A Serial Killer’s Daughter

by Kerri Rawson

  I still had a lot of hurt inside me, and I should’ve stayed in therapy to keep removing the pain. But I didn’t have it in me to keep going. I couldn’t handle dissecting myself and holding my pregnancy together at the same time. I left therapy after writing my father for the first time in two years.

  August 8, 2007

  Dear Dad,

  I know it’s been a very long time since I’ve written.

  I didn’t write because I was very angry about your “social contacts” and “pawns in your game” comments at your sentencing, among many other things. Your words and actions have hurt, and I’m still conflicted on how much contact I want to have with you.

  You were a good Dad most of the time and raised us well, and we do not know what to believe—who you were to us, or who you were to others. Maybe you were trying to protect us in court when you made those harsh comments. I don’t really know. You could’ve chosen to leave us at any time, but you didn’t. You took care of us, did things with us, so I hope you really didn’t mean what you said.

  Mom chooses not to write you because she cannot have you be a part of her life anymore. She reads your letters though, and I don’t think she minds hearing from you. I do not know why other family and friends do not write, but you need to respect their decision to not communicate. Everyone handles things differently.

  Grandma Dorothea is fading more every month; she has lost a lot of her memory and is unable to write. It is hard to get her out of the home now, so I don’t think she will be able to visit you again.

  Brian is doing well and underway until late fall.

  Darian and I found out two weeks ago that we’re expecting our first child! I am due in the spring. We are making plans for the future and all our family is excited.

  I was glad to hear you have a Bible and you are studying it. Philippians is my favorite book, Paul wrote it from prison, and I think it might bring you some comfort. I know God forgives all sins; all you need to do is ask.

  It’s not your fault if you were abused or hurt as a child, but you’re still responsible for your actions as an adult regardless of what may or may not have happened to you.

  I’m coming to terms with a lot that has transpired these past two years. I’m starting to move on or “come back” to who I was before.

  I have been enjoying watching the birds at our home. We had 18 different species visit our birdfeeder this summer. I have your bird books to identify them with, and several of your camping and hiking books.

  I also planted flowers in hanging and patio boxes this summer. Some of them are doing better than others; this is my first-year planting flowers, and I’m still learning what grows best here. I planted mine a little early, even in the summer, it can get cool here in the evenings.

  I will try to write again soon.

  Love,

  Kerri

  Not long after I sent the letter letting Dad know I was expecting, something deep within me shifted, and I decided to protect my unborn child like both our lives depended on it. I covered my growing belly with my hands as I thought about my dad, and the pain seared straight through to my uterus—where I felt slight, fluttering kicks of hope.

  Dad murdered Nancy Fox when Mom was three months pregnant with me. Dad murdered part of a family: a father, mother, and two children. Orphaning three children. Dad murdered three mothers in front of their children. Daughters, sisters, mothers, grandmothers.

  Seven families destroyed. And my family too.

  Unable (again) to wrap my head around what my dad did, I cut off all communication with him.

  CHAPTER 43

  Laugh or Cry to Survive

  AUGUST 2007

  Over the past six months, I’d grown to trust my therapist and the steady process of directed healing—enough that I willingly unbandaged my wounds.

  My mind was healed from the worst of my PTSD and my night terrors lessened. My chest was less compressed; my stomach no longer ached. I was walking a little taller, a little straighter. But with the baby growing inside me, I wanted to securely wrap the remaining pain within me and set it far away from the increasing signs of life I was feeling.

  I was shutting down again after we worked so hard in therapy.

  Come back some other time—I have a baby inside me, and my dad’s insanity ain’t coming anywhere near her.

  The baby was just a tiny peanut, but that peanut was mine, and I loved him or her fiercely. I’d do anything to protect the baby—even from myself. And my heart was hardening again toward my father—I didn’t want Mom to mail his latest letter. “Hold it,” I told her. “I’ll read it next time I’m home. Maybe.”

