“Oh, nooooo,” her mother said, covering her face and now weeping. “Lord, God, no. Sweetie, I didn’t know, and I’m so sorry.”
“Baby, she’s lying,” her father said. “I don’t know why, but she is.”
“You…make…me…sick,” she said, and then kicked him in his side with her sharply-pointed-toe, three-inch heels.
He bellowed loudly, but her mother kicked him again. And again. And again. She kicked and stomped him in his stomach. She kicked him in his head and also in every other spot her foot randomly landed, and while his moans had now become pretty faint and he seemed nearly unconscious, she wouldn’t stop. She kicked and stomped him until her shoe finally flew off.
“Sweetie, I need you to go up to your room, okay?” her mother instructed, breathing fast and visibly, but also in a calm and strange sort of way.
“Mom, no, I don’t want to,” Jillian said, begging to stay right where she was because she knew if she left her mother alone with her father, he would figure out the right kind of lies to tell her and would convince her mother of just how sorry he was. He would tell her everything he thought she wanted to hear, and her mother would forgive him before sundown.
Her mother hugged her for longer than normal. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I need you to go upstairs now.”
Tears fell down Jillian’s face, but she did what she was told. However, when she made it to the stairway and heard her mother say, “I’m going to make sure you never hurt either of my daughters ever again,” Jillian ran back into the kitchen.
She gasped when she saw her mother kneeling down, picking up the knife, and raising it high above her head.
“Mom, no!” Jillian hollered, and she could tell she’d startled her mother out of some sort of trance. “Mom, please, let’s just wait for the police to get here. Please, Mom.”
Her mother gazed at her, then looked back down at her husband, then back at her daughter again, and finally dropped the knife onto the floor, sobbing.
Jillian replayed the entire tragedy three different times before her thoughts moved on to the next phase of the evening, which was all the questioning the detective had taken her through. The tall, silver-haired man had wanted to know everything, from what time she’d gotten home from school to what time her father had arrived to how they’d ended up in the kitchen. The detective had made a lot of inquiries, and Jillian’s mother had encouraged her to answer all of them and to tell the truth, but Jillian had frozen up when he’d begun asking her about the abuse—such as how long it had been going on, how often it took place in any given week, and what exactly he had made her do with him. They’d wanted to know everything from A to Z, and Jillian hadn’t wanted to talk about it. But when she’d seen that there would be no letting up, she’d told them all that they’d wanted to know. About the fondling, about the oral sex, about the photos, and how as of today, her father had decided it was time for them to make love. Jillian could tell how devastated her mother was, partly because she hadn’t stopped crying in over an hour, but mostly because of the drained and shattered look on her face. Of course, Jillian had felt the same way, but at the same time, she’d also felt relieved. She was glad that the heavy burden she’d been carrying for so long had been lifted from her.
That is, until the detective had wanted to know who else she’d told about all of this. “Did you tell any of your family members?” he’d asked. “Like maybe your grandparents? Or how about a close friend? Or maybe even a teacher or neighbor?”
Jillian had listened to him but had said nothing because she knew she hadn’t told anyone. She knew there were only three people who knew about every single incident—her, her father, and God—so if they needed witnesses to corroborate her story, then she’d known she was in a whole lot of trouble.
But then, as she sat thinking, she remembered something. Her journal. The same journal she’d written in for weeks now—the same journal she never would have started had Mrs. Peterson, her English teacher, not encouraged her to do so.
“Honey, are you okay?” her mother asked, and Jillian’s attention returned to the present.
“Yes,” she said, sitting up in her bed.
Her mom sat down on the side of it. “I just don’t know what else to say, except I’m sorry. I feel so naïve and so bad about not protecting you, because it’s a mother’s job to protect her children.”
“But you didn’t know, Mom. You didn’t know because Daddy never did any of that stuff when you were home.”
“Still. I’ll never be able to forgive myself because if I hadn’t married him, he never could have hurt you like that. And you never would have had to defend yourself the way you did this afternoon.”
“But I didn’t mean to hurt Daddy. Honest, I didn’t.”
“I know, honey.”
“Do you think they’re going to make me go back to jail?”
“No, and that’s why when they took you down to the station this evening, they never even put you in a cell and they let me bail you out right away.”
“But I’ll still have to go to court, won’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, I’m so scared, because what if they send me to prison?”
“Your attorney is going to do the best he can for us, and we’re just going to pray and believe that God will take care of everything.”
Jillian would do just that, the same as always, but then she paused and changed the subject. “Mom, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Honey, what is it?”
“There were a couple of times when Daddy threatened to start having special times with Layla, if I didn’t do what he wanted.”
Her mother sighed and looked toward the ceiling.
“But I don’t think he did. I think he was just saying that to upset me.”
“Either way, I’ll have to sit Layla down and ask her.”
“Are you going to let her come home tomorrow?”
“I think so, and thank God I had already asked your grandparents to pick her up from school again today, because if they hadn’t, she would have been with me when I got home.”
