by Daleen Berry
Sister of Silence:
a memoir
by Daleen Berry
Afterword by Kenneth V. Lanning
Former Supervisory Special Agent
FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit
Copyright 2012 Daleen Berry
Kindle Edition
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Nellie Bly Books
Morgantown, West Virginia
™
Nellie Bly Books
Morgantown, W.Va.
The names and identifying details of some characters in this book have been changed.
Copyright © 2012 by Daleen Berry
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form, except for brief quotes used specifically within critical articles and reviews.
Nellie Bly Books electronic edition 2012
Nellie Bly Books and design are registered trademarks.
A portion of this book was entered in the 2006 West Virginia Writer’s Competition under the title “Summer 1968: West Virginia Roots.”
A percentage of the author’s proceeds will be donated to Samantha’s Sanctuary, a 501(c)3 non-profit corporation established in 2012 to help educate and empower abused women and children.
Disclaimer
Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places, or organizations are unintentional.
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PRAISE FOR SISTER OF SILENCE
“Berry is an engaging writer, her style fluid and easy to read, with welcome touches of humor and sustained tension throughout.
—Kirkus Reviews
“Strong prose…acute memory…disturbing story.”
—5 stars, ForeWord Reviews
“Almost never is an interview subject so open or so candid about the most intimate details of the most horrible moments of her life. Daleen is a very brave women and I hope her story will help other girls and women…Daleen you are a magnificent storyteller.”
—Bob Edwards
Author of Voice in the Box: My Life in Radio
“In Sister of Silence, author Daleen Berry gently guides us through the dark corridors of her life, so that we can emerge in the light, as she has courageously done, with a sense of hope, authenticity and courage. Sister of Silence is a brave book, written from the heart. It’s a must read for the brave-hearted.”
—Asra Q. Nomani
Author of Standing Alone: An American
Woman’s Struggle for the Soul of Islam
“Sister of Silence is authentic, compelling and necessary.”
—Richard Currey
Author of Fatal Light
“For marketing purposes, nothing better can happen to a book than having it banned. A banned book is a sure sign that you’ve done something very right.”
—Lee Maynard
Author of Crum
“Sister of Silence is wonderful! It’s an inspirational memoir from an amazing woman who helps us truly understand all the conflicting emotions and seemingly incongruous behaviors that anyone would experience when challenged by such a horrific situation. Daleen found strength in the face of overwhelming destructiveness to protect both her own future and that of her children—but the silence had to be broken first. What courage and resourcefulness her journey entailed. It’s a wake-up call for all of us to help end the silence!”
—Jacquelyn Campbell, PhD, RN, Johns Hopkins University
Author of Family Violence and Nursing Practice
“A dramatic memoir told in a matter-of-fact, yet strikingly compelling, manner.”
—Appalachian Heritage
Summer 2011 Issue
DALEEN BERRY lives in West Virginia and has been covering crime since 1988. She has won a first-place award for investigative journalism from the West Virginia Press Association, two second-place awards from the Maryland-Delaware-DC Press Association for her weekly newspaper column, and as a student editor, she also led her staff to a record number of awards from the Society for Collegiate Journalists. Most recently, in 2012, she received the Pearl Buck Award in Writing for Social Change.
Sister of Silence was a first-place winner in the West Virginia Writers’ Competition, Appalachian Theme Category.
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Cover design by Megan Hagebush
Author photo by KateDavid Photography
Previously published paperback editions are available online at:
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DEDICATION
For my four sweet grapes,
because without you
there would be no story.
After Our Escape (circa July 1990)
Photo by Bruce Gurholt
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m eternally grateful to my Creator, who has never left my side, who gave me the amazing gift of being a wordsmith, and my greatest blessings: my four “sweet grapes.”
It was those same sweet grapes who gave me a reason to live. Their lives made my own meaningful, and they taught me more about love than I ever could have learned otherwise.
Warm appreciation goes to the men and women in blue during my early journalism days, who taught me how to ask the right questions.
Linda and Delbert Benson saw something within my words that I didn’t, and their unswerving faith led me down a different path.
I’m indebted to Ken Lanning, who graciously gave of his time and expertise and, most of all, his endorsement.
Julie Sexstone, who showed me how to dig deeply enough to find my story, deserves heartfelt thanks.
So do my dear friends Boyd and Lennoe, who told me I had a story to tell in the first place.
Deep gratitude to Deb Beazley, who believed my story could help other victims, and whose enthusiasm was contagious.
