by Daleen Berry
Where Barlow had been murdered, the Newburg shooting wasn’t fatal, and was an accident. Apparently, an overanxious neighbor fired off a round when he heard noises outside, hitting the victim by mistake, wounding him just enough to send him to the hospital. As I listened to Deputy Haney and took notes about what happened, I realized I was becoming less sensitive to the details involving such crimes, which I took as a good sign.
And when I sat down with Joe to get details of the latest news about the Barlow case, I realized I was becoming less afraid of Eddie. I wasn’t sure what had happened to cause it, but wondered if my growing rapport with the two deputies had anything to do with it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I knew all I had to do was pick up the phone and call them for help, and they would take care of Eddie in a heartbeat. They wouldn’t stand around and let any man beat on his wife. Besides, I knew they liked me, they respected me, and they knew I was a woman—not a doormat.
Just two weeks later, Lynne DeBerry disappeared after leaving his Kingwood home. He was related to two other men—Dennis Powell and Tommy DeBerry—who disappeared not long after that. Tommy walked to and from his job at the local Pizza Hut. The youngest of the three men (and a nephew to Lynne) Tommy vanished after he left work during the early hours of March 11. By the time Dennis Powell became the fourth man to disappear on March 24, county residents had gotten the jitters. Powell vanished after last being seen at a restaurant in nearby Reedsville.
Rumors flew as Prestonians eagerly leaned across their fences or met at their mailboxes, gossiping about the body people heard the police had discovered. In the meantime, Linda and I worked together on the Barlow story, one of the biggest of the year. People in West Virginia probably went to bed a little easier the day his body was found in a remote wooded area, a week after he disappeared.
Deputy Stiles spent hours interviewing Richard Knotts, who was later arrested. He was charged with stabbing Barlow, in a crime that turned out to be a love triangle. By then, I was only too familiar with covering violent crimes, but the day Sheriff Jim Fields invited me to join Stiles and several other officers for a diving expedition was quite exciting. The group met with dogs and divers at Bull Run, a local hangout for swimmers and whitewater rafters alike. They found the Cheat River not only a challenge to maneuver in their small, narrow kayaks, but also deep enough to jump from the rocks that surrounded the popular swimming spot.
The police didn’t find any bodies in the river or anywhere else, although authorities believed a local drug dealer, who was later sent to prison on felony drug charges, had killed them and dumped the bodies somewhere. To local residents, “somewhere” meant they had been dumped down one of the many mine shaft scattered all over the county, but police searched those, too, and still couldn’t locate the three missing men.
By the time Trudy suggested I attend a weekly Adult Children of Alcoholics meeting, we had been seeing her for several weeks—with little progress. After each session when Eddie and I left Trudy’s office, all was well, but by the time we returned the next week, we just seemed to rehash the same problems all over again. ACOA was for anyone who had a friend or relative with a drinking problem, and Trudy said she thought it might help me, due to the alcoholism in my family.
When I told my friend Shirley about the meeting, we decided to go together, since she had grown up in an alcoholic household, too. Although we both felt awkward at the first meeting, by the third one, we were beginning to feel comfortable. I could identify with many of the people who spoke up and talked about how alcoholism had affected them. Then came the fourth meeting, when a young woman started talking about her childhood.
“Hi, I’m Debbie. I’m an alcoholic.”
The group responded in unison. “Hi, Debbie.”
“I’m also a victim of child sexual abuse,” Debbie said, telling us how her father had molested her when she was just a girl. Debbie said she felt dirty and worthless, as well as powerless to stop the abuse.
As I sat and listened, something deep within me began to feel very uncomfortable. The more I heard, the more I realized she was telling my story, too.
Except with me, it wasn’t my father. It was Eddie.
It was the first time I had actually heard anyone talk about a personal experience with sexual abuse. I had kept my story to myself, dissecting it only inside my own mind. But after Debbie’s initial comments, I didn’t hear another word she or anyone else said. When the meeting ended, Shirley and I went to the car.
Victim…victim…victim. That’s what I am.
I heard Shirley’s words through a distant mist. “Boy, if I had been her, I’d have killed her old man. Can you imagine that?”
“Yeah, terrible, isn’t it?” I vaguely replied, my mind a thousand miles away. When we arrived at her house, we sat in the car talking for a few minutes, but I was distracted.
“Daleen, are you all right?” Shirley asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That girl Debbie—I think the same thing happened to me.”
“Your dad molested you?”
“No, not Dad. Eddie. He started forcing me to have sex with him when I was thirteen,” I pushed the words out.
Shirley was outraged. “Do you realize that’s how old my daughter is? You were a child. Does your mom know?”
I shook my head.
“You need to tell her, and you should also tell Trudy,” Shirley said.
The car was silent for several seconds. “I was raped, when I was eighteen,” she said quietly. “But you were so much younger. It’s probably affected you in ways you don’t even know.”
I told her how it had happened, and the more I told her, the angrier Shirley became. “He should be castrated!” She practically seethed, then suddenly grew deadly quiet. “What about your girls?”