“I’m glad, too, Mom, because I wouldn’t have been able to stand having Layla see what I did.”
“None of what happened is your fault, though, sweetie, and don’t you ever forget that. No man has any right to do any of those horrible things, and there’s not a child on this earth who deserves something like that.”
Jillian thought about Nikki and how Nikki had gone through some of the same things she had, but she was too exhausted to tell her mother about any of that tonight.
But there was one other thing she did want to talk about.
“Mom, will Daddy be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he lives, do you think he’ll go to prison for what he did?”
“Definitely. I can promise you that for sure.”
Jillian hugged her mom and hoped she was right.
Her mother hugged her back with such intensity that Jillian could barely breathe.
Finally, she released Jillian and looked at her. Then she broke into tears and grabbed Jillian back into her arms again. “Honey, I am so, so sorry I don’t know what to do. You and Layla are my life, and just the thought of what Byron did to you makes me wish I’d killed him. I wish I’d killed him when I had the chance.”
“But then, Mom, instead of him, you would have been the one to go to prison. And then Layla and I wouldn’t have any parents at all.”
“You’re right, baby. But this is all just so hard to swallow. I’m so hurt and so angry at myself for not seeing what was happening. Right here in my own house.”
“But it’s going to be okay now,” Jillian said, caressing her mother’s back. “Layla and I will be safe because Daddy won’t be here anymore.”
Her mother continued holding her and for the first time in years, Jillian felt at peace and like she finally had a reason to smile again—without faking it.
Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
It has taken a little while, but thankfully, life for Mom, Layla, and me has gotten back to normal. I did end up having to answer to an assault with a deadly weapon charge but shortly after all the testimony, my journal entries, and all the other evidence had been presented from both sides, a very kind and understanding female judge in juvenile court sentenced me to a six-month supervised probation—which ended effective today. She told me how sorry she was that I’d had to experience such significant trauma at the hands of my father and that she was glad I wouldn’t have to live through that same trauma again in a full-fledged trial setting. Then, if that wasn’t blessing enough, even the prosecutor offered to expunge my record as long as I didn’t get into any trouble. I hadn’t been exactly sure of what the word “expunge” meant, but my attorney said it meant that from this day on, there would be no court record outlining what I’d done to my father. My mom was extremely happy about that and so were my grandparents. I was excited about it, too, because the last thing I wanted was for something so awful to follow me into adulthood.
Sadly, though, while everything did turn out pretty well for me, they didn’t go so well for my father, who, ironically, didn’t have to suffer through an actual trial either but was sentenced to twenty years with no chance of early parole. But in all honesty, he would have gotten a lot more time than that had he not changed his plea of innocence to a guilty one, something he did very quickly when he realized no jury was going to go easy on him. It was one thing for him to have to answer to the four child sexual exploitation charges relating to me, including the one that focused on those naked photos he’d taken, but it was a whole other when that Deanna girl he’d been having the affair with at work had come forward. She’d heard about my father being stabbed and then arrested, and as soon as she’d learned why, she’d contacted my mom and then came over to see us. To Mom’s and my surprise, we recognized Deanna as soon as we laid eyes on her—we recognized her because just a little over five years ago and just before Layla was born, “Dee Dee” would sometimes come babysit me when my parents went out to dinner. She was the same Dee Dee who’d gone to our church, and the one my father had sexually molested for more than a year—the one he’d taken advantage of whenever she would finish babysitting and he would give her a ride home. Worse, Daddy had actually gotten her pregnant back then, when she was only thirteen, but then gave her money and convinced her to have an abortion. This, of course, now explained exactly why he’d been in such a hurry for us to leave Mount Shiloh and move on to a new congregation. That was the first church we’d joined, right after he and Mom had gotten married, so I couldn’t help wondering if we’d ended up leaving our last church for the same reason. I wondered if maybe there was yet another young girl he might have had sex with, and maybe something bad had resulted from it. What I wondered more than anything, though, was why Dee Dee had started being with Daddy all over again, five years after the fact, and had allowed herself to get pregnant a second time. She was now six months along, and the reason she said she’d sent Mom that letter was because she’d really been hoping Daddy would leave Mom, so she and him could be together. Dee Dee had apologized repeatedly to Mom, but in the end, Mom had told her how she was the one who was sorry for all that Dee Dee had been through as a child.
But regardless of what we might never find out about him, I was just glad that Daddy was gone. As a matter of fact, sometimes I felt such tiny remorse about forcing that knife inside his stomach, I found myself being consumed with shame and guilt—I felt bad for not feeling the kind of sorrow and regret that maybe I should be feeling. I also felt pretty bad for Layla, who missed him terribly, but at least, according to her, he hadn’t touched her in private places. That was the good news, and my hope was that she was telling the truth and not trying to hide anything the way I had out of humiliation and fear.
