“I’m sure everybody’s gonna think I’m crazy for wearing this to church.”
“Who cares,” I tell her. “Shoes are shoes. As long as you’re safe. And happy.”
She looks down, eyeing the skull-and-crossbones she’s sketched across the rubber toe guards.
“Are you happy, Ellie?”
“Happy is a myth.” She leaves me sitting on her bed, staring at her walls. They are covered in rock band posters and tween mementos. Next to her desk is a large bulletin board, pinned with photos of Ellie and Sarah. One is from an Easter egg hunt when they were about four years old. Ellie’s tiny fingers curl around the wicker handle of her basket, and she stares up at the costumed bunny with full belief in her eyes. Sarah stands next to Ellie, equally in awe. Their baskets are filled with plastic eggs, candy, and stickers.
What I wouldn’t give to turn back time. To cancel the field trip to New Orleans. To bring our girls back to a place of innocence. When happy was more than a myth.
Hello Sparrow,
It’s Easter. I wonder what my family is doing.
The Man says I am never going home. That this is my home now. He works for a very bad boss who made him take me here. If I do everything The Man tells me to do, he’ll make sure The Boss won’t hurt me.
The Boss knows where Mom and Pop live. If I try to run away, he will kill them.
Every time The Man sees me looking at the door, he jerks my chin and says in a really mean voice, “Don’t be stupid.”
He says Ellie is here too, locked up like me. If I do everything he tells me, then he won’t hurt Ellie. It’s up to me. Because I’m his best girl.
I don’t want him to kill Ellie. Or Mom and Pop. So I do whatever he tells me. What choice do I have?
Ellie, Carl, and I arrive early for Sunday school. I’ve agreed to help Beth place the Easter lilies. Ellie wants to give us a hand. As we enter the reception hall, Carl heads for the coffee station, where he bonds with the other men over sugar and sports. I walk past them, greeting the deacons as they down glazed doughnut holes. Half of them are talking about Tiger Woods and the upcoming Masters. Others swap baseball stats or hedge their bets for the NFL draft. Carl makes his rounds through each conversation, sounding off his predictions. The men circle him, eager for advice.
“Ellie?” Beth is in preacher-wife mode, focusing on the task at hand. “Why don’t you take this into the sanctuary? You can start setting the flowers out. Anywhere you can find a place. We’ll be right behind you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ellie pulls the cart filled with potted white lilies and makes her way to the sanctuary. Beth and I move into the church’s small library. The room is stashed with flowers, wall to wall. In less than a minute, my allergies kick in. I sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze again.
When I finally catch my breath, I ask Beth for any updates.
“None.” She turns away and continues grouping flowers. “Unless you count the fact that Preacher wants to leave his job with the church.”
I listen.
“The committee declined his resignation.” She pulls one limp petal from a stalk and straightens a bow, looping the wired ribbon around her fingers for extra-wide volume. “I keep thinking he just needs a break, but he’s sticking to his guns. The problem is neither of us has really been working since . . . since Sarah . . . The church has been very patient, but they’ve had to pay an interim, and they can’t maintain Preacher’s salary if he’s not working. Plus, we’ve used so much money hiring private investigators, we’re running out of savings. Something has to give.”
“Does he have a plan? Another job in mind?” I take the flowerpot from her and set it on the cart. The fragrance makes my nose itch.
“His cousin. The one in Zachary. With the pool and spa business. Preacher has helped him out a few times. We figure he can do that for a while. At least until he makes a final decision.”
“Might be good for him, Beth. Get outside. Sweat a little. Could help clear his mind.”
“Yeah, I guess.” After a silence, she opens up. “You know what I’m struggling with the most? It’s Easter.” She spins one of the pots in a circle, staring at the soil.
I load flowers onto a second cart and think of all the special Easters we shared with our girls.
