Freedom's Child: A Novel

by Jax Miller

  “Of course.” She closes the door after her. He rubs the back of his neck, heartbeat getting faster, debating whether or not he should read all the details of his sister’s autopsy report. He decides it’d be best that he doesn’t. He doesn’t want his last memories of Rebekah like that; he already knows too much: how she was dispersed shamefully in a field like fertilizer for the animals. That was enough for him. He tossed the papers behind him, having no intention of ever reading them.

  He sifts through another box of his belongings and continues to spend the Sunday making his office feel more personal. He pulls out a framed photo of him and Violet from their trip to Turks and Caicos.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” says Bobby Jo from the speakerphone. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Send ’em in,” he responded.

  Mason studies the young woman who walks in, a visibly pregnant woman in jeans and a purple cardigan, eyes hiding behind thick bangs and nerdy glasses. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The woman says nothing, instead handing Mason a business card. His own card, his own handwriting. On the back:

  Contact me soon. I will help you.

  It is the woman from the Goshen Police Department, the drunken girl passed out. Darian Cooke raped this woman. And once she gives birth, it’ll be impossible to deny.

  My name is Freedom and I’m working on a crossword puzzle in bed. I like puzzles when I can’t sleep. I’m too excited about my son arriving tomorrow. Twelve across, “Painter James McNeill _______.” The answer is Whistler. Fucking Whistler. Goshen.

  The only story coming out of Goshen that I really followed in the weeks after was Ger and Adelaide Custis, the Amalekite. We speak often, weekly. And in the four years that she was held against her will, her faith never subsided, no matter how bastardized it was in that group. I suppose they have the best happily-ever-after ending they could have, considering the circumstances. Mason visits his grandparents regularly.

  I never knew what became of Baby Theresa. Those records were closed. But I can only hope that she was taken in by some nice family. I can only hope that her brief stay with the Third-Day Adventists will never haunt her. I can only hope she grows into a beautiful young lady.

  The media painted Virgil and Carol in a terrible light upon the discovery of the corpses of the twelve young females in Whistler’s Field, along with the fact of Virgil having fathered nearly sixty children within the cult. One of the bodies in the field was a decade old; the rest had been killed within the last four or so years. They weren’t all local, one being from Louisiana, another from Indiana, one more from Tennessee. But the most recent one was a local. And Rebekah Jane Paul, once known as Layla Delaney and later known as the Virgin Mary, was never documented as having been originally from a New York state prison. But she was. My Layla. My Rebekah. That said, I guess she was never mine to begin with.

  But she carried my blood, she had that passion…and she wanted to move.

  Well, as for me, what can I say? I guess it was too much work for them, or maybe nobody cared about the monsters, but it was never publicly reported that the Pauls were murdered. That will remain a secret I will take to the grave. Mason will never know that skeleton. I suppose the Amalekite had her suspicions, but she never said a word. Like Rebekah, she was a victim.

  “Are you crying?” Mattley comes from the bathroom, shirtless, smelling of toothpaste and shaving cream.

  “I guess so.”

  He comes across the bed on his knees and leans down to me. “Don’t cry, Freedom.” He tucks my hair behind my ears and wipes a tear away.

  “I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m sad or because I’m happy.”

  “I know,” he whispers. He pulls the drawer from the bedside table and pulls out my prescription, placing the Monday pill in my hand. No more jars. No more Gumm and Howe. “Freedom, I want you to do something for me.”

  I look up at him.

  “I want you to marry me.”

  I lean in to kiss him, but I’m interrupted. “Daddy, I can’t sleep,” says his son, Richie.

  “Me neither,” trails Magdalene in the doorway. “Uncle Peter snores too loud.”

  I smile. “Get on up here, then.” Mattley and I sit Indian-style, facing each other, Richie sitting on his lap and Magdalene on mine. The kids thumb-wrestle. I look at Mattley and nod to him.

  Magdalene has been enrolled in several counseling groups since she came home with us. All the therapists say she’s making great progress, that she didn’t see as much at the Third-Day Adventists as she could have, and that, to everyone’s relief, she’d missed her father’s attentions by a matter of a few years. Every night, she insists on praying over dinner, and I’ll never stop her. The kid’s faith is admirable.

  “Now,” I begin. “Once upon a time, there was an Indian named Freedom.”

  The sand between Mason’s toes, a nonalcoholic beer from the cooler out of respect for his mother’s sobriety. Sovereign Shore.

  “Do you really have to work while we’re here at the beach?” Freedom asks him, his briefcase half planted in the sand. The Pacific Ocean on the Oregon shore rocks gentler than he imagined.

  “I promise, it won’t take me long.”

  “Suit yourself,” Freedom sings. “And we’re off!” She lifts Magdalene in one graceful sweep and runs into the ocean. The girl squeals in delight, yells that echo off the surf, fading the farther out in the water Freedom takes her.

  Mason looks out to his mother and his little sister. Suddenly he is reminded of his visions, his dreams of Freedom before he knew who she was. The more he sees of them now, the more vivid his memories become. Her tropical smell, her perfect teeth, her tattoos, and hair tangled with sand and salt. He watches, hypnotized, Freedom tossing Magdalene up and down, the sun behind them fading away to warm other nations, the sky turning to shades of gold and pink. It warms his face as the shadows grow longer around them, the evening still warm enough to sun-kiss his cheeks. And in his mind, he can imagine the airplane and banner from his youth. Freedom McFly.