Darron Padilla deserves a big hug because his own certainty that Oprah would love it made me wipe away the dust and kept me moving forward.
I came to know more fully what Wanda Toppins, my sister in silence, went through, thanks to the generosity of her stepson, Jerry, who patiently answered my questions.
Like Wanda, I had help in the form of wonderful friends who sheltered my children and me when we were at the breaking point, and I would be remiss in not thanking (or remembering, as the case may be) Butch and Shirley.
Heartfelt appreciation to the many authors who have supported me: Richard Currey, who bestowed a great honor upon my work; Julie Gregory, who saw the raw beauty in my story; John Searles, who graciously helped me get one foot in Oprah’s door; and Asra Nomani, who led by example.
I’m most grateful to my editors, Arlene Robinson and Janet Wellington, whose
advice helped hone my skills.
More thanks than she will ever know go to Jackie Campbell, who graciously took time from her very busy academic schedule to help me.
Jeannette Walls’ incredibly kind words gave me the courage to do just that, when she urged me to finish writing this book.
Hugs go to Lisa Jan, Hilda Heady, Fran Kirk, Teresa Neel, Scott Radabaugh, Troy Helmick, Pete and Shirley Vuljanic, and Steve and Nina Calvert for just being there, to Rick Shartzer, who taught me about my inner warrior, and to anyone else I may have overlooked along my journey.
Finally, I must thank my parents, who, in spite of their flaws, gave me all they could—which, as it turns out, was more than enough.
Dear Reader,
The story you are about to read took me 20 years to tell. First I had to acknowledge what had happened, and then I had to work through the effects of that realization. Some of the depictions may be difficult to read, but know that in the telling of it—and my learning from it—healing began. I hope you’ll keep that in mind as you read Sister of Silence.
And if you recognize something in your own life or in the life of someone you know, I hope learning my story will help you take action. If that happens, then I know this account will extend far beyond my words here.
It’s been a challenging story to tell, and not one that can easily be told in a chronological way—which is something I’m much more accustomed to as a working journalist. What I discovered was that awakening, sometimes, comes in stages. And memories—the good ones and the painful ones—can come to the surface in bits and pieces, in different order, many times, the difficult ones having been carefully buried or transformed into something more palatable and easier to live with, hiding the truth within. So, this story is one that reads that way, from time to time, because what I share are glimpses into my life and what happened to me, but not on a nice orderly timeline.
At the end is the Afterword, written by Kenneth V. Lanning, former Supervisory Special Agent of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. I hope you’ll take time to read it, because it contains vital information about victimization. I am honored to have his words a part of this book.
Finally, I’m donating a percentage of my proceeds to Samantha’s Sanctuary, a 501(c)3 non-profit corporation I established in 2012 to help educate and empower abused women and children. Every little bit really does help, and these survivors need all our help.
All my best,
Daleen Berry
“The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.”
—Henri Bergson
CHAPTER ONE
My knuckles turned white as I clenched the crib rail. I looked down at my newborn, then leaned over and lifted the sleeping bundle and held it against my breast, feeling the softness of new skin as he pulled tiny legs up against his body. The small silky head turned, and I felt the whisper of his warm breath against the pillow my neck provided.
Cradling him lovingly, I slowly walked over to the open window, held out my arms, and let go.
“You haven’t had any thoughts of harming yourself, have you? Or anyone else?”
Back in 1984, Dr. Towson had said the unthinkable so calmly, as if it were a routine question. That had to be what it was. Me, hurt my baby? What kind of a mother would do that?
My throat seemed to close up so tight I couldn't have said the words even if I'd dared: Actually, yes, Doctor Towson, I am afraid to venture too close to any open windows while holding a baby in my arms.
“Mrs. Leigh?”
I looked into the well-meaning eyes of my family doctor and shrugged.
“Nothing like that. No, I’m just tired, that’s all. I feel kind of blah. You know, like a black cloud’s hanging over me. That’s all.”
Ashamed of my blatant lies, I offered some words of truth. “I’m exhausted because my husband wants to have sex all the time. Do you think he might have an addiction?”
My doctor, fresh out of medical school, only laughed. “Men would have sex with a tree, if they could,” he said.
He continued writing in my chart, then looked up with an understanding smile, as if he hadn't just blown off my concerns about Eddie.
“I don’t really think you need an antidepressant. You just need some more help at home. Tell your husband to pitch in and give you a break now and then. Have an occasional glass of wine to help you relax. After all, you’re only twenty-two and you have four little ones to take care of, not to mention a house and a husband. It isn’t unreasonable to think you would need some help.”
