Devoted

by Jennifer Mathieu

  Some of my friends tell me my life before I met them sounds like I made it up. Like it’s something from a bad fairy tale where a princess is held kidnapped in a tower until she’s rescued. Like Rapunzel.

  Only, no knight in shining armor saved me. I saved myself.

  From birth I was part of an extreme religious community—some might call it a cult … when I’m having a bad day, I call it a cult—where women were marginalized, shamed, humiliated, and not given one ounce of autonomy. And why? Because the Lord dictates this is how it should be.

  I never went to regular school until I was old enough to go to vet tech school as a legal adult. I didn’t cut my hair or wear pants until I was 18 and I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was 19 and for a long time I didn’t even think it was possible to exist outside of this weird, tightly-controlled world with my dad in charge of everything I did. When I say my dad was in charge of everything, I don’t mean everything like where I went and who I hung out with, although he was in charge of that for sure. I mean he was in charge of what I wore, what I read, what I said, and even what I thought.

  I hate my dad for so much, but do you know what I hate him for the most? I can’t even pray to God anymore without hearing my father’s voice in my head.

  I was told that my only possible future was acting the way my future husband would want me to act, and I was told that my dreams of becoming a vet were just that. Dreams. That I had to maintain a cheerful countenance and practice to be a good helpmeet. Mother and wife. My only options.

  When I was a teenager, I started rebelling. I met some kids hanging out near the local gas station when I went to fill up my dad’s car—one of the few things I was allowed to do outside my house. The rest sounds like a bad teen movie (note:—I didn’t even get to WATCH bad teen movies until I wasn’t a teenager anymore, but anyway…). I started sneaking out of the house, meeting (jerky) guys, drinking cheap vodka in the backs of trucks. Yes, cheap vodka in the backs of trucks. I told you. Teen movie.

  The cult didn’t like it. They prayed over me, they preached about me. They threatened to send me away to this camp where they force you to do hard labor and barely let you sleep and brainwash you.

  One day I just literally walked out. I’d made some friends from the outside by then, and when I thought the preacher was talking about me during one of the Sunday services, I’d had enough. I just got up and walked out. No one came after me, not even my parents. I didn’t have a car. I hitchhiked into town and called one of my new friends from the only pay phone still standing. She said I could come move with her to the city where she was going to start taking classes at a community college.

  That night, I went back home to my parents’ house to get a few things. My ID, a few of my clothes, the little bit of money I’d saved from taking care of our neighbor’s dog. And I really wanted to say goodbye to my two cats, Fluff and Stuff. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take them with me even though I desperately wanted to. I’d bottle-fed them from birth after their mom abandoned them in the flower garden outside the house.

  So I walked in and my friend was waiting for me in the car outside the house. I walked in and my mom was on her knees praying out loud in the living room. She had to have heard me come in but she just kept praying. It hurt my heart, it’s true. But my mom hadn’t defended me or herself in so long I wasn’t surprised.

  I was sobbing at this point, and I ran upstairs with a paper bag for my things when my dad came down the hall and stopped me when I got down to the foot of the stairs. He was so furious I thought he was going to explode right there in the middle of the kitchen. His face was so red.

  “Dad, I’m leaving,” I said. It was like I was watching myself from someplace else. Now that I’ve seen movies, I can say it was like I was a character in a movie, but the movie was real. The movie was my life. But at the time I just knew it was like I was outside of my body somehow.

  That’s when my dad hit me hard. Right across the face. It stung like a million fire ants bit my face all at once.

  My dad had beaten me and my mom in the name of God many times before, but never like this. He was pummeling me. Hard. I was down on the ground crouching into a little ball and my dad even kicked me while I was down there. I was screaming, trying to protect my head with my hands. I heard my mom crying and praying, but it was like she was doing it in some other language, not English. My dad was screaming something but I couldn’t understand him either.

  I crawled far enough away that I was able to scramble up to my feet and dart out the front door. I raced to my friend’s car.

  When I got to my friend’s car she screamed that I was bleeding from my nose. I said my dad did it.

  I never saw my parents again after that.

  There’s more to the story. How I moved to the city and how I transformed my life and why I left the city after some pretty dumb stuff and how I moved back to my hometown even though I run the risk of running into my mom and dad again.

  But I’m dead to them, I think. My mom and dad, I mean. I’m dead to them and I don’t exist. I’m dead to everyone else that I knew before. All of them. It’s like I don’t exist to them. My salvation, if ever I really earned it, I’ve given up through my bad behavior. I’m a nothing. A mistake. But it’s taken me six years to know that if salvation means giving up every human thing about myself and becoming some robot with no real emotions, then I don’t want it anymore.

  I want to write more about what happened after that day I ran away, but as I type this, my eyes are full of tears. I need to take a break from this.

  If anyone is reading this, thank you. I’m still here. It feels so good to type that.

  I’m still here.

