by Holly Dunn
The hard and awful truth is that the weak and vulnerable of this world will always be at risk of oppression by those who are more powerful. In any community, the weakest and most vulnerable are our little children. While it enrages good people everywhere that handprints, buttons, and stones have to be collected at all—as long as there are people who prey on kids, we’ll be on the front lines fighting back.
CHAPTER 22.
Life Is Good
My stepping down as the executive director of Holly’s House made the local news. I assured the reporter I was leaving the organization on great terms and in a sound financial position in order to pursue other personal and professional opportunities. But one quote I certainly didn’t give the reporter was, “Infertility is wrecking my life and marriage, and the medical treatments are making me crazy.”
My husband, Jacob, and I had been trying to get pregnant since the week after our honeymoon. After six months with no success, we began seeing fertility specialists and making our way through the tests and processes that would hopefully get us to conception. We spent the first seven years of our marriage in this parental limbo—all while I was working to open Holly’s House and for the years I was its executive director. I had expended so much effort to bring forth beautiful fruit from the tragedy of the attack, but now I wanted nothing more than to have a child, and it simply wasn’t happening.
When Jacob and I first broke up back in 1998, I told my dad how broken I felt and how fearful I was that my brokenness would keep anyone from ever loving me. That same thought started creeping back into my head. I felt broken. My body was letting me down and keeping me from the one thing I desired.
The worst part was not having anyone to whom I could talk about infertility. Most people were so quick to try to comfort me and shush my pain that they would say anything. I heard things like, “Oh, just calm down and it’ll happen.” Or, “You can always adopt, right?” In response, I wanted to say, “Shut up already! You’re not helping.”
Instead, I just shut down. I stopped talking to my colleagues, my friends, my family, even my husband. At the time I assumed the problem was all mine, but I didn’t know why, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. After everything I had overcome up to that point, I felt like I was imploding all over again. I had spent my entire young adult life finding the essential resources for my recovery, and this time was no different: I found an online support group for women dealing with infertility, which was the only outlet for comfort and advice I had at the time, while I continued to experience mounting frustration and utter disappointment from every procedure we tried that didn’t work.
At the most dire moment, I spent nine days in a hospital with an infection inflicted by a botched procedure. Jacob reached his limit.
“You don’t need to die from this,” he said. “We don’t need children this badly.”
But it was futile to repress what we longed for. In 2009, right before I left Holly’s House, we began the adoption process while continuing the fertility treatments. The sheer volume of paperwork involved in the adoption process—not to mention our need to move across the river to Indiana whose adoption laws are more modern than Kentucky’s—made trying to become a parent a full-time job for me. In the end, the adoption process only brought us more heartache.
Then, in 2011, six years after we were married and two years after I’d left Holly’s House, we were finally pregnant—but complications drove me to fifteen weeks of bed rest to protect us from miscarriage. Becoming a mom would turn out to be one of the hardest won accomplishments of my life.
On July 18, 2012, our first son was born at St. Mary’s Medical Center—the same hospital that would eventually sponsor the medical exam room at Holly’s House. He weighed eight pounds and twelve ounces and was nearly twenty-two inches long.
Until our son was born, we weren’t sure what his full name would be. We weren’t writing down names or making lists or going through any formal naming process, and we hadn’t told anyone the ideas we’d tossed back and forth. We eventually decided on William as a first name, and we discussed Christopher for his middle name. I was excited about giving our son Chris’s name, but Jacob hadn’t yet jumped on it.
“Let’s meet him first, and then decide if that’s his name,” Jacob said.
Some kids you come up with a name and it’s just not them. What if you think you’ll name him Zach, and he’s just not a Zach? We both think that when you meet the child, you’ll know his name.
And then William arrived.
“Yes,” said Jacob, “his name is William Christopher.”
All the while I was in college preparing to take over my family’s company, I couldn’t see myself having children, but once I got married, and especially once I had a child, I couldn’t imagine life any other way. William was the answer to every prayer I’d ever prayed. He saved me from being just Holly the Survivor of a Serial Killer or the Holly of Holly’s House. He created a new life for me, and my entire world has changed with his presence in it.
Not long after he was born, a friend gave Will a handmade fleece blanket whose seams are dotted with tags. Once he was old enough to talk, he started calling his blankie “Buddy”—the same nickname Chris had given his gold Isuzu Trooper.
Christopher Thomas Maier lives on in sweet and funny things like my son’s name and his favorite blanket, but also through the family and friends who faithfully keep his memory alive. To this day, those of us who gathered to grieve and heal from his loss continue to get together every year for “Life Is Good” reunions. Our group from the University of Kentucky also includes Chris’s dearest friends from high school, Reed and Fabella, and now our spouses and kids—all because the world once knew this amazing guy named Chris.
