by Debra Moerke
“Okay,” Karen said cautiously.
“Were there times when William would bind Hannah and Andrew with duct tape and put them in the closet?”
Karen looked away, then said in a quiet voice, “Yeah . . . well . . . that happened . . . sometimes.” She looked down at the kitchen floor. “That was something that William started. I wasn’t in favor of it, but you don’t argue with William.”
Her response confirmed my fears. This wasn’t an isolated instance. This was a pattern—something that had happened repeatedly.
“Who told you?” Karen asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I said, “but it wasn’t any of the children.”
She didn’t push me to know more. Just then, Kyra came into the kitchen, so we changed the subject. I left a few minutes later, wondering what other secrets this family was keeping.
Now that I realized how severely Hannah and Andrew had suffered before being removed from their mother, I understood why their relationship with her was broken. This family’s secrets were far more sinister and dark than I’d first imagined.
The trust that should exist between mother and child had been shattered. Karen had violated her role as protector and nurturer of Hannah and Andrew. And because Kyle and Kyra had witnessed abuse of the younger children with the willing compliance of their mother, Karen had severely damaged their understanding of the value of their siblings. All four children had repeatedly seen their mother welcome this threatening, menacing, and vengeful man into their home, tolerate his behavior, and silently go along with it.
I was weighed down by so many questions now. If William’s control over Karen had been so powerful, was she being successful now at staying away from him? When the children were with their mother, did they worry that William would show up unexpectedly? Was this what frightened Hannah and Andrew? Could this be why they came home moody and sullen? How had William’s influence twisted and damaged Karen’s ability to love and nurture them? Was she capable of treating Hannah and Andrew in a healthy, loving way?
I recalled several times when Karen initially acted with kindness to all of the children, but then changed her treatment of Hannah. Karen would first make Hannah laugh, but then her expression would become intimidating. Hannah’s smile would vanish, and she would become reserved with her head down. I never knew what was going on between the two of them, but it wasn’t good.
All four children were well behaved, but guarded with their mother. It was as if they didn’t know where the line of true affection and indifference was drawn. The unspoken clues to figure that out appeared to be different for Hannah and Andrew than for Kyle and Kyra.
I now had a much clearer understanding of how to pray for the Bower kids. Hannah and Andrew needed healing from their past abuse and courage during the unsupervised visits with their mother. They needed Karen to develop a consistent bond of trust with them that they could count on. Kyle and Kyra needed to realize that their mother’s treatment of their younger siblings was wrong; instead, they should show empathy and treat Hannah and Andrew lovingly. It was important that our family model this for them in every way that we could.
My prayers for Karen included new requests as well—that God would keep her away from William and any other evil influence, that she would recognize the wrongness of her past actions, and that she would develop a nurturing heart. I decided to invite Karen to church again, not just as a way for her to see her children, but also so she might learn of Jesus and his love for her.
I was grateful to the Lord that he had shown me long ago how to handle my bedtime prayers for the children we fostered. When I became a new Christian, I heard a powerful sermon on “honor thy mother and thy father.” As a result, Al and I had committed to teach our own children to honor us as their parents, but meditating on that sermon made me realize there was some work I needed to do in my own heart. There were things for which I had not forgiven my parents. They may not have been big, horrendous things, but they were unresolved in my heart. Over time and with much prayer I’d learned to forgive and honor them.
Al and I believed we had a spiritual responsibility to teach our foster children how to honor their parents, but early on we struggled with that. How could these children who had been neglected or abused honor their parents? After much soul-searching, we decided we could explain that abuse is wrong and that parents aren’t supposed to hurt their children, but we could also ask God to change them. When I prayed with each child at night, whichever children we had, I would name their parents, asking God to watch over them and to turn their hearts to him, to work in their lives and help them to be better parents. I prayed for the children to want to honor and respect their parents.
