Chapter 6
Scott pulled into his parents’ driveway around six that evening. His dad had called a couple of hours earlier saying that because it was such a warm evening, his mother suggested they swim and that the men were going to cook dinner on the grill. Scott offered to pick up some ice cream. He wanted to arrive early so he could have a word with his father before everyone else was there.
Scott tossed the ice cream into the freezer and then went out back where his dad was getting the fire started on the grill. Scott sat on the bench next to his dad and asked, “Are there any openings at work for a part-time, general-office person?”
Bill turned and gave his son a puzzled look. “Why? Who needs a job?”
“Susan said her only hope of attending college lies in finding another job. She needs a position that provides more hours and better pay.” After a thoughtful pause, Scott asked, “Did you know her father was sent back to prison this year?”
“Scott, your mother and I know about Susan’s father. You are obviously concerned about Susan’s welfare also, so, how about you? Could you use a part-time assistant?”
“Dad, this summer has been wonderful. Carol Anne, Susan, and I have had so much fun together, and I have some strong feelings for Susan.” Before his father could express his concern about Susan’s age, Scott brought it up himself. “I have no intention of dating such a young girl, and because of my feelings for her, I don’t think it would be wise to have Susan working directly with me twenty or thirty hours a week. We can help her, though, and I think we owe it to people like Susan. She has a real need, and we have been blessed with the ability to fill that need. Isn’t that what you’ve always taught me?”
Bill continued fanning the fire in the grill as they discussed the situation and Bill agreed to talk to Susan about coming to work for the company.
August nights in Atlanta were usually uncomfortable outdoors, but tonight was turning out to be rather pleasant. The heat wave had temporarily broken, the humidity was unusually low for Atlanta, and there was a cool breeze. They could not have picked a better night to grill outdoors, swim, and have a going-away party for Carol Anne. Bill loved the times his whole family gathered together like this, but he knew it would be the holidays before it would happen again, which made this evening bittersweet.
***
The girls decided to take a swim while Scott kept himself busy helping his mother. He knew his parents were struggling with letting go of their baby girl, even though they were the ones who had encouraged her to venture away from home. Slipping in the side door of the kitchen, Scott quietly watched his mother observing the girls through the kitchen window. She had a sad but sweet smile on her face. Carol Anne was growing up too fast for her, and he knew his mother was going to miss having her daughter around.
Scott quietly walked up behind his mother, put his arms around her, and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. “You did a wonderful job raising her, Mom. You and Dad raised her to be strong. She will be fine out in California.”
Caroline didn’t say a word; she didn’t have to. She simply gave her son’s arm a gentle squeeze and then quickly picked up the potato salad and headed out back with a smile on her face.
After dinner, the girls offered to clean up while Scott and his parents took their turn in the pool. While Carol Anne began cutting the pie, Susan brought up the dreaded subject. She walked up behind her friend, placed her chin on her shoulder, and said, “I can’t believe our summer is over. What am I going to do without you?”
Carol Anne dared not turn around and look at her friend. She set aside the dishes and stood very still. “Susan, I wish you were coming with me. I hate the idea of leaving you here with your mother.”
Susan gave her friend a hug but mused to herself, Any other time I would have done anything to go with you, Carol Anne. But not now. Though I know I have no chance with Scott, I love just being with him. He makes me feel wonderful.
Carol Anne had no idea what Susan was thinking. She did, however, have an idea of how strong her brother’s feelings were for Susan. She decided to take this opportunity to suggest, “You’ve said a million times you’re never getting married and that you don’t want children. But I wish you would rethink that. Someday you’re going to make some man a great wife.” Seeing that familiar look of pain come across Susan’s face, she quickly added, “You’ve come so far and made so many positive changes these past few years.”
“Carol Anne, lest you forget, I still have a father in prison, a sister who is a drug-using prostitute, and a mother… well, need I say more? Who in the world would ever want me?”
Carol Anne looked straight at her friend and said, “Any man in his right mind, Susan. That’s who!”
Susan shook her head in playful disgust. “If I thought I could have a marriage like your parents, I might consider it. Oh, I know your family isn’t perfect, but they are to me, and anything short of that just isn’t worth the pain.”
Carol Anne smiled. “Susan, you know better than anyone that people’s ideas can change. Remember how hard it was when you first started coming here? You worked so hard to create excuses not to go to church with us, and you were totally offended by anyone talking about God. You were careful not to show your anger to anyone else, but oh how you would argue with me back then! Everything I was ever taught was challenged in my efforts to combat your arguments. If I couldn’t help you answer your questions, the answers I had always believed in didn’t carry much weight for me either. I knew you were blaming God for what your parents did to you, and you considered God your enemy because He allowed the abuse to happen.”
