“No problem. I’ll wait in my car until you’re ready,” she says.
Josh and I walk around the restaurant to a deck overlooking the marsh. A breeze rolls across the bayou, cutting through the sweltering humidity. Boats pass in the distance, leaving silence in their wake. I can hear people laughing from the tables behind us at the top of the steps.
I turn back to Josh. “I just want you to know I forgive you.” I reach into my purse and hand him his tape.
As he reads the label, his face turns pale.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t listen to it,” I say.
He studies my face.
“Honestly. I didn’t,” I say, looking straight into his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, gently touching my arm before slipping the tape into his pocket.
As I watch him walk away, my heart sinks.
I can tell he believed me. But I can also tell the tape was all he wanted.
Frustration with recovery. Always remember there is hope. Eventually, something will give way and your new normal will emerge. You may even discover a new path, or a higher purpose, as a direct result of your experience.
The Blank Tape
I try to pretend the other Sin List tapes don’t exist.
I’ve been so busy hanging out with Alex that I almost let myself forget they’re still hidden in my closet. Festering. It seems manageable until I come home to a quiet bedroom, so quiet I can almost hear the voices talking at the same time. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the other tapes, I already know what’s on them. The openness. The pleading. The pain. The fear and shame. The unspoken desire for the struggle to end.
But that’s the thing. When you’re in the struggle, there is no possible end—it’s just a never-ending loop of unattainable demands. When you’re living it, you can’t see which way is up. And after you leave, it feels like you’re lost, like someone led you into the depths of a labyrinth without a map, and then abandoned you to find your way out.
The shame is overwhelming, and not just because I feel like such an idiot for not seeing what was really happening.
Kara died. Her mother will never see her again. The list of possible things I could have done—stayed with Kara and the Americans or tried harder to get her to come back—haunts me every night when I wake up from the nightmares. I want to make it stop, but I’m scared of reaching out to the one person I’m most afraid I’ll disappoint.
I’m terrified of telling Dad everything. Of what his reaction will be to the fact that I could be implicated. I can’t even fathom how I would bring myself to hand over the Sin List tapes of other people. Maybe I can fix it on my own.
I open my closet and shuffle through the tapes. Every cassette is labeled with the initials matching the other interns, except Kara, whose tape was always missing. A few of Kara’s music mix tapes are in the box, maybe in an attempt to mask the others. I dig through all of them again and notice a blank one.
I pull it out of the case. There’s no label and it is rewound like new. Then I notice the plastic tabs at the top have been removed to protect it from being recorded over or erased. I place it into my Walkman, pull the headphones over my ears with a sense of dread, and press play.
Chills spread across my arms when I hear Kara’s voice.
“You promised,” Kara says.
“God has a plan for me.”
“In California?”
“Stop asking questions about my wife, Kara. I knew better than to trust you to be a DP.”
“Really? What were your other options? To have Shannon be mine and ask me about all of my sins so she could tell her family back in Boston? My entire existence is a sin and you know it,” Kara says.
I remember hearing this conversation at the villa. A long sequence of static crackles through their silence.
“Then I’ll tell her,” Kara finally says.
“What?”
“I swear to God I’ll tell her if you don’t.”
“Kara. Just stop.”
“You. Promised. And now you’re choosing them over us. My mother dedicated her life to the Kingdom even after what you did to her. She saved your life in Africa. I’ll tell everyone about that, too, that you aren’t a living miracle, you pathetic piece of shit.”
Silence.
“Tell. Her. Or I’ll do it for you.”
The sound of a door slamming ends the conversation. I watch the tape reels spin all the way to the end, but there’s nothing else to hear.
I slip the tape out, secure it in its case, and clasp it to my stomach. I rock back and forth until I find a way to stand up and go downstairs. I’m grasping the case so hard the plastic front cracks in my hand.
* * *
Dad is sitting at his desk looking at a document, his glasses pushed down to the tip of his nose. He looks tired and weary and engrossed in what he’s reading.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. I sit down on the worn leather chair across from his desk and fidget with the tape.
He looks up at me and glances at my hands. “What do you have there?” My dad has had years of experience knowing the exact moment when someone is ready to talk about something important. I know it’s why he hasn’t been pushing me these past few weeks. He can see it coming from a mile away.
Still, I hesitate.
“It’s a tape. And I think it could explain more about what happened to Kara.”
“And where did this tape come from?” He takes his reading glasses off and extends his arm. I place the tape in his hand.
“I thought it was a blank tape at first. I found it with Kara’s mix tapes.”
“Mix tapes?”
“Like music mixes with favorite songs. This one looked blank, but the tabs were pushed out so I listened—”
“Stop there,” he says. He holds up a hand for me to stay quiet, places the tape on his desk, and looks at me in the same way he must look at his clients every day. “Emily, Deborah and I have been tracking down the many strings running in every direction from this case, and believe me when I say it’s a doozy. But the fact of the matter is that Kara’s own parent was there and didn’t question the conclusion of the authorities.”