  I stopped breathing halfway through the post and only after I’ve read the last word can I exhale. I’m scared someone will hear me, the breath is so loud. I picture Mr. Sullivan at church after the laying of hands on my father, telling me the Lord’s steadfast love always endures. Telling me about his babies waiting for him and Mrs. Sullivan in Heaven when his living daughter hasn’t seen him in years. I think of Lauren bleeding from the nose, crouched helpless like a wounded animal on the floor. Yes, the Lord has granted parents the right to discipline their children, but that isn’t what God intended.

  I’m squeezing my fists so hard my arms are vibrating. I want to scream, yell, shout. A flash of Scripture flies through my mind, trying to correct me.

  The discretion of a man deferreth his anger, and it is his glory to pass over a transgression.

  But if that were true, then why did God let Mr. Sullivan get so mad?

  For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.

  Then that means that Mr. Sullivan isn’t a real man of God, right?

  A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards.

  Then am I a fool to be so angry right now? Am I as bad as Mr. Sullivan?

  Nervous energy charges through my veins. So many missing pieces of Lauren’s story are a part of my mind, fixed there forever. After all these years, I know the truth about what happened to her, and it makes me so sad, even though I’m shocked that she was able to get away with so much forbidden behavior while still part of our community.

  When Lauren Sullivan was younger, around Ruth’s age, she sang in the Calvary Christian Church choir, belting out the songs so loud it was like she thought the words could float up to Heaven itself. She set up games in the parking lot after services to see which of us kids could run around the church building the fastest. She could memorize Bible verses faster than some of the adults, and she read them confidently, her voice booming, almost like a little pastor.

  And this Lauren with the dyed hair and the strange tattoos seems different, even frightening, but isn’t the Lauren of my childhood still this Lauren? And isn’t this Lauren still someone we should love? Someone who should know we haven’t forgotten her?

  I want to tell her somehow. Tell her I think about her. I care about her.

 
; But if I get caught.

  I remember Dad’s warnings about mixing with those who’ve abandoned Christ.

  I remember my punishment for getting caught with A Wrinkle in Time. Copying Scripture.

  If I get caught doing this, the punishment will be so great, copying Scripture for bad behavior will seem like a laughable consequence. I picture James Fulton paraded in front of us after being sent away to Journey of Faith. I consider Lauren’s words about what happened to him and to everyone who is sent there. Brainwashed. I’m not one hundred percent sure what that means, but the word makes me shiver.

  And then I think about sitting at my parents’ dining room table in a few years, responsible for a baby in my belly and a baby in my arms.

  And I can’t breathe.

  I stare at my hands, like they belong to someone else. Someone I don’t know but who lately seems intent on making herself known to me, whether I like it or not. They move over the keyboard and open up the email program for my dad’s work—the only email any of us are allowed to use.

  FROM: Walker Family Landscape and Tree Trimming

  TO: butterflygirl@mailservice.com

  Lauren,

  You probably don’t remember me. But I remember you from Calvary Christian. I found your blog, and I want you to know that I’m really sorry about what your dad did to you. And you’re not dead to me. You never were.

  “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” Psalm 147:3

  Sincerely,

  Rachel Walker

  I hit Send. I look up and out the family room windows and imagine the message traveling through the ether and across the night sky, slipping around the twinkling stars on its way to its destination. I picture it floating through darkness until it finds Lauren Sullivan, who opens it and reads what I’ve written.

  9

  The next morning when I head downstairs to start breakfast, I see my dad on the computer.

  Dad hardly ever gets on the computer. He doesn’t like it, and he only agreed to get one when it became clear that running a family business profitable enough to feed a family as big as ours depended on one.

  The sight of him hunching over, his beefy fingers gigantic against the keyboard, makes my body go cold. Even though I cleared the history and erased my sent message to Lauren, my dad could be checking the company email. He lets me do it most of the time, but he could be checking it. He could be.

  What have I done?

  “Dad?”

  He turns to look at me, and I catch a glimpse of what’s on the screen.

  It’s his list of appointments for the week. Nothing else.

  “Rachel, I’m looking for the address of that new client? The one over in Dove Lake? I’ve misplaced the printout of the schedule you gave me last night.”

  I dart over to the computer, anxious to take control of the keyboard. Still in the chair, my father slides to the side, and I tap away, searching for the information he needs. My heart is still racing, my cheeks still pink. Forcing myself to focus, I print out what my father needs and hand it to him.

  “Good morning.”

  I’m still so on edge I jump at the voice and turn to see my mother walking down the hallway from her bedroom. For the first time in almost a month she has her hair styled carefully and pulled up away from her face. Her skin is still pale, but there’s a slight spark in her eyes that’s been missing these past few weeks.

  “Mom!” I manage. “You’re feeling better?”

  “A little, yes,” my mother answers, nodding. “God’s wonderful gift of a new baby for this family has made my spirit joyful. He understands the pain of my loss, and he’s healed us with this child. God is so good.”

  “Yes, he certainly is,” agrees Dad, a smile stretching across his face.

  “Yes, of course,” I say, nodding, almost afraid to step away from the computer as if an email from Lauren might pop up the moment I do. Only when Dad gets up from the chair and follows Mom into the kitchen do I finally manage to fill my lungs with air. Relax, Rachel. You didn’t get caught. I head into the kitchen to start breakfast, serving my mom a cup of coffee first.