  My father left me—he had forsaken me. His baby girl. But God had taught me in the canyon—and told me repeatedly since—I will never leave you nor forsake you.1 And I was his daughter too. God had been with me from the very beginning, before I was knitted in my mother’s womb.2

  My earthly father had left me. But God, my Father up above, had never left. He had always been right by my side—through all of it. Even when my heart was hard, shut down, and far from forgiving my father.

  SEPTEMBER

  Life was expanding exponentially since we joined our church. Dad and what we endured was still one side. But new friends, lunch on Sundays with a group from the couples’ class, and my growing belly were now on the other side. Though trying to walk in faith, being in community after Dad, after trauma, after grief, was like putting on new clothes that didn’t comfortably fit yet.

  Our friends back home, who knew Darian and me before my dad’s arrest, knew what we endured. We didn’t have to explain it to them, didn’t have to tell them our backstory. Didn’t have to answer odd questions. They just held it, walking alongside us.

  It was harder with people coming into our lives in Michigan. There was a learning curve on how to share about my father. On whether to mention him at all.

  * * *

  SURVIVOR’S TIP:

  What not to say to someone who is suffering:

  •This is God’s will for your life.

  •God will only give you what you can handle.

  •You need to pray more.

  •You must be sinning.

  •You need to stop living in the past.

  •Everything happens for a reason!

  •Choose hope!

  * * *

  Darian said later: “There are two kinds of friends. The kind when we told them about Kerri’s dad, they’d say, ‘That’s super weird, but it doesn’t change the way we think about you guys.’ And then there’s the other kind, who perhaps think this thing defines you.”3 The ones who accepted us for ourselves were a gift of grace from God.

  Early on, it was often easier to say nothing. Or remain vague during prayer request time instead of dropping a bombshell on a table of women gathered on Tuesdays doing a six-week Bible study. Especially when you were new, already felt like you stuck out like the oddest sort of Christian, and, in our huge church, wouldn’t necessarily run into these women again.

  At the most, I’d say, “I’m not in contact with my father, estranged is the word, I think.” If asked why, I’d answer, “Oh, he’s in prison.” I’d get the perplexed grief face—the one folks do at funerals. They’d say, “I’m sorry,” and stop asking questions. If they kept asking, they might have gotten tumbling-out answers they likely hadn’t wanted in the first place.

  Other times, it was hard to hold back when I wanted to shout to the rafters, “I’m not okay!” In one group, a woman shared that the worst day of her life had been due to a broken dishwasher flooding her kitchen. I left the room quickly, hoping I could reach the restroom before the tears rolled down. I could have shared about the worst day of my life, but where would I even begin?

  On braver days, I would say, “I’ve been through some hard things I wasn’t sure I’d survive, but God did and is seeing me through.” I noticed even that little bit of testimony would resonate with the people around whatever table I was at.

&
nbsp; OCTOBER

  In the fall, we moved to a bigger apartment within the same complex after realizing we needed more room with the baby coming. It had its own entrance and a large picture window Hammy loved to look out of.

  We had our eighteen-week ultrasound, but our baby wouldn’t cooperate to show us the goods. So we went with neutrals: Darian painted the nursery golden yellow, put up large Winnie-the-Pooh stickers on the walls, and hung moon-and-star lamps.

  In October, my grandma Dorothea died. I was sad she wouldn’t get to meet her great-grandbaby. It was hard to lose her, but I was thankful she wasn’t suffering anymore. She was now at peace and with Grandpa.

  I decided to be brave and talk about my dad with our couples’ small group at our last Sunday-evening gathering before Christmas. My voice shook slightly, and I glanced at the carpet a lot, but I let these people more fully into our lives.

  One of my all-time favorite photos is from Christmas Day 2007: lounging on Aunt Sharon’s couch in my red turtleneck maternity sweater, lying up against my mom, my hands on my expanding belly. Uncle John was staying with Darian’s folks, and I laughed, seeing him down on the floor losing tug-of-war to their dog, Skipper.