“It’s not the kids and their candy that’s getting to me. You’d think that, but it’s not. It’s that I’m sitting here counting lilies. I mean, my daughter is out there, and we have no idea how to find her. And I’m sitting here counting lilies!”
She pulls a bloom from its long green stem and starts to cry. Not slow, quiet Beth tears, but a loud sobbing, an emotional outpouring. The kind I experience with my clients. The kind that means a heart is splintering and only darkness remains—a black pit where hope no longer lives.
I close the door of the library and move to Beth’s side.
She yields, crying against my shoulder. This is what pain sounds like.
Between heavy breaths she says, “I’m supposed to be encouraging people to have faith. To believe in miracles and renewal and some Higher Power who watches over us. Who loves us.” She laughs, looking up at the ceiling. “You call this love?”
Preacher opens the door just then, calling her name. Seeing his wife in shambles, he freezes, exposing his own anguish. Without another word, he steps back out into the hallway and closes the door behind him.
After skipping Sunday school, Beth and I have joined our husbands for the Easter service. Carl and I sit with Ellie midway back, while Beth and Preacher have opted for their regular place on the front pew. With only a few minutes left in the sermon, Preacher whispers into Beth’s ear. Whatever he’s told her causes her to frown. She’s clearly questioning him. But then she softens, as if to grant him approval. With this, he rises and moves to the pulpit to shake Brother Johnson’s hand, whispering to him as well. The reverend reacts with befuddlement, and a brief conversation ensues between the two men. Then Preacher takes the podium and delivers his news to the congregation.
“Today is Easter,” he begins. “Many of you have spent the morning hunting eggs, opening chocolate bunnies, posing for photos. These are the kinds of days we look forward to. The special moments when we take notice of all the good in our lives. This year, as you know, Beth and I aren’t dyeing eggs or filling baskets. But we take pleasure in seeing you celebrate this holiday with your loved ones. While we are suffering a great loss in our own lives, we do have many things to be grateful for today. Mainly, we are thankful for each of you. For the support you have shown our family in the last five months, and for the patience you have offered as I’ve been unable to lead the youth ministry the way I was called to do.”
Preacher turns his attention to Beth and then continues. “Today I realized something. I realized that Beth and I can sit here in this pew and sing the hymns and say the prayers. But our hearts are no longer in it. We’re broken. I don’t know about Beth, but I can tell you something about me. I’ve got so little faith left at this point, I don’t have enough to share anymore. I’ve decided to submit my resignation as your youth pastor. We appreciate your prayers as we continue to search for Sarah. Thank you.”
May 2005
Hello Sparrow,
The Man scares me. He makes me do bad things. If I don’t do what he says, he will kill Ellie. If I run away, he will kill my family. So I do what he wants.
He brought a guy here who gave me a tattoo. He told the guy to make it look like a dollar sign. It hurt a little when the needles went into my shoulder, but The Man told me not to cry. I am learning not to cry.
I wasn’t crying because it hurt. I was crying because Pop always said that my body is a temple. And that I need to take care of myself because God lives in me. I hope Pop won’t be sad when he sees the tattoo. Or when he finds out what else has been done to this temple.
One day, when I get out of here, I’m going to cover that dollar sign with something prettier. Maybe a feather.
“Can you believe it? Last da
y of sixth grade!” I hand Ellie a handwritten thank-you note with a gift certificate enclosed for one of Baton Rouge’s nicest spas. “Be sure to give this to Miss Henderson. She’s been so good to you.”
Ellie adds the gift to her backpack. “She’s not coming back next year. Did you hear?”
I nod. “This has been hard on everybody. You aren’t the only one who blames yourself, Ellie. Miss Henderson feels like it’s her fault for taking her class to New Orleans in the first place. I feel like it’s my fault for not standing with y’all in line. Gator feels at fault for not getting you all back home safely. Mrs. Beth, for not staying the whole day. The restaurant manager has expressed guilt too. And Jay. He hasn’t found her yet.”