  Finally, after the frenzy of the morning is over and Dad and my brothers are gone, we settle into the family room for schoolwork, and Mom joins us on the couch so she can watch over the little ones.

  “I need to check something on the computer,” I tell Ruth and the twins after an hour or so. “For Dad.” I say it loudly, just in case Mom is listening, too.

  “Okay,” says Ruth, barely looking up from her workbook.

  There are a few messages from some of Dad’s clients and a company that sells us equipment, but nothing from butterflygirl. I frown and then catch myself, correcting my face into a neutral expression that hides what I’m really feeling.

  I don’t just want Lauren to write back because I want to catch the email before someone else sees it. I want her to write back so I can read what she has to say to me. But what if she doesn’t write back? What if she doesn’t remember me? Why would she want anything to do with me after what her father did and after the way we made her feel?

  All afternoon I check for a response as often as I can, hopefully without drawing suspicion, but there’s nothing from Lauren.

  “Rachel, what are you doing?” Ruth says from the kitchen table as I quickly click refresh on the computer for the fifth time that day. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  “Yes. I’m waiting on an important email for this payroll software update.” Again I say it loudly for Mom’s benefit. Neither one has any idea what I mean, but Ruth nods, and I force myself not to check the email again for another hour.

  It’s getting so easy to lie to Ruth. So easy to lie and so easy to keep breaking rules I never thought I’d break. That night, long after everyone is asleep, I creep downstairs, pausing every few steps to listen for any sounds that others are awake. When I turn on the computer and bring up the email program, I see a new message. It’s in bold text, marked as unread.

  It’s from butterflygirl.

  I reach my fingers to the screen and touch it, like I can read it through osmosis. Then I quickly click it open.

  Rachel,

  Hi. Thanks for your email. As I type this I keep picturing all these situations where you’re not reading these words and someone else is and then you get into trouble. I really don’t want that, so I suggest if you want to email me again, you never email me from this address. Can you set up an email address that’s just for you? Do you know how to do that? If you don’t, let me know and I can help you. Also, I ask that you not tell my parents you’ve communicated with me. That’s very important to me.

  I didn’t respond to your email right away because I was so stunned when I received it, to be totally honest. It’s the first time anyone from Calvary has contacted me since I left. And, so … I started thinking about myself when I was back where you are … not that I don’t do that a lot, of course, in this sort of abstract way. But now I was thinking of another girl—you—right where I was six years ago. And it kind of flipped me out. Since you’ve read my blog, I think you know what I mean.

  So I wasn’t sure I could write you back, but then I started thinking about all the things I wish I could have told myself back then. That I was a human being. A whole person with a brain and a body that are mine. Not anyone else’s. Not my dad’s and not Pastor Garrett’s.

  Why did God give me a body if he didn’t want me to run, jump, laugh, dance, and swim in a yellow, two-piece swimsuit?

  Why did God give me a brain if he didn’t want me to use it to learn about anything I wanted to learn about?

  Well, I’m blabbing on like I sometimes do, and I don’t want to overwhelm you. Mostly, I want to say that I appreciate your words. I’m glad you remember me. I remember your family and I remember you as a little girl. You didn’t talk much but you always seemed so kind. Sensitive. You were a girl with faraway eyes. That’s a title to a song you don’t know, but trust me, it’s a grea
t song.

  This is enough for now. I’m doing really well, and thank you for thinking about me. If I never hear from you again, I want you to know I wish you well. But if I can help you somehow, let me know.

  xoxo Lauren

  I read her words over and over. I can’t get enough of them. But soon, I’m hearing Pastor Garrett’s voice as he debates her points. I’m hearing my own father’s voice as he argues against her.

  Wherefore be ye not unwise, but understanding what the will of the Lord is.

  I delight to do thy will, O my God, yea, thy law is within my heart.

  There are many devices in a man’s heart, nevertheless the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.

  But then I realize that the voices in my head aren’t mine. They don’t belong to me. They belong to other people.

  I read Lauren’s post one more time and tip my chair back to look down the hall to make sure my parents’ bedroom light is still off. Opening up a free email service, I create a new address for myself. It’s mine. Just mine and no one else’s. My toes curl up at the thought.

  I click on the button that says compose message. As I type, it’s almost as if I’m typing to myself as much as I am to Lauren. The click clack of my fingers on the keyboard sounds like a pleasant little song that belongs only to me. The words spilling out of me take a weight off my shoulders.

  FROM: rachelwalker123@freemail.com

  TO: butterflygirl@mailservice.com

  Lauren,

  I’m not sure what to say, but first of all, I want you to know that I won’t say anything to your parents about you. I promise. And please don’t say anything to anyone about me writing to you, okay? Of course you wouldn’t, but I know you understand what could happen to me if I get caught.

  The first question that comes to mind might make you laugh, I guess. But have you really gone swimming in a yellow bikini? Really?

  I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m writing to you. It’s a risk, like I said. An enormous risk. But lately, I feel like something is building inside of me, and I can’t stop it. I don’t even know if I want to anymore.