  On our way back to Michigan, Darian and I were delayed at O’Hare. In the terminal, I propped my swollen feet up on the chair across from me, sipped a latte, and delightedly watched my belly move.

  MARCH 2008

  “So, uh, I’ve got to go to the hospital.” It was early March, and I was standing in my OB’s parking lot, wigging out on the phone with Darian. The baby wasn’t due for three weeks, but I was showing signs of preeclampsia.

  I battled all-day sickness early on and gestational diabetes the past few months. In the early months, all the good foods made me throw up. In the late months, all the good foods made my sugars high. It was a lousy way to be pregnant.

  I spent a good part of my third trimester on the couch craving carbs, watching Friends episodes on DVD, and figuring out a name for the baby, who liked rolling in my tummy like an acrobat. I survived the last weeks with doctors’ orders to lie on my left side as much as I could, with the baby now kicking me square in the ribs.

  “Do I need to go with you to the hospital?” Poor man, whose wife made the oddest, most abrupt phone calls.

  “Uh, yeah. There could be a baby today. We need to take my bag with us.”

  “Oh! On my way!”

  We grabbed my bag and pillows, told Hammy we would see him soon, went through the Arby’s drive-through and then on to the hospital. (Survivor’s tip: if the last meal you are going to eat outside of hospital food for a week is Arby’s, rethink your life choices.)

  When we reached labor and delivery, my blood pressure was so high they almost delivered via C-section. But I talked them into letting me lie on my left side to see if I could get my numbers lower. It worked.

  There were times I wished I let them do the C.

  I’d studied my five-hundred-page pregnancy book intently over the past months but was still taken aback by having to stay in the hospital for an extended period, constantly hooked up to a gently whooshing machine. I also wasn’t so keen on having to collect my pee for twenty-four hours in a plastic bottle that was on ice in the bathroom.

  I also was freaking out that the baby would be born on my dad’s birthday.

  I was relieved when March 10 arrived and I was still pregnant, and even more relieved to see my mom, who flew in weeks early to be with us.

  I had a high-tech 3D ultrasound and got to see our baby in magical clarity. The tech printed off pictures, marking the photos Baby Girl!

  She had big, peaceful eyes and looked straight at us as if saying: We’re going to survive this together—you and me.

  An amniocentesis followed the ultrasound to determine if our baby girl’s lungs were developed enough for her to be delivered. I lay there terrified while they pushed a gigantic needle into my belly, wishing I could hold Darian’s hand. Instead, they had him sit in the corner, blocking his view of what they were doing to his very pregnant wife.

  When it was determined she was ready, I was induced.

  I was in labor thirty-seven hours with nothing to eat and only ice chips—that I secretly let melt—to drink. Somewhere in there was: throwing up, an epidural that didn’t do anything, oxygen in my nose, two hours of pushing while Darian held one of my legs and a nurse the other, trying not to scream cuss words in front of my mom and failing miserably, our baby girl’s head turned opposite, an episiotomy, and, finally, our baby girl, Emilie.

  She was seven pounds, seven ounces, had brown hair and big brown eyes, and came out strong, fighting—like her mama. A new life. Tiny fingers of hope wrapped around one of mine. Eyes full of nothing but love. An utter gift straight down from the heavens above.

  God?

  Thank you and amen.

  I held her for a few minutes, bawling, mesmerized. Then I handed her over to her dad, who was grinning from ear to ear and promptly called her Peaches. I so wished I could have handed her to my dad too.

  I was flat-out exhausted but somehow found the strength to call in a breakfast order off the nondiabetic menu.

  A feast for the ages arrived shortly after; it even included a donut.

  Emilie and I stayed two days, and then like that, Darian and I were home with a newborn baby, two weeks before she even was supposed to be due.

  MAY

  My mom stayed for two weeks, and when she left I cried, “Please don’t leave me with a baby!”

  Within a month, I was capable enough to fly to Wichita by myself with my peanut girl. We took a rare nonstop flight, which she slept through in its entirety, fortunately, wrapped in her brown-and-green blanket, sucking peacefully on her green pacifier.