Committing our foster children and their parents to God and giving up any control I may have thought I had in their lives was often a wrestling match I would have with God. I knew, just like with my own family, I had to surrender them into the Father’s hands. Only he knew their hearts. Only he knew their needs. My power to protect any of them was limited.
One night, soon after learning about William’s abuse of Hannah and Andrew, I said these words at Hannah’s bedside. “Dear Jesus, thank you that you love Hannah and want only the best for her. We pray for her mommy, Karen. Watch over her and help her to be a better mommy. Help her make sure that no one ever hurts Hannah again. And help Hannah to be able to tell someone if anything bad or scary happens to her. Let Hannah know that you are always with her and that you love her. Amen.”
Chapter 5The Bridge
KYRA AND HANNAH SAT next to me in the front seat of the pickup truck as I turned onto the highway, still wet from the early morning April snow. I was driving them to a friend’s house to play. The sun sparkled on the road ahead as I approached the bridge. The dreaded bridge. It always reminded me of the accident. We had to cross it in order to reach the rural, sage-covered land where their friend lived.
In spite of the traumatic memory, I smiled, knowing that the bridge story was a favorite of all the kids. I loved to tell a good family story, and I certainly didn’t have to embellish this one to capture their imaginations. I expected to be asked to retell it now and was not disappointed. But I wasn’t expecting the profound exchange it sparked—an exchange that would take on far deeper meaning in the months to come.
“Show us where you hit the bridge,” six-year-old Kyra said with a sense of mystery and excitement when the rusty old structure came into view.
“Yeah. Show us Debwa,” added Hannah, now five. Both the girls had had their birthdays in late March.
I stopped a few feet before the bridge. “It was there.” I pointed to the spot of first impact, surprised that my stomach still churned at the memory. It had been a little over a year since my accident, and though I’d crossed the bridge many times since, it seemed like only yesterday.
Helen, eleven when the accident occurred, had been packed and ready to go for thirty minutes and was pacing the living room floor waiting for me to drive her to a friend’s slumber party. Al had offered to drive, but knowing he was exhausted from his long work hours that week I’d insisted he stay home. Besides, he’d hardly seen the kids all week, and this would give him a chance to relax with them. Minutes before Helen and I headed out the door, however, Al leaned against the doorframe, hands in his jeans pockets, filling the kitchen doorway. “I know the snow has stopped, but the roads will be bad. You’re not taking Bessemer Bend Bridge, are you?” he asked.
I laid the dish towel on the counter and peered out the window over the sink. True, the snow had stopped falling, but the temperature hadn’t. I knew this was no evening to be out, but Helen had been anticipating the party for days. “I’ll be fine. Taking Bessemer is so much shorter.”
“The bridge will be slick. It’s not a good idea.”
“I’ll be careful. If I don’t take it, I’ll have to drive twice as far, all the way to Robertson Road Bridge. The shorter the drive, the better. I can handle the bridge, Al.”
Al a
pproached me from behind, his slippers flopping noisily against the linoleum. I turned to face the concerned look in his eyes. “Really, I’ll be fine. I’ll take it slow. I just don’t want to be out there all evening.”
“You know I don’t feel good about you going that way. You have no control on ice.” His hands rested on my shoulders as he looked directly into my eyes. After a long pause, he pulled me into the fold of his arms and whispered, “You can be so stubborn.”
“I . . . will . . . be . . . careful,” I whispered with confidence.
After wrestling on coats, mittens, and crocheted hats, Helen and I gathered her sleeping bag, pillow, and backpack.
“Don’t worry!” My closing assurance to Al echoed through the mudroom before I headed for the van, surrounded by a mound of snow in the driveway.
Helen helped me brush the snow off the front and side windows of the van, and then we climbed inside. Knowing the engine would take a few minutes to warm up, I tucked my hands between my knees and waited. Helen pushed her sleeping bag to the floorboard to cover her feet, then wrapped her pillow across her pink cheeks, creating a warm mask by breathing into it.