With a wan smile, Susan replied, “Yes, I remember. I also remember the great lengths you and your mother went to in order to help me, even when I didn’t want help. You two had heard of Dr. Jacobson and then concocted a story about needing my help at that retreat, stopping just short of lying to get me there. I remember sitting in the back seat of your mother’s van driving up to the campground. I had no intention of attending the retreat. I was simply going to help set the tables and disappear for long walks. The retreat’s topic was “Can God Be Trusted?, remember? My immediate response was, ‘No He can’t!’ ”
With an embarrassed giggle, Susan quoted the argument she had embraced for so long. “How could a loving God let my sister and me suffer as little kids? If He cared so much, why didn’t He stop them? If He is so all-fired loving and powerful, why didn’t He help me?”
With emotion building up in her eyes, Carol Anne responded, “Oh, Susan, we hurt so badly for you back then. You were so hard to talk to, and we wanted to help. We had heard so many wonderful things about Dr. Jacobson and hoped and prayed she would be able to help you.”
“I know, Carol Anne, and she did. I had such an attitude back then. I despised it when people with comfortable lives presumed to say that God cared about me. As much as I cared for you and your mother, I would not listen to you. I always thought, ‘Sure, they have no reason not to believe God loves them!’ Did I ever tell you what I did when I found out what kind of retreat you and your mother were dragging me to? I spent that afternoon riding in the van writing out a long list of questions challenging the speaker to prove to me just how she could know God loved me and just how He cared for me. I was determined to hand this woman my questions and walk away. As I put the paper in my purse, I thought that after she read it, she would have to think twice before she talked about something that my life had proved was a lie.”
Carol Anne looked puzzled. “You hadn’t planned on attending that retreat? What changed your mind?”
“I read Dr. Jacobson’s pamphlet while setting up the literature table for your mother. It described the speaker’s abusive childhood and how she had suffered loneliness and isolation as a child and young adult. She confessed she had also hated God for most of her childhood. She thought He was either punishing her for something she had done, or He was evil and enjoyed watching her suffer. I had never heard anyone else admit to
feeling the things I had always felt. I decided to sit in on the lecture after all. I was going to listen to this woman with an open mind. Just maybe I, too, could get my angry questions answered. At least I was willing to listen for a change.”
Carol Anne picked up the dessert tray and, as she stepped through the back door, she turned and commented, “Susan, it was a wonderful retreat wasn’t it? I’m so thankful you finally found your answers, even though I wasn’t the one to give them to you.”
Susan stepped over to the sink for a glass of water before following her friend out back. She stood at the kitchen window and watched as the Thomas family huddled around the dessert tray, laughing, talking, and enjoying each other. If it hadn’t been for that retreat, she might never have been able to stand here knowing that this family was one of God’s ways of showing her just how much He did love her.
Now, almost two years later, she could remember every word shared at that retreat, and Susan allowed her mind to wander back to that wonderful weekend when her life truly began to change.
The Retreat
Dr. Stephanie Jacobson introduced herself, sharing some of her personal background. “I was the fourth daughter in a family of five children. I would describe my father as a working drunk, but in today’s kinder, gentler terms, he would be called an alcoholic. Our mother, on the other hand, would constantly belittle all of us girls, telling us how worthless we were and how none of us would ever amount to a hill of beans. Neither of our parents were capable of showing love, and I grew up in constant fear of my father.”
Dr. Jacobson had Susan’s full attention. She was talking about feelings that echoed her own. Dr. Jacobson moved from behind the speaker’s podium, pulled up a chair, and sat down. What she would share with these women was much too intimate to be shared from behind a podium. With a smile that warmed the group, Dr. Jacobson began. “If you women are anything like I was, just the title of my talk probably set your teeth on edge.”
Nervous giggles quickly washed across the group, giving Susan a sense of comfort as she thought, Well, I guess I’m not the only one.
Dr. Jacobson clearly understood the need to put the group at ease. After all, she hoped to shake loose some deeply rooted beliefs some here held onto, and she didn’t want formality to get in the way. Leaning slightly forward in her seat, as if sharing an important secret, Dr. Jacobson said, “If you were raised in an abusive home, more than likely you are sitting here tonight with deep-seated anger toward God. I know this because I was, too.”
With a gentle manner that drew everyone in, Dr. Jacobson began to share her story. “When I was little, I came to two very wrong conclusions that resulted in tremendous damage to me for many years. As a trained therapist, and myself a victim, I have counseled hundreds of adults who are struggling with the damaging effects of reaching these same incorrect conclusions. Children who grow up in hostile, unloving homes try to make some sense of their lives. Their conclusions are based on their ability to evaluate the world around them, and when that world is sick and distorted, their perceptions will likewise be distorted. When their mother or father is beating them, how can a young child understand that this is not happening because there is something wrong with them but that their parent is sick? Abused children must, in their young minds, find a reasonable explanation for what is happening to them. These so-called reasonable explanations can cause life-long damage to a child. This happened to me, and I’m sure the same has happened to some of you.”
The woman sitting next to Susan nudged her in the ribs and whispered, “She’s got that right. Both my parents were sick. That’s for sure.”
