly.

  Was Sarah that kind of wife? I wonder. Was she the kind who always had a home-cooked meal ready for him at exactly the same time every evening? Who tucked their children into bed after an elaborate ro
utine that was full of love and attention and care?

  Russel doesn’t talk about his first wife. Doesn’t tell me what it was like as Sarah was dying, how the children reacted to the news of her passing. I don’t bring it up. I’m afraid that if I did, I’d see that sadness in his eyes. A sadness that I can’t take away no matter how hard I might try to fill the hole in Russel’s heart.

  The captain makes an announcement. We’ll be on our way soon. It’s about time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about meeting Russel’s family, but I also have no desire to sit here in a grounded airplane for the rest of my life. I’ve never flown with kids before. Wonder what will happen when Andrew needs to use the bathroom. Will he want me to take him or his father? Do I have to go in with him, or do I just wait outside the door?

  Again I picture Sarah. Tired, haggered Sarah, aged beyond her years. Did she like wearing her head-coverings? Did she mind the way her long skirts always got bunched up around her ankles? Maybe she grew up that way, so she never knew any differently. I don’t even know where she was from or if her mom or dad are still alive. If the kids have grandparents from that side of the family, is it now my job to make sure they stay connected?

  There are so many things for me to think about, so many plans I need to make. Russel and I are basically still on our honeymoon, but after this trip to Detroit, it’s the start of normal life. There are so many things I need to figure out. How to schedule our homeschool days so that we have some semblance of order. What to do with the younger kids while I’m working with the older ones on their lessons. I haven’t mentioned this to Russel yet, but math was never my strong suit. Before too long, Betsy’s going to have to ask somebody else for help.

  I take a deep breath. Remind myself that nobody’s doing any math lessons today. We’re all fine. We’re here, we’re healthy, we’re safe.

  Safe …

  I sense the change in the cabin before I see anything out of the ordinary. A tension. A kind of electric charge. It would be easy enough to dismiss if I weren’t already on edge.