  He looks over at Violet and mouths the words I love you, and he’s never meant it more. He smiles when she says it back. He thinks how he could not possibly understand what his mother had to sacrifice, never having known about being a parent. Looking at Violet, he imagines he might have an idea. In, give or take, seven months. And he can’t wait to tell the rest of the family.

  He returns to his work with a smile, papers now smudged with coconut tanning oil in the margins. He flips through them, a knot in his Adam’s apple when he sees Rebekah’s autopsy report mixed in there by accident. He inhales sharply, but he doesn’t let the apprehension show on his face. He scans through it, with the knowledge that he’ll probably regret it shortly after. His eyes stop at certain words: words like serrated, bludgeoned, blunt-force trauma. But one word makes Mason stop breathing. One word makes him nearly swallow his own tongue. One word makes him rise to his feet and stare out at his mother and Magdalene: Cesarean. It was noted on her, could still be detected by the ME. Though Virgil had cut off her arms, legs, and head and piled the pieces in a single grave, her torso and groin were still intact.

  Magdalene was the daughter of Rebekah Jane Paul. She is the biological granddaughter of Freedom Oliver.

  Mason looks out as Freedom dances with Magdalene in the breaks of the slow-rocking waves under one of the most unforgettable sunsets he’s ever seen. Freedom stops to look right back at her son, cradling Magdalene like the daughter she held only once. And she holds her longer than two minutes and seventeen seconds. And in that moment, in the way she carries the girl, in the way she looks back at Mason, in the way she’s changed her life for that child, Mason knows. He just knows: Freedom knew from the get-go that Magdalene was her granddaughter. She knew it the second she arrived in Goshen, Kentucky.

  —

  My name is Freedom and I look down at Magdalene’s joy-filled eyes, the waves crashing around us. Magdalene reaches up to care
ss my cheeks.

  “Finish the story, Sister Freedom,” Magdalene asks.

  And I think back, to a porch in the Snake River Plain, as I retell it to Magdalene.

  “This, in your language, might be called karma. But where we are from, it’s all part of the circle of life. And Freedom completed that circle, as everything in life happens in a circle.” The old man drew a circle in the sky with his finger. The rocking chair continued to creak under him. “And to this day, that very tree continues to grow.”

  I hold Magdalene so hard that I could squeeze the life out of her. It doesn’t matter that she was a product of violence, attacks, and evil. Because she isn’t a product. She isn’t a result. She is Rebekah’s flesh and blood. She is my flesh and blood. She is mine.

  I have to start by thanking my husband, John, who is just crazy enough to actually tolerate me and my work on a daily basis. Without his support, this book would have long been burned and the hard drives still lost at sea…or the bathtub (remember that, John?). But all kidding aside, John has been one of the few people who took a chance on me and had faith in my writing when no one else did. And for that, I’ll be forever thankful.

  Next, my lead researcher, Miss Sarah Cailean, my favorite cop from Philly, whose invaluable advice and quick responses have been lifesavers throughout the writing of this book. In my very small circle of friends whom I continually share my work with, Sarah is my go-to girl, especially for help in legal and police procedure. Thanks, chica. You’re the bestest.

  Also in this circle are three gentlemen I’ve known for many years. Jason Marano from the Bronx, whose encouragement and excitement over my writing has lit fires under my ass on many days when I doubted myself. And Stephen Perry Quesada, my favorite psychologist in New York, whose help in understanding hard-to-understand people was a great help in this book and will continue to be a great help in the next one. Last in the circle, but certainly not least, James Cashman, who is literally one of the most beautiful writers I’ve ever known. I thank you guys for all your patience. And, of course, Heather Jackson, my home slice from Long Island. Thanks for always reminding me why I had to write this book and for being one of the greatest friends a girl could ask for.

  Jessica Bonati, my sister: the only person in this world who really knows me. I love you with all my heart. Your pep talks and answering my calls in the middle of the night have proven to be absolutely necessary in order for me to want to achieve something in life, especially this book.

  To Vik Usack, my father, a man who somehow knew since the day I was born that I was destined for something. Thank you for seeing things in me that I never could and for having faith in me when I gave you every reason not to. Without you seeing my potential, I may have never written this.

  And now, we cross the pond. One of the most important people in helping me write this book is Helen Falconer, whom I refer to as St. Helen of Mayo, from the Inkwell consulting agency of Dublin. Thank you for editing the shit out of my book since the first page of the very first draft. Your help was more than I could ever ask for. Vanessa O’Loughlin, for leading the literary movement in Ireland with www.writing.ie and with The Inkwell Group. Many thanks for taking a chance on me and my writing. To everyone in the Irish Crime Group for their criticism and help as I was learning how to write. To Carousel Creates, for making available to me an outlet to work. And to my Irish family, the O’Donnells, whom I’ve come to love, for supporting me and for their continued support, especially Ber and Paddy, my in-laws.

  Now last, not least, the guys behind the curtain…Oz, is what I call them. First, my literary agent at WME, Simon Trewin. It was you who single-handedly turned me from a writer at home to a real-life author. A million thank-yous and here’s to a great literary marriage. And to my editors at HarperCollins UK Killer Reads, Sarah Hodgson and Kate Elton, whose guidance continues to mold me as a writer and for helping me hone skills I never knew I had. And, finally, senior editor Zack Wagman of the Crown Publishing Group at Penguin Random House US, the literary genius god with a top hat and wings. Thank you, from one Yankee to another, for the bucket-loads of help you’ve poured my way.