“How much below zero is it, Mom?”
My teeth chattering, I pointed to the minus seven on the dashboard thermometer.
Finally, we were on our way. We followed our split rail fence down Goose Egg Road as far as our ten acres extended. Once the dirt road met up with the blacktop, I turned right, crossed the slick pipes of the cattle guard, then turned left onto Highway 220. Slushy snow mixed with sand beat against the tires until we took the Bessemer exit. Rumbling across the pipes of another cattle crossing, I slowed to a snail’s pace until we rolled onto the packed snow on Bessemer Road.
Finally, the heater began to warm what felt like a freezer on wheels. Slivers of brilliant orange now peeked over the horizon as the moon ascended above the prairie. I could see the silhouettes of livestock following us along the road, and chimney smoke drifting from the tops of the little country houses spread across the range. The steel trusses of the bridge loomed ahead over the North Platte River. I tapped my brakes lightly and gripped the steering wheel, Al’s words of caution in my mind. The van glided over the bridge’s wooden planks with a soft rumbling sound. Within seconds we were on snow-covered gravel once again.
“No problem.” I grinned, pleased at my safe crossing and how much time I’d saved by choosing this route.
A halfmile from her friend’s home, Helen began folding her sleeping bag, now cozy and warm from the heat. The crossing at Poison Spider Road where Helen’s friend lived was dark and deserted. Only a dim yellow porch light flickered as we pulled up to the front door.
“Love you, Mom.” Helen leaned toward me to receive my kiss on her forehead. I chuckled as I watched her make her way toward the front door, her boots sinking into the deep snow as she wrestled with her sleeping bag that had unfolded and was dragging behind her. Her friend greeted Helen at the door and waved at me, signaling I could leave.
“See you tomorrow,” I mouthed through the glass.
Only a whisper of wind responded. The van’s tires crunched on the snow-covered road as I began to retrace my route toward home. I was pleased with myself. I’d made it across both the bridge and the prairie the first time without mishap. The van was toasty, so I relaxed in the leather seat.
Al will have a cozy fire waiting for me. I can’t wait to get home and chat with him. I hope the children have been behaving.
Mesmerized by the moon’s reflection on the water, my thoughts drifted as I rounded the river and headed back toward the bridge, paying little attention to the road.
Approaching the bridge from the north now, I had to maneuver a curve along the twisted river bend. Coming off the curve, I tapped my brakes and rolled forward. The front wheels touched the bridge, then whisshh . . . from out of nowhere blowing snow swirled across the windshield, temporarily blinding me. I tensed and tightened my grip on the wheel.
The front wheels of the van refused to go the direction I steered. A sudden unexpected oomph grabbed at the rear of the vehicle, swaying it back and forth. Then the van whipped sideways.
Ice!
My grip on the wheel intensified. My knees locked.
The van started to spin, and my foot slid off the accelerator. Hurtling uncontrollably toward the guardrail, I braced for impact.
Oh God, don’t let me go into the river, I thought, seeing the icy waters rush below me.
I only had time for one quick breath before the van slammed headlong into the rusty steel framework of the bridge. I screamed as I heard the glass of the headlights break with the crashing blow. The sound of metal cracked and crunched around me like a pop can being crushed. The van bounced off the guardrail into a spin that propelled me toward the opposite side. The bridge, with its steel arms towering over me, looked threatening as I careened into the other rail with a wretched blow. My head slammed into the side window.
Time seemed to slow down, but the van did not. My body lurched against my seat belt with each thrash, and it tightened, cutting into my abdomen and hips. The van jerked me violently upward, and my knees banged the steering wheel. Once again the van slid across the bridge and collided with the opposite side. The bridge wrestled me, twisted me, thrashed me about, and again threatened to toss me into the icy river below. With each spin and collision, I could see the moon’s reflection on the frigid swirling waters not far below.