My thoughts drifted back to all the bathtub talks we’d had over the years. “I’ve been telling them since they were old enough to understand that no one—including Mommy and Daddy—touches their private parts. Every so often I remind them, and ask them if anyone has, but so far the answer’s always been the same. They say he’s never done anything to them.
We sat there talking for what seemed like hours, and as I was leaving, Shirley looked over at me. “Don’t blame yourself for what he did to you. It wasn’t your fault.”
The next few days felt like a daze. I could hardly grasp what was happening. Like a broken needle on a record player, I kept replaying everything…from the first night I crawled into Eddie’s bed when I was thirteen, to the last time he crawled into mine, even after I had gotten pregnant with Mileah; from the day Carla accused Eddie of fondling her to my three subsequent pregnancies; and from the ACOA meeting to Shirley’s parting comment.
I wondered what to do. I knew I needed help, but I had no clue where to find it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The answer came during our next session with Trudy. “So, how was your week?” she asked.
I was on the couch. Eddie was several feet away in a chair. For once, I didn’t want to say anything. Neither did Eddie, but that wasn’t odd.
“I see.” Trudy nodded, her silence to ours speaking volumes, but still she smiled kindly. “Is that why you’re sitting so far apart today?”
I nodded, looking away from the window for the first time. “Yes.”
“You seem preoccupied, Daleen. Would you like to talk about it?”
I drew a deep breath and took the plunge, knowing it was now or never. I steeled myself not to be afraid, knowing he couldn’t hurt me anymore than he already had.
“You may have noticed how Eddie and I always have small issues we bring in, disciplining the children, paying the bills, housework, and so on.” I began cracking my knuckles and twisting my fingers, and felt myself becoming tense. “Well, I know you’ve said they’re a symptom of something bigger, but neither of us could figure out what.” I stopped, looking out the window again. It would be so easy just to keep looking out the window, and to never leave the sa
fety of Trudy’s little room again. To not talk about anything at all, ever again—especially about that.
Again I steeled myself to say what had to be said, and looked directly into Trudy’s eyes. I had to see her expression, and wanted her to know I was sincere. On some level, I had to read the reaction in her eyes, to discern whether she believed me—or whether she thought I was crazy.
“Well, I know what our problem is now,” I said, my voice unusually calm.
“What is it?” Trudy asked, her own tone neutral and inviting.
“Eddie raped me when I was thirteen.” I broke off, only to hesitantly continue, afraid if I didn’t say it now, I never would. “And sometimes, he still forces me to have sex,” I blurted out.
There. There it is on the table, in front of us all.
I could feel myself drawing into a little ball, emotionally. I felt so far removed from the other two people in the room.
Trudy was silent, but the expression on her face never changed. She still looked as caring and concerned as she always had. “Eddie, do you have anything to say?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Have you ever forced Daleen to have sex before?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged.
“I see.” She made some notes and looked back up, thoughtful. “Well, it’s been my experience that women who have been raped have a lot of issues, and a lot of anger, to work out. I think it would be better if I could see Daleen by herself awhile, until we get some of these things resolved.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Eddie was five feet away, but his voice sounded like it came from another galaxy.
“I don’t know. Maybe quite awhile, but it depends on the progress Daleen makes. In the meantime, maybe we could work out a schedule so you two could come together once a month, and Daleen could see me once a week by herself, if you both agree to that.” She turned to me, and I forced myself to quit staring at the potted plant behind her shoulder.
“That’s fine with me,” I offered.
“Well, this will probably be the end of our marriage now. I might as well just throw in the towel.” Eddie looked like a sulky child, I noticed while peering at the wall beyond him.
Oh yes, Eddie, it’s always about you, isn’t it? Let’s make sure this is about you, too, why don’t we!
“If I wanted to end the marriage, I would have done it already. I only mentioned this because I need help—and so do you. But right now I think I need to get this thing worked out before we can make any progress as a couple.” As I talked, I felt the anger growing within me. As far as I was concerned, I had just announced to the world that my husband of ten years had been raping me. Yet I was the one consoling him—very weird!
“She’s right, Eddie. The little issues you’ve been bringing in here have been masking this problem, and now that Daleen has opened up, she’s ready to work on it. And, it could very well be the reason for all your other problems,” Trudy carefully explained to him.
“Well, I’ll do whatever it takes to fix things. I don’t care what it is, I want her to get the help she needs,” Eddie offered.
“It’s good you feel that way, Eddie, because in all likelihood it’s going to take quite awhile to sort things out. In the meantime, feel free to call me if I can help you, but anything Daleen and I discuss will remain private, unless she decides to talk to you about it.”
We left the office in silence, and the drive home was equally quiet. When we went inside, Eddie began packing his lunch and went straight to work. He didn’t say one word to me, and I suspected he was angry with me for telling Trudy the truth.
“It’s about time,” I muttered to myself.