Ellie takes this in, and I hope, with all I have in me, that it eases her guilt.
“You going to the end-of-the-year party? With Nate?”
She shakes her head. No matter how much I encourage her, she has withdrawn from nearly all social interactions with her peers.
“Well then, how should we celebrate? Want to get a sno-cone after school? Go swimming? How about a movie? Just the two of us.”
She shrugs. “To be honest, Mom, I’d rather come home and sleep.”
“Are you sure? It’s a beautiful day. What if we go shopping? You need some new summer clothes. Could we go to that Asian restaurant you like? The one with the good spring rolls and sushi?”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t completely shut down this idea, so I stick with it.
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at noon for early dismissal, and we’ll head straight to lunch and then to the mall.” With this, I give her a hug and send her off to catch the bus. As she climbs the steps, I wave from the driveway, feeling an ache in my bones. No matter how hard I try, I can’t give her childhood back to her.
“Morning.” I enter my office in a rush and greet Vivienne. The two of us have shared a practice for the last ten years, and she hasn’t aged a bit in that decade. “Can you at least have a bad hair day or something?” I tease. “That’s all I’m asking. Some proof of imperfection.”
Viv is toned and tanned, with the trademark Cajun beauty common in Louisiana. In addition to her good looks and petite frame, she carries the Acadian French lilt to her speech and moves through the world with graceful steps. “Oh please,” she says, not looking up from her computer. “You’re one to talk.” She finally glances my way. “I’m registering for my first marathon.”
“Of course you are.” I smile.
“Turning forty,” she sighs. “I won’t go down without a fight.”
I drop my purse on my desk and head for the electric kettle. I find it already filled. And heating. “Viv, you are so thoughtful!”
“Brought you some new kinds of tea too.” She taps her keyboard. “In the cabinet.”
“You didn’t.” I pull a box from the shelf where she’s stashed three new cartons.
“They were in the clearance bin at Carter’s. Apparently you’re the only person who drinks that stuff.”
I laugh and opt for something new, Oolong Pomegranate. “Want a cup?”
She declines, so I pour her some Community Coffee instead.
“I’m taking off early, don’t forget. It’s Ellie’s last day of school, and we’re going to celebrate.”
“How’s she doing?” She gives me her full attention as I bring her coffee.
“Honestly, I don’t know, Viv. I’m still worried. All she wants to do is sleep. She’s stopped hanging out with friends. She sits in her room listening to music and drawing. Just her and Beanie.”
“How’s Carl handling that?”
“Oh, you know Carl. He’s not the kind to talk about things. He thinks she’s fine. And I’m overreacting.”
“Do you think you’re overreacting?” She looks at me now as if I’m her client.
“No.” I hold my mug in two hands, and the steam rises between us.
“Trust your gut, Amanda. You know a lot more about this stuff than Carl does.”
“Maybe so, but that’s the problem. He thinks I try to diagnose everybody. That I want to send everyone to counseling.”
“What’s wrong with that?” She laughs.
“Forty, huh?” I bow, pretending to worship her beauty. “I’m thirty-five and wish I looked half as good as you do. I honestly can’t understand how you manage to stay single.”
“I’m waiting for The One,” she says with a smile. “I won’t settle for less.”
“But he won’t stop. You don’t understand.” My client is shaking, wiping her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex that hangs in shreds from her hand. “I had to call 911. I had to run. He was going to kill me this time.”
“Tell me what happened.” I keep my voice calm, steady, and offer no judgment, although pieces of me want to rush from my office and nail her husband to the wall. Mrs. Evans is all of five feet tall and ninety-five pounds after a holiday feast. There’s nothing about her that feels threatening, not her soft voice or her kind eyes or her fragile frame. For any man to use violence against her reflects the worst form of cowardice, in my opinion. It’s hard for me not to tell her what I’m thinking. But I don’t. I listen.