“I know,” I say. I think about hearing Meredith and Ben in the office, about the needle by Kara’s arm that was never mentioned by anyone else, about Kara’s pale blue skin. I just want to make the memories and the nightmares stop.
“As an attorney and, more important, as your father, I would never advise you to do anything that would put you in harm’s way. Think about it.” His voice begins to rise with intensity. “Absolutely nothing on that tape would convince me to let you reopen an international case based on an item belonging to the victim—oh, and that you brought home before telling anyone else about it until just now.”
He holds up the tape, his face reddening with anger. “As far as we’re concerned, this is a blank tape.” I flinch at the tone of his voice.
He looks at me again and softens. “Sweetie, nothing will bring her back. The authorities will sort it out, right or wrong. Either way, this group has been destroying lives for a long time, and our focus is on putting a stop to it. I promised Julia Jones I would stay in touch for her article, and I intend to keep that promise, but it has to be done in exactly the right way. One good journalist can be a lot more effective than a thousand lawyers.”
This is all so easy for him. Why didn’t I call him in the first place? Then the familiar wave of isolation hits me from all the times I needed him most and he wasn’t there. Of all the times Patti called for him when he was too busy to do it himself. Even after the horrifying incident with Sadie, Dad’s reaction was a dismissive relief when he found out she was sent home—the problem had fixed itself. He had no idea about the fear and loneliness I felt every single night in that very same dorm room.
“Look,” he says. “I know how to fix this. Just let me do my job while you focus on getting better. You’ve been through enough.” He stands up as a gesture tha
t we should move out of his office and just walk right back into our regular lives.
But I can’t bring myself to move. My chest tightens as I press my fingers into my forehead. “I’ve been ‘through enough’ because you haven’t been there for me. Why do you think I wanted to go so far away for school? There was nothing for me here!”
His expression is blank, like he’s staring at someone he doesn’t even recognize. He slowly sits back down. “Sweetie, you begged to go to Boston. It tore my heart out to have you so far away from us. But Patti and I decided it was time to let you make your own decisions.”
“Yeah, and you must be so proud,” I sniff. “I made some really spectacular decisions, didn’t I? And now everyone looks at me like I’m a stupid girl who fell for some obvious trick, when no one understands a damn thing. I never joined a cult. Those people were my friends. My only friends. And the sad thing is I still care about some of them.” The tears are pouring now.
Dad’s eyes furrow with concern. “Em, that’s how they operate. They took advantage of you, and I’m so very sorry you had to go through this. Let me make this right. I will bring them down, but you have to let me protect you in the process.”
I desperately want to accept his offer, to believe that he’ll take care of me, and forget everything that happened. But I can’t stop thinking about the other tapes I brought back and the pain they hold. Or what Meredith said to me after trying to steal my mother’s necklace.
I’m terrified, but I know I have to ask him.
“When Mom died, did you question the conclusion?”
The entire room pulses with silence as the question hangs between us. Dad is frozen in shock. “Why in the world would you ask me that?”
“It’s just that we never talked about it, you and I. And I—” I pause and look down at my lap. “I remember everything that happened that day.” I have to whisper the last two words.
He clears his throat as if he’s about to speak, but I cut him off.
“Someone in Italy said something to me. Something horrible. About her death not being an accident. Why would she say—”
A controlled anger crosses his face. “Let me tell you something about those people. They would say anything, sometimes even the most calculated and hurtful things imaginable, to keep you in. They did the same thing to so many others just to keep them from leaving. Their goal isn’t the Bible, Emily. It’s to tear members away from their families by turning you against us.”
His voice is low, almost too low to hear. “Your mother was the most incredible and fearless woman I’ve even known, but she couldn’t overcome a sudden shift in nature. No one could’ve survived that undertow. She always thought the warning flags were for other people, but that goes back to long before you were born.”
He walks up to me and puts his arm on my shoulder, his eyes glossy with nostalgia. “You are so much like her. And I think the best thing you can do for all of us—including her—is to go out there and be a teenager again. Don’t waste another precious minute of your life on things you can’t change.”
But even as we walk into the living room and sit with Patti in front of the television, pretending life is normal, all I can think about is how I could change things. How I could try to fix this entire situation, or at least do my part to help.
How could anyone possibly move on like everything is okay? Pretending nothing ever happened.
I have to do something.
Controlled Burn
My mother is at the end of a narrow winding road.
It’s a beautiful place where Spanish moss hangs from ancient oak trees and the calm waters of Biloxi Bay sparkle in every direction. There’s a bench beside her, and I used to sneak away to read books there when I was in high school. I never told anyone because I knew people would have thought it was odd. They wouldn’t understand that it felt comforting just to be near her.
Today, I grip the old pillowcase I filled with the Sin List tapes and sit down on the bench. Every tape is inside, except Kara’s “blank” one, which I sealed in a padded envelope with Julia’s card on top.