The next couple of weeks were hellish ones to live through. I tried to pretend nothing had changed on the outside, but inside the sensations I had begun to recognize as flashbacks were increasing. They were the same scenes from the past that I’d been having for years, of actual sexual situations I’d been in with Eddie.
With the exception of the kids being more rambunctious than usual, most likely due to sensing the increased tension in the air, everything else stayed the same. Eddie began working even more overtime, and when he was home, references to my “revelation” were rare.
A week later, during my first solo session with Trudy, she said “highly possible unresolved anger toward Eddie” had caused my depressive episodes. Trudy said I needed to decide where I wanted to go from there, and she would support my decision, whatever it was.
“I don’t really know. I just know that things can’t keep going like they have been or I’ll go crazy,” I said, uncertain of what to do or how to do it.
“I know, it’s not healthy for anyone involved.” She nodded knowingly.
Trudy gently moved me along at a snail’s pace, as we began talking about how Eddie’s sexual abuse had begun.
“You know, for years I believed that what happened between Eddie and me before our marriage was my fault. Or at least I thought I was partially to blame. I mean, he always told me that.” I shrugged, trying to figure it all out.
“What did he tell you?”
I was embarrassed, so it took me a few minutes to answer. “He always said, whenever we had sex, that if I wasn’t so pretty, he wouldn’t have to do it. Or because I caused him to get aroused, it was my fault.” I laughed mirthlessly. “He also said he would be in a lot of pain if we didn’t have sex.”
“That’s a common line among certain types of men.” Trudy shook her head. “So tell me, what usually happened during the times you were together? You mentioned his apologies; did he always do that?”
“No, not really. Usually, if I was at his house, I would go into his bedroom—to talk to him—and he would end up telling me to get into bed with him. He always promised not to touch me, but…” My words trailed off and I found myself separating from the present, beginning to drift away, to another place and time. I had to.
“But he did touch you.” Trudy’s soft words brought me back to the present.
I felt tears welling up behind my eyes. “Yes, he did. And you know what? I blame myself to this very day, for being so stupid. I mean, what was wrong with me? Why did I keep going to his bedroom? Why didn’t I just stop? Why didn’t I stop wanting to have anything to do with him?” I angrily wiped at my tears, willing myself to stop crying.
“Daleen, it’s very common for young girls to look for a father figure when their own father is unavailable, either physically or emotionally. But no girl of thirteen is ready for sex, or wants sex. All she wants is love and attention, and even if she threw herself at him, any decent adult man would kindly tell the girl that’s inappropriate behavior.” Trudy stopped, as if trying to let it all soak in. “From what you’ve told me, and I completely believe you, that never happened—which left you in a pretty awkward situation. Based on my professional experience, you kept going back because you wanted the love and attention you thought Eddie was giving you. Children and teens need that attention. But you never wanted sex. Try to think back; do you remember how you felt?”
I stared out the open window, blocking out the sounds of early morning traffic coming from the busy street below. Slowly it all came back. “Yes, I went to his room because I thought he loved me, and was interested in me—as an equal, as a friend. I kept going back because I always trusted him, because he said it would never happen again.”
“And as things progressed, what happened? You mentioned the rapes didn’t always happen at his house,” Trudy asked.
I shook my head, not wanting to shake the dust off the disturbing scenes from my past. “No, as I got older, he began coming to my house to spend the night.” I stopped, incredulous, looking at Trudy. “You know, I still cannot figure out why my mother let him stay there. I used to lie in bed at night, torn apart by my prayers. I prayed she wouldn’t find out what was going on, but I also prayed she would, so she could stop him.”
“But didn’t Eddie help around the house, doing odd job
s for her?” Trudy asked.
“Yes, he was always doing some chore or another. Sometimes, when we didn’t have any money, he would even help pay for things like car repairs or firewood.”
“So I imagine your mom also felt somewhat indebted to him. Not that it explains her letting him stay overnight when she had a teenage daughter in the house. What else do you recall?” Trudy stopped writing long enough to look up.
“That he came into my bedroom in the middle of the night, and insisted on having sex. I always told him to go away and leave me alone,” I said, feeling aghast even as I said it, “but he never would.”
“So this went on for how long? A couple of months?”
“About six months, then. That’s when I got pregnant,” I said sadly.
“I see,” Trudy was taking notes again. “Tell me, were there other times, away from both of your houses, when those things happened?”
“Yes, they did,” I said, thinking about Gone With the Wind. “Whenever we went somewhere alone together, he would try to get me to have sex. Sometimes I could make him stop, but not always.” I looked up at her. “That’s what I don’t understand. If I could make him stop then, why not all the time? Maybe if I just would have tried harder, I could have. I just don’t get it.” I shook my head, still not understanding.
“Daleen, that’s an unfortunate myth among rape and incest victims, and the fact is, you’re not just a rape victim—you’re an incest victim.” Trudy stopped, giving the words a chance to sink in. “Victims are often made to believe they said or did something that caused the rapist to stop, when in reality, the rapist, or molester, stopped himself. Think about all the times Eddie didn’t stop. Did you react any differently than when he did?”