So, all in all, I was doing better than expected and so was Nikki, who I’m happy to say found out she wasn’t pregnant and who was finally receiving the kind of love and understanding she needed from her mom. When she got out of the hospital, though, I told her everything about my father, and she gave me more specifics about her situation, too. We talked a lot, and I was also glad to be attending the support group sessions at the hospital with her one night a week and then counseling with my doctor on Thursdays. At first, I hadn’t thought I needed any of that, but with everyone at school discovering what I’d done to my father and then talking about it, both in my face and behind my back, just like they’d done to Nikki, I knew therapy was a good thing. It was necessary, and it was also helping me deal with all the flashbacks I kept having—flashbacks relating to the stabbing and those relating to that hideous relationship I’d been in with my father. Sometimes my strongest memories of him appeared so brightly and boldly, I had to frequently remind myself that he could no longer hurt me.
So, yes, therapy was definitely making a huge difference for both Nikki and me, and it was teaching us so many other things as well. Such as why we and so many millions of other kids just don’t tell. Why we keep such deep dark secrets to ourselves and pretend nothing bad is happening to us. Why some abused children, as they grow older, react one way and some act completely different—why some girls like Nikki can’t wait to have sex with as many boys as possible and why girls like me are so distraught on the inside that the idea of having sex with any boy is enough to make them cringe. Therapy was also teaching us that without proper counseling, some of those same feelings could even follow us into womanhood and end up making our lives completely miserable. This, of course, reminded me of something I’d heard my mother say for years, “Your childhood, good or bad, will affect you for the rest of your life.” But then I was also reminded of another saying she had, too. “For everything bad that happens, something good always comes out of it.”
For some reason, I truly believe in that saying and will be reciting it to myself, over and over, for as long as I live.
Because if I do, I know I’ll have a promising chance at being okay.
I’ll have a great chance at being just as happy as the next person.
I’ll be able to hold my head high and do everything I can to live my life to the fullest.
Author’s Note
While A Deep Dark Secret is a fictional story, childhood sexual abuse is a very serious problem in this country and one we all need to pay a lot more attention to. The statistics are devastating, and just to give you at least somewhat of an idea of how alarming these numbers are, I have listed a few of them below.
1 in 4 girls is sexually abused before age 18
1 in 6 boys is sexually abused before age 18
More than 20 percent of children are sexually abused before the age of 8
Only 10 percent are abused by strangers (meaning the other 90 percent are abused by a close family member right in their own home or by some other family member or person they know and trust)
Most perpetrators don’t molest only one child if they are not reported and stopped
30 percent of victims never disclose the experience to anyone
An estimated 39 million survivors of childhood sexual abuse exist in America today
Source: www.darkness2light.org
It is true that I do not know firsthand what it is like to experience the exact same situations that Jillian Maxwell experienced, but sadly, I do know what it is like to have an adult touch me inappropriately when I was a child. I also know what it feels like to go years without telling another living soul, so my greatest hope is that this novella will enhance public awareness and that it will encourage all victims, both surviving and current, to finally get the help they need—it is my hope that every person reading this will become much more conscious of what might be happening to children in his or her own household, church, school, and neighborhood.
If you suspect any child is being sexually abused or you would like help in dealing with what may have happened to you during your own chil
dhood, please call 1–866-FOR-LIGHT.
Acknowledgments
TO GOD FOR ALL THE COUNTLESS BLESSINGS YOU HAVE GIVEN my family and me and for your unwavering guidance.
To my heart and joy—my husband, Will. I love you so very much, and thank you for everything.
Much love to my wonderful brothers, Willie Jr. and Michael Stapleton, and the rest of my loving family members (I always end up leaving out someone, so I won’t list every name, but if you share the same bloodline as I do or the same bloodline as Will does, then you are the family members I’m talking about!); my first cousin, Patricia Haley, who I grew up side by side with the same as if we were sisters; the women who are more like sisters than friends: Kelli Bullard, Lori Thurman, Janell Green, and Victoria Christopher Murray; and my writer friends: E. Lynn Harris, Trisha R. Thomas, Eric Jerome Dickey, Mary B. Morrison, Eric Pete, Cheryl Robinson, Lolita Files, and ReShonda Tate Billingsley.
To my amazing assistant, Connie Dettman; my incredible agent, Elaine Koster; my new editor, Carrie Feron, for such great advice on this novella; my very supportive publisher, William Morrow/Avon; every bookseller and retailer that sells my books; and all the people in radio, TV, and print who publicize my work to the masses. Thank you for all that you’ve done for me for so many years now.
Then, last but certainly not least, to my very caring and very loyal readers—thank you for all the love and support you always give and know that I love each of you from the very bottom of my soul.
Much love and God bless you always,
Kimberla Lawson Roby
About the Author
KIMBERLA LAWSON ROBY is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed novels The Best of Everything, One in a Million, Sin No More, Love and Lies, Changing Faces, The Best-Kept Secret, Too Much of a Good Thing, A Taste of Reality, Behind Closed Doors, Here and Now, Casting the First Stone, and It’s a Thin Line. She lives with her husband in Illinois.
A Deep Dark Secret Page 14