I still wear silver toenail polish from time to time, and I’m thankful that something fun, even trivial, marked the beginning of our all-too-brief relationship. The humor and liveliness of how we met and spent our summer is what has outlasted the darkness and horror of our final hours together. I’ll always have reminders of what happened, but I often have days where I get so busy with life that I don’t think about the attack at all. Several days in a row might pass by, where I forget what happened entirely, and then something will remind me of Chris, usually something positive like a sunny break in a cloudy day or the sound of the Bar Harbor bell that hangs outside on our patio. There are mementos I’ve cherished all along, like the note Chris left on my windshield, lodged in a scrapbook near a necklace he made out of white clover that’s now dried and brown. From time to time, I still wear the Birkenstocks that Craig Sorrell dug out of the evidence room for me.
I have less visible reminders of what happened, both physical and emotional, and I have come to accept that I will be healing for the rest of my life. While you can’t see the scars on my head, I can feel the spots where my scalp was stapled shut, one of which itches all the time. My anxiety around railroads is mostly gone, though sometimes when I hear the sounds of a train passing in the distance I pause, unsettled for a split second so brief it would be imperceptible to anyone else. But I had to put an end to the negative association I had with railroads. By the time Will was eight months old, he had fallen in love with trains, especially Thomas the Tank Engine. My nieces and nephews all like trains. There was no reason to continue to associate railroads and trains with violence and fear, and disassociating the symbol from the experience was part of my recovery.
Anniversaries of the attack can be difficult, though I’m thankful they come and go more quickly and softly than they used to. Jacob often sends me flowers on the anniversary, blue irises or Gerbera daisies. My theme in observing that horrible date has always been self-care. Back in college I skipped classes that day and ate somewhere I liked, or spent time with friends, or got a pedicure. Rather than relive the details or ponder what happened, I still spend the anniversary doing something that nurtures me, whether it’s getting a massage or going for a drive, though more often than anything else, I pref
er to spend the day at home playing with my son.
Will gave me an entirely new story, but as it turned out, he was just the first chapter. Four years later, on Tuesday, June 28, 2016, we welcomed our second son, Robert Warren. Before he arrived into our world, absolutely healthy and perfect, I couldn’t imagine loving another child as much as I loved Will. But when Warren was finally placed in my arms, it was as if my heart expanded to twice its size. I had no idea there was such room in my soul for so much love.
Before I lay my son down to sleep at night, I rock him in a soft, upholstered rocking chair in his bedroom, feeling his soft little cheek pressed against my chest and breathing in his sweet baby scent. When I look at his tiny, round face peeking out from the blanket that swaddles him, I’m reminded of that era of my own childhood when the world was wide open and my entire life awaited me. I could never have imagined that such horror would ever befall me, and I can’t begin to imagine what beauty and pain might await my little boys.
Chris’s last words to me were, “Everything’s going to be okay.” In the aftermath, I would have been quick to disagree. But twenty years later, his words have taken on much deeper meaning, one that he perhaps intuitively knew to be true because it was his disposition to be joyous. True joy can exist even in the midst of terrible circumstances, even after our worst nightmares come true, and true joy believes that everything really will be all right in the end.
Now that I’m a parent, I understand more fully my dad’s compulsion to case the house each morning while I was home recovering from the attack. Is there any worse pain than to see your children suffer? I won’t always be able to protect my boys from getting hurt, but I hope to instill in them the love and sense of well-being that will carry them through their darkest hours, and to teach them that even the worst events in their lives can be transformed into good for them and for others. My husband and our two sons are a great part of the beauty that has emerged from the ashes of my past.
My baby son blinks up at me, and I come out of my reverie and resume the sway back and forth that will lull him to sleep. Outside a sharp wind blows, and I hear the deep tones of the Bar Harbor bell drift in from the patio. My body relaxes, and my spirit is comforted.
I lean in and whisper, “Hear that, sweet boy? Everything’s going to be okay.”
Gallery
Holly and sorority sister Annie, shortly before the attack.
Chris Maier and his Isuzu Trooper, “Buddy.”
Chris and his sister’s dog, Paxton, 1997.
Chris and close friend Donovan, who was later killed in a car crash.
The crime scene along the Norfolk Southern tracks. (Photo courtesy of the Lexington Police Department)
The Railroad Killer’s murder weapon. (Photo courtesy of the Lexington Police Department)
One of Holly’s Birkenstocks, which fell off during the attack. (Photo courtesy of the Lexington Police Department)
Holly arrives at the ER the night of the attack. (Photo courtesy of the Lexington Police Department)
Holly’s jaw was wired shut for six weeks after the attack.
Holly with her class of Kappa Kappa Gamma sisters, University of Kentucky, 1997.
Holly and Jacob at KKG semiformal, 1998.
Holly and Nancy Grimes Bennett at Holly’s high school Chrysalis event, 1995.
Holly and Lottie on Stone Mountain, one year after the attack.
Christine, Michael, and Holly in Cherryfield, Maine.
Holly on top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park.
Holly has told her story to countless groups across the country.
Holly and her sister Heather at a Take Back the Night event.
Holly and Jacob were married in Sarasota, Florida, on October 22, 2005.
Holly and her family pose with Indiana senator Richard Lugar at the Jefferson Awards in Washington, DC.
Brian Turpin, Holly, and Kathy Boyd cut the ribbon to Holly’s House, 2008.