“Please help me. I have no idea what to do,” I say into the air.
I watch the water glisten as I wait for a feeling, for some sort of sign. I sit quietly for minutes. The breeze brushes against my face, but it feels just like it always does.
I finally get up and walk to the edge of the water. For me, water has always been a connection to my mother’s brief existence. It’s where we lost her, and to me, it’s where she stayed. Over time, I came to believe she emanated everywhere in that living, glinting mass, watching over me from wherever I happened to be. I picture Kara and my mother way out in the Gulf—past the oil rigs, past the fishermen, beyond the crisscrossing traffic of boats, where no one could ever find them—gracefully threading through countless swells along the deep blue curve of the globe. The animated image makes me smile, but I’m not a little girl anymore. It’s like the mermaid. This time I know it isn’t real—it’s just something to make me feel better about being grounded here in a world without them.
I stand there so long that the tapes become heavy. I switch them to my other hand. Turning away from the water, I walk back to my car and drive away.
* * *
The massive pre-bonfire structure looms against an electric horizon. Overlapping swaths of gold and orange and magenta glow like an otherworldly backdrop behind the tranquil blue bay. Summer’s mom always told us there’s a reason so many artists live here on the Gulf Coast. It’s why she stayed. “Nature’s inspiration is infinite,” she’d always say.
I spot Summer on the beach. She’s walking toward our friends, who are working on the bonfire. These are the people who’ve known me for years. The old me, at least. I fidget with the driver’s-side handle, gathering the courage to open the door.
Then I see Alex approach Summer. She high-fives him as if mimicking a surferlike gesture for his benefit, and this makes me laugh. I watch her pull Alex into the group. Just beyond them, the pine-fringed stretch of Deer Island stands between the beach and the wide-open depths of the Gulf of Mexico.
Something like euphoria fills my heart: I’m really home.
I watch Alex and Summer work together to fuel the bonfire. As the flames begin flickering up into the sky, everyone disperses toward the shoreline. I grab the pillowcase in the passenger seat and open the door.
Everyone is shin-deep in the water, hanging out and drinking beer, but I walk toward the fire that crackles and snaps under the rising smoke.
I stop close enough to feel its roaring heat as pieces of wood collapse and shift, making the flames surge in unpredictable directions. I toss the knotted pillowcase into the middle and stare deep inside. I watch for a visible change in the color or intensity, but the bonfire consumes it with its steady burn as if nothing had ever been thrown into the flames.
EMILY X—
(continued)
The Kingdom fell in Florida, a place where the sprawling limbs of a live oak obscured the green Ford Taurus parked underneath. The vibration of cicadas had intensified into a morning song through the thick, damp heat. The car doors were closed shut, like the car had been abandoned for a stroll along the water, or an afternoon of fishing, or even a quick illegal exchange, none of which would have been uncommon on this out-of-the-way peninsula. Instead, a lifeless man was slumped forward against the steering wheel, vomit covering both his shirt and the inside of the windshield.
“He was supposed to be on his way to meet us here the day he was found. But he had been … suffering for a very long time.” The recently widowed 40-year-old blonde, who officially goes by Meri now, sat with her bare feet underneath her legs on a white slip-covered couch. The curved wall of windows behind her framed a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. She turned her head to stare at the never-ending sequence of distant waves rolling in, then wiped a tear from her eye with a perfectly manicured hand, before speaking.
When I gently brought up her late husb
and’s miraculous survival in Africa and the reports from the snake dealer I interviewed in Florida, her eyes flickered a hint of defiance. “Will must have thought he was immune to sin. That he was invincible and could do just about anything he wanted….” She twisted her long hair and placed it over her shoulder before lifting her chin. “But that’s where he was wrong. The Bible teaches that no one is immune to sin, and following the specific steps to salvation as laid out by the Kingdom is the only way.”
Her mouth tightened into a bitter smile. “I guess in the end, our poor Will found that out.” Her chin quivered as she stood and walked to the glass wall, her white sundress swirling in the breeze of an open window. “We miss him every single day. And it’s very difficult to lead this church without him, but I have to find a way to be strong,” she said, wrapping her arms around her tiny waist, as if comforting herself, her large wedding ring reflecting the morning sun. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more important than this calling.”
One student member in Boston adamantly insists the Kingdom is a positive force in her life. “A handful of bad apples sinning abroad cannot deter our mission to help young people find the Kingdom,” Heather says, offering me a pamphlet. “Through our new leadership in Boston, we will show the world what we really are.”
Many former interns, as the Kingdom calls them, disagree with Meri and Heather, saying the cult caused them to drop out of college. The lucky ones have the resources to check into deprogramming facilities to undo the brainwashing they were subjected to during their time in the Kingdom; others find support in a most unexpected place: each other.
“Other ex-members out there can be your greatest allies. It’s just a matter of finding them,” Andrew says. “Emily is the one who tracked me down. We talk almost every day now—it helps, you know. To make sense of it all, everything that happened to us.”
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