As always, my smile came easily, and I nodded. “Of course that’s it. I’m sure you’re right.”
He turned toward the door, but then looked back at me. “Better yet, why don’t you hire a sitter and you and your husband go away for a long weekend?”
Then he was gone.
The last “long weekend” had led to a fourth baby.
What if I'd told the truth? Since the birth of my first, that scene at the window had repeated itself in my mind, over and over again. The thought would come to me at the oddest moment, with such intensity I was sure I was going crazy.
What was wrong with me, that I would even consider such a thing?
The pervasive thoughts remained for many years, for the entire time my four children were too helpless to care for themselves, too innocent to protect themselves from a mother tormented by so many evil thoughts that, had she acted on them, would have instantly put an end to their lives. Yet I never told another human being about them. Ever. I was terrified of the consequences. Afraid they would lock me up in some place where medication turned the minds of crazy people to mush, leaving them defenseless against orderlies in starched coats and nurses with long needles and little pink and blue pills.
I remembered Dr. Towson’s suggestion to have a drink. But I never needed a glass of wine to get me through those mental minefields, when the wrong thought threatened to blow my world to smithereens; somehow I just did what I was supposed to, instead of killing us all. It was at night, when my husband came to me, that I needed the alcohol to drown out what happened whenever he touched me. And it was those times, all those perverse touches that made me feel like a tiny insect caught and held fast, being squished inside a little child’s clenched fist—it was those times that drove me to stand before my baby’s crib, waging a war within not to do the unthinkable.
Some people’s problems begin with a shot of whisky or a bottle of rum. Mine began before my birth, inside a beer can. And then another. And another. After I was born, it took me about seven years to realize my father’s drinking colored our family’s life in every possible way—the beer he consumed was more important than we were. By 1972, the beer had become a dangerous tool that transformed him from a sensitive, mild-mannered man into a monster.
I was fortunate. I witnessed it only once, in a scene that played out before me as a child. I locked it carefully away, where it stayed until it was released as a painful memory years later.
Mom had kept dinner waiting on the stove when Daddy didn’t come home. Again. I suspected she knew he was sitting at a beer joint somewhere, since she was always calling them to track him down. So after she packed us off to bed, leaving his dinner warming on the back burner, she went to sleep herself.
The screaming woke me up.
“Get outta bed and make me sumpin’ that doesn’t taste like burnt toast!” My father’s voice came from the room next to mine.
“Dale, stop it. Please, you’re hurting me!”
My mother’s cries.
Other noises, too, sounds of moving around, but I lay petrified, eyes closed, hardly daring to breathe.
“I deserve sumpin’ better’n that crap downstairs,” Daddy yelled. “I work hard all day long and all I won’ is a halfway decent meal when I come home!”
Though terrified, I had to see what was happening. I slid from beneath the heavy blankets and quilts that Mom had piled upon me and peeked
around the corner of my bedroom door. Through the darkness, I could just make out my father’s hand, buried beneath the dark silky strands of my mother’s beautiful hair, as he pulled her toward the stairway. The echo of their voices moved along with them, past the faded, peeling wallpaper and out of my sight.
I tiptoed across the old and cracked Linoleum, and watched the breath that came from my mouth turn into a delicate mist, and slowly, stealthily, crept toward the stairwell on tiptoe, afraid a creaking floorboard would give me away. When I looked down, Mom was in front of my father, crying as he followed close behind her on the stairs, his hand clamped tightly around her arm. I don’t know what frightened me more—her crying, or the realization that she could slip and tumble down the steps any second.
When they had disappeared into the kitchen, I sat on a step, partway down. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” I sobbed softly, my face framed between the two ancient banister dowels my tiny hands gripped, my body trembling from fear as well as the frigid night air of our uninsulated brick home.
His yelling gradually grew softer and then stopped altogether. I could picture him sitting in the kitchen, eating whatever Mom had hastily whipped up, while she waited for him to finish so she could carry his dishes to the sink. I wanted to see for myself that she was all right, yet I was too afraid to go down the stairs. Still, I was determined not to return to my room. If he tried to hurt her again, I was going to make him stop. I didn’t know how, but I would do anything I could to protect Mom—Mom, who would hold me as I sobbed, thanks to yet another middle of the night ear infection, gently blowing her warm breath into my affected ear to ease the pain until we arrived at the hospital. At that moment I decided I would do whatever it took, even if that meant beating him off with my bare hands.