Susan smiled sympathetically but wished this woman would leave her alone. She didn’t want to be cold toward her, but she wanted to keep her wits about her, and if this woman was going to make comments on every point, she was going to make some excuse for moving to another seat. Susan returned her gaze to Dr. Jacobson and tried to focus on what she was saying.
“Ladies, the first wrong conclusion I came to as a very young child was ‘I must be bad. My parents are mean to me because I am bad. If I were good they would love me. All that is happening to me is my fault.’ Everything in my world proved that. I started believing this first lie about myself at a very young age, and though I don’t recall exactly how old I was, I do remember the day I said the words out loud.
“I was six years old and in the first grade. It was Christmastime, and my class was busy making decorations for the classroom. My teacher wanted each of us to write out our Christmas wish list, and our entire class was going to mail them to Santa Claus. I was only six, but I already knew better than to wish for very much, even from Santa.”
Susan’s heart immediately jumped to her throat at this comment. That’s exactly how I always felt. Struggling to control her emotions, Susan swallowed hard and learned forward in order to concentrate on Dr. Jacobson’s story.
“I finally put one small item on my paper, folded it, and timidly walked up to the teacher’s desk. I slipped it into the Santa mailbox. I remember how very long most of the other kids’ lists were. I knew our family didn’t have much money, and my mother was always yelling at my siblings and me, demanding we be grateful we had food on the table. This statement, by itself, was true. We did need to be grateful that we had food on the table and that we were not starving. The truth was, though, we were starving—just not for food.
“We all felt the sting of the anger and hatred in our mother’s voice. She wasn’t attempting to teach us; she was threatening us. The cruelty with which some parents deliver truth is unforgivable. I’m sure some of you in this room have memories that are equally as painful, perhaps even more so.”
Even at the tender age of sixteen, Susan had become quite adept at camouflaging her feelings, but this woman was speaking to her very soul. She felt almost undressed, as if protective layers she had carefully wrapped around her heart were being peeled away, leaving her vulnerable. She sat, unmoving, totally engrossed in the story.
Dr. Jacobson continued. “Well, Christmas day was fast approaching. My sisters and I didn’t expect much from our parents. That cold, harsh truth had been clearly and bitterly spelled out to us for weeks. But when you are six years old, and the whole world is telling you Santa exists, that he is coming with toys and presents for all the good little children, and well, at six, you still believe!
“I vividly remember that Christmas day. The day before, Mother had brought home a scraggly little tree the grocer had thrown out, and we decorated it with popcorn and paper stars. When we finished, Mother told us we would each have one present under the tree on Christmas morning and that we were to wait until she and Dad were up before opening our present.
“Our baby brother still slept with our parents, while my three sisters and I shared two double beds in the small loft at the top of the stairs. We four girls crawled into bed that night, imagining what might be in our package. We thought we would probably get new dolls; as a matter of fact, we were certain we would. I then confessed to my sisters that I had written a letter to Santa and that my teacher had mailed it. I assured them he would bring what I asked for, because I had only asked for one thing—a shiny pair of black shoes with taps on them. My sisters, not wanting to spoil my excitement and belief in Santa, kept quiet. I fell asleep that night, convinced Santa was coming with my new shoes.”
As Dr. Jacobson talked about her sisters, Susan couldn’t help but think of her own sister. Lisa would have tried to protect her, and a sudden and powerful sense of loneliness for Lisa overwhelmed her. Pushing down her emotion, she let Dr. Jacobson’s voice draw her back to the story.
“The next morning I anxiously and hopefully descended the stairs to discover that there were no shiny black shoes with taps, only the one present for each of us from our parents. Our mother had bought a dime-store Betsy Wetsy doll for each of us. I remember my sisters being all excited and showing each other their dolls, while I sat quietly, fighting back tears. Mother came over demanding to
know why I didn’t like my doll. Overcome with indescribable pain deep in my chest, I barely choked out I thought I was getting new shoes.
“Of course my mother had no idea what I was talking about, nor did she care. She angrily grumbled something about us kids never being grateful and then walked away. I stepped out onto the porch. It was bitter cold, and I was blanketed under a lifeless, gray sky, and I remember thinking, This is exactly how I feel.
“I wasn’t really old enough to put my feelings into words, but I understood how the air and sky reflected how I felt.
“I was six years old, and the only reasonable conclusion I could come to was I must be bad because even Santa won’t come to see me. I had asked for only one thing. While the other kids at school had asked for bikes and a lot of expensive toys, I had only asked for some new shoes. What terrible thing had I done that even Santa wouldn’t come to my house? I felt a deep sense of shame and guilt but didn’t know what I had done wrong. My only explanation was totally substantiated, as I reasoned this through. My parents treated me bad because I was bad. Santa didn’t bring me new shoes because I was bad. It was all my fault.”
Several side comments arose from the group regarding this conclusion. A few women near Susan began arguing the error of such thinking, so Susan took this opportunity to slip out of her seat and move to the back row. These silly quick responses from some of the women were beginning to frustrate Susan. She understood exactly what Dr. Jacobson was saying and knew how very true it was.
Wall of Silence Page 7