“Dear Jesus, please don’t let the side rails break. Don’t let my van go into the river. Please, please, please.” There was a horrible screeching sound, and sparks flew as the side of the van scraped the guardrail. I let go of the wheel and covered my eyes.
If I don’t watch, maybe it will all end.
The van hurled sideways again, then jerked to an abrupt stop. I spread my fingers enough to peer through them to see where I had landed. My vision blurry, I shook my head and blinked a few times.
I was free from the bridge, having been spit out the south side onto Bessemer Road, finally out of danger of being propelled into the water. Though the van had stopped, my insides continued to spin as nausea flooded over me. I gasped to breathe. My heart hammered, clawing to escape my chest.
When my eyes focused, I saw a flickering light on the ground ahead of me—a dislodged headlight was swaying back and forth. Other than the thudding of my heart and a dull hissing from under the hood, the van was silent. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Jesus.” I rested my face in the palms of my sweaty, trembling hands.
“Al warned me.” I took a deep breath, and with gentle caution pressed the accelerator, hoping the van would roll forward. The engine revved. Metal groaned and . . . movement! I coaxed the van away from the bridge.
“Thank you for saving me, Lord.”
Part of me wanted to sit and wait until my hands stopped trembling and my heart stopped thundering, but home was less than half a mile away and I was afraid the van would die, leaving me stranded, so I kept moving. As the Toyota inched its way to Highway 220, spasms climbed my spine. My legs were in pain and my head throbbed.
What has my pride cost us?
Had I totaled the van? Even if it was reparable (which seemed unlikely) and the insurance covered most of the repairs, we’d have added expenses to pay. While the van was in the body shop, Al would need to help carpool the kids in the pickup, interrupting his workday. I’d be stuck with the older banged-up pickup we called the Skunk Truck. That alone would be humbling.
I crept along at twenty miles per hour. When I reached the house, I sat for a moment before turning off the engine. I couldn’t go back and change what had happened. I could only hope I would find grace ahead. Shifting into park, I turned the key. The engine whined and sputtered to a pathetic stop.
As I pushed against the battered door, the hinges creaked. Closing the door cautiously, I took a deep breath and let myself into the house. I heard the TV in the family room.
Al was sitting in his overstuffed leather recliner;
the wood-burning stove was ablaze.
“Hey, hon! How were the roads?”
I stood in the middle of the family room.
“So . . . what’s up? Everything okay?”
“No. Not really.” Sucking in a corner of my bottom lip, I bit down, then mumbled, “Uh . . . you need to come see.”
I took Al’s hand and led him to the door. The garage light illuminated the wreckage, its wounds accentuated by an array of fluids leaking from the undercarriage.
Al stared. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Banged up, but I’m okay.”
“You took Bessemer Bridge, didn’t you?”
I rested my head against his shoulder. “I am so sorry. Please forgive me for not listening to you.” The tears flowed uncontrollably down my cheeks.
Still holding my hand, Al wiped my tears with his free hand. “I am thankful that you’re safe. That’s what matters.” He then pulled me to his chest and wrapped his arms around me.
As I finished telling the girls the story, my heart full of the thoughts of the gentle grace of my husband, Kyra and Hannah pushed up against their seat belts to see over the dashboard. Kyra stretched as far as she could to study the rushing water below. After peeking, Hannah, however, quickly sat back in her seat with a pensive, worried expression on her face.
“What if the bridge broke and your car went into the water?” Hannah asked.
“Jesus would have taken care of me, Hannah.”
The name Jesus was by now familiar to all the Bower children. They’d grown accustomed to bedtime prayers, praying together at meals, and attending our church. The love of Jesus was shared in our home and we spoke of him often. He was a part of our family.
Hannah seemed to study my face for a more convincing answer. “But Debwa, what if your car went in the water and the water started to come in through the windows?”
“Jesus would have been there with me and would have taken care of me.”