Adrienne, Ann Maier, Holly, and Elizabeth Maier Langston, at a “Life Is Good” reunion, 2010.
The “Life Is Good” clan, 2015.
FRONT (L–R): Jacob, William, Holly, Warren, niece Madison, niece Emerson, sister Heather, niece Brooklyn, nephew Braylon.
BACK (L–R): Holly’s parents Gail and John, sister Kathy, nephew Jonathan, brother-in-law Fred, nephew Michael, nephew Justin and his friend Katrina.
Jacob, Warren, William, and Holly, 2017.
Acknowledgments
I’ve often been asked why I waited so long to put my story in book form. On one hand, I had other, more pressing things to do at different stages of my life—like building a career, launching Holly’s House, and starting a family. On the other, I needed this length of time to find a certain measure of healing and strength before I could delve this deeply into the details of that horrific night.
Ever since our case was connected to those other murders, I realized that I was part of a much bigger story, one that included so many other victims and their families. That larger story went on to include everyone who helped bring Holly’s House to life and the women and children the advocacy center continues to serve. Similarly, though this book is an account of my individual journey, I’m indebted to a constellation of people who helped me tell this story in its fullest form.
I want to thank my co-author, Heather Ebert, who showed up at just the right moment after I had prayed for someone to come alongside me on this project. She brought so much creativity, expertise, and sensibility to the process, and she demonstrated compassion for me and all my loved ones with every word she wrote. She was my beacon of light for this book writing journey, and I couldn’t have done it without her.
I’m grateful to our agent, Sharlene Martin of Martin Literary Management, for enthusiastically taking us under her wing and ensuring that the manuscript found a good home. Many thanks to Diversion Books, including publisher Jaime Levine, CEO Scott Waxman, and acquiring editor Randall Klein. Thank you also to our editor, Lia Ottaviano, who has championed and encouraged us throughout the editing process.
A natural haze sometimes settles over distant memories, and when trauma is involved, that haze can seem especially dense. The details included in this book are what I remember to the best of my ability, supplemented by research and input from the amazing and courageous people who walked alongside me immediately after the attack and through the years of healing. I owe each of them an enormous debt of gratitude.
First and foremost, thanks to Craig Sorrell, who tolerated long phone interviews and countless follow-up emails, all the while maintaining his trademark sense of humor. Thanks also to Chad Goetz and Wade Ashley for sharing their memories of that dark night. Special thanks to Adrienne, Annie, and Amy—to ask these dear friends to recall this tragic episode was, in many ways, to ask them to relive it, and they did so with courage and generosity. A deep thank you to Nancy Grimes Bennett for her mentorship when I was a teenager and for contributing her memories of that era to the story. Thanks also goes out to Andy Kahan, Houston’s crime victims’ advocate, who provided certain details from the trial phase. Each of these contributions added texture, depth, and heart to the narrative, and the book would not be what it is without them.
I will be forever grateful to Devon Anderson, who, as assistant district attorney in Harris County, Texas, ensured justice was delivered to the Railroad Killer once and for all.
Detective Brian Turpin has now been on the Evansville police force for more than twenty years. Partnering with him to establish Holly’s House expanded my story from being a survivor to being a true advocate for other women and children in our community, and I’m so thankful for that initial invitation, as well as for his contributions to this narrative. Thanks also to Kathy Boyd, who courageously offered up stories of her own abuse and provided poignant details about the people and process behind the construction of Holly’s House.
My undying gratitude goes out to every volunteer and donor who made Holly’s House a reality and who con
tinue to support its essential services to the child and adult survivors of intimate crimes. Thank you especially to Executive Director Sidney Hardgrave and her staff for their continued service to our community.
I also want to salute all of the victims’ advocates, rape counselors, sex-crime investigators, social workers, court officials, and other men and women who fight on the front lines against such unspeakable crimes. They are my true heroes. And to everyone who has survived intimate violence, know that you are not alone.
My tender affection goes out to Chris’s family, his parents Tom and Ann Maier and his sister Elizabeth Langston, with whom I’m bonded for life by the tragedy we share. Just as I carry Chris’s memory with me, I hold them close to my heart and will love them always.
A shout out to the “Life Is Good” clan, including Brian, Reed, Ryan, Mike W., Mike M., Andrew, Kevin, Andy, Josh, Tom, Jenny, Adrienne, and Becky, for their faithful support. Their friendship carried me through those first few years of grieving Chris and healing from the assault, and our continued friendships to this day are among the greatest joys of my life.
Thank you to the Evansville community and my friends and colleagues around the country who have listened to my story, cried with me, held me up with their strength, and loved on me and my family all these years.
My deepest love and gratitude I extend to my family: my parents, John and Gail Dunn, sister and brother-in-law Heather and Fred Niemeier, my sister Kathy Dunn Jagielski, and my beloved nieces and nephews, Madison, Michael, Emerson, Justin, Erica, Jennifer, Kaliegh, and Jonathan, and my great-niece Brooklyn and great-nephew Braylon. My appreciation also goes out to my mother-in-law, Vicki Brothers, who loves me like her own daughter and is a second mom to me. Thank you all for your support!