  I held her in my arms and zoned out with headphones in, my head pressed up against the windowpane, her bottle ready in the seat pocket in front of me, a diaper bag turned travel bag under my feet. What a leap life had taken in three years!

  It was wonderful to be able to hand her to my family and see people’s faces light up, especially after everything we had been through.

  I was grateful to have lots of extra hands offering to hold, feed, and change her. But it also ached to hand her over: Here, you can see her for a little while, but I’m going to need her back because she needs, and I need, and . . . I needed the help, but I had the idea that since I was her mom, I was supposed to be the one to take care of her, no matter how little she slept on her own, no matter how much she wanted to sleep on me.

  I think Wichita triggered my PTSD, and it compounded with my weeks of lack of solid sleep, which began my tumble down into places I didn’t want to go. And wouldn’t admit to anyone that I was falling into. I’d do anything to protect her—even from myself.

  Em and I flew back to Michigan late in the afternoon on Mother’s Day. She was fussy, and I, weary and wiped out, picked an awful fight with Darian within minutes of arrival.

  After hours of nonstop wailing at the top of her lungs, and my anxious self frantically trying to get Em to settle, we took her to the hospital, thinking the flight had harmed her ears. They told us she was fine, and she finally fell asleep while we rocked her in a dimly lit emergency room.

  Two days later, Darian and I, still raw and sore from my first crazy Mother’s Day, received a heartbreaking phone call from his father—Uncle John had committed suicide.

  Trauma and grief—it knew no bounds, no end.

  Shocked, torn to pieces again, Darian and I stumbled through the next few days, scrambling to pack our and the baby’s things to meet Dave in New York. I went to the county office to pick up Em’s certified birth certificate so we could cross the Canadian border with her. We set out in the early morning, stopping at several travel plazas to change—and tickle the feet of—our sleepy girl to get her to wake up enough to eat. We arrived late that night.

  Much to the distress of her wiped-out parents, Em spent part of her first night in the hotel joyfully making all sorts of hap
py squeals and kicking her long legs up and down on her jungle-themed Pack ’n Play.

  We spent a week with Darian’s father, helping out around Uncle John’s home, while Em sat in her blue bouncer, reaching for the stars that hung down in front of her, trying hard to bring smiles to our grief-stricken faces. Darian’s dad told us later that bringing Em made all the difference in the world.

  I was strong for Darian, Dave, and Em the week we were in New York. But time and I would drift after we left. I have no recollection of our trip back to Michigan. I would lose recollection of a lot of things in the coming months.

  In hindsight, we know it was my old brute, anxiety, colliding with my newer one, PTSD, combined with postpartum depression—two words that still make my heart seize in fear. The simplest tasks became overwhelming, and Darian scrambled, trying to take care of me and Em. I didn’t tell him or anyone else I was drowning in a pit of blackness.

  CHAPTER 44

  Grit Your Teeth and Keep Going

  MARCH 2009

  I can open Em’s baby book now and show you carefully marked-down milestones met with glee: rolling over, sitting up, crawling, standing, first steps. That her first words were: ma-ma, da-da, kit-ty, hi, bye.

  I can show you photos of her first baths in a small tub we set next to our kitchen sink—she crying and I fretting at first. Later photos show her happily splashing and Darian and I laughing as she grew to love the water. There are photos of her first messy tries at baby cereal-mush, and neater attempts at flavored puffs, then Cheerios by the fistful. I can tell you about her snoozing in her jungle swing as it serenaded her with gentle sounds of birds and monkeys and later her jump-jumping in her Jumperoo.

  I can walk you through her quickly changing wardrobes. Summer trips to the Detroit Zoo, pushing a stroller, Em kicking out her chubby legs in a flowered onesie. A sweltering July evening at a wedding in Kansas, and Em fussing so much in the frilly yellow dress my mom bought her that I let her sit happily in just her diaper for the reception.