“He came home in a rage again. I was taking a nap because I’d been running a fever, just a little cold turned bad, but I never do that. I never sleep during the day. Only Monday, I did. And he came home early, and the kids were outside playing like they always do. They’re old enough, you know. And I woke up with him carrying on about how lazy I am. He was screaming and shouting, going off about how he’s out working and I’m home sleeping. Before I knew it he had broken everything in our den. Everything. Glass everywhere. Throwing everything he could reach. Throwing it right at me.”
“He was throwing things at you?”
“Everything. Yes. The vases, the pictures. Everything he could grab. I was on the couch, just sitting there, covering my head, trying not to move.”
“Did he throw his stuff too? Break anything important to him?”
She pauses. Considers. “You know? Now that I think about it, he broke everything around him except his guitar. It was hanging right there on the wall. He never touched it. It’s got marks all over it, from glass and wood flying up and scratching it. But you’re right. He didn’t break his guitar.”
I nod. “So he was more in control than you think?”
She takes this in. Then continues. “I know it sounds crazy. But I knew if I as much as looked him in the eye, I was dead.”
“Can you tell me more about that? How you knew?”
“It’s hard to explain. But I’ve never felt anything like that before. It was a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. You ever see those TV shows, about lions and stuff over there in Africa?”
I nod.
“Well, you can see it in their eyes, you know? Those zebras or whatever they’re stalking, they know they’re about to die. The lion is in kill mode, and they’re the prey, and there’s nothing they can do about it. But they run anyway, because what else can they do? Well, I was the zebra. Only I knew I couldn’t outrun him. So I sat there real still, and I let him throw his fit. And I thought to myself, I’m not going to look at him, or cry, or make a sound. I’m going to stay still and pray. And that’s what I did. I prayed. God, I’ve got babies. They’re right outside playing. They need me. And they need their daddy too. So please, God. Don’t let him do anything crazy. Don’t let him hurt me. Keep us safe. All of us.”
I allow myself a little time before responding. Then I ask, “Do you believe God kept you safe?” I try not to sound snide.
“Yes.” She says this without the slightest sign of disbelief.
I, on the other hand, have enough doubt for us both. No telling how many times a woman has prayed for God to save her, just before her head gets bashed in. I’ve seen these abusive relationships play out, and it’s all I can do not to tell her it takes a whole lot more than prayer to survive them. I try to get us back to something real. “So how do you feel about what happened?”
“I feel scared. I’m scared he’ll do it again, only next time I might not live to tell about it. It seems like he’s getting worse.”
“That’s very serious,” I tell her. “Most people don’t feel afraid of their husbands. They aren’t afraid for their lives. You should listen to that voice, Mrs. Evans. Maybe that’s God’s voice. Telling you to protect yourself. To protect your children.”
She listens, stays quiet.
“What your husband is doing to you is wrong. You’ve told me this kind of explosion has happened more than once. That’s not okay. It’s abusive.”
The word abusive seems to set her off. “I’m probably making it sound worse than it is.” She defends him. “He’s never touched me. I don’t have a mark on me. See?” She lifts her arms, proving she has no bruises or scars.
“He threw things at you. He scared you. He yelled at you. And it sounds like he said some pretty awful things too.”
She shrugs.
“What did he say to you?” I am taking notes. I’ve learned to document when a client tells me about violent episodes.
“Oh, I don’t remember.” She isn’t comfortable with my pen. She leans and pulls another Kleenex from the carton. Then she wipes her eyes, collecting herself.
“Do you remember anything he said? Anything at all?”
With reluctance, she fills in the blanks. “I don’t know. The kind of stuff he always says, how I’m lazy and stupid and insane. All that. It’s mostly a blur now.”
“You know, Mrs. Evans, it’s not unusual for an abuser to manipulate his victim into thinking she’s crazy. That’s part of the emotional abuse.” The word still draws resistance, so I lean closer. “Or it could be that he doesn’t understand how you feel. And so he says you’re crazy.”
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