St. Patrick’s/Elizabeth’s Independence Day Continued

Our Bishop was true to his word – he called back at the ten minute mark. By this time, I had stopped trying to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t know a person could cry so much. Bishop P told me to call and make an appointment with a counselor. He said that by law they would then contact the police, but it was important that before the police were called, that Elizabeth had a support system in place. He asked if I had insurance because if not, he would help me with the cost. I did have insurance and a process for calling for mental health assistance.

“But what about Dewayne? What if he hurts someone while he is in the mission field?” I asked. I had been abused, but never in the name of God. I worried that he could destroy a child’s personal relationship with God and Jesus Christ. It is hard enough to deal with the emotional damage that comes from being molested without having to deal with a shattered relationship with God.

“President S is calling the Mission President now. They will have him pulled immediately.”

“What about Jay? What do I tell him? Do I have to tell him? This is so awful. Jay and Dewayne have been writing each other. How do I tell my son that his best friend has violated our family in this way?”

“You do need to call him. He needs to know why the letters have stopped from Dewayne. He also needs to hear it from you and not from another source. I’ll have President S call you with the number for Jay’s Mission President. Call me if you need anything.”

The thought of calling Jay was almost too much to bear. He was serving a mission, doing the work of the Lord – how would this affect him. Would he get so depressed that he would need to come home? Would he have support in place in the mission field to deal the emotional mess this would create in him? My mind kept trying to think of a way to not have to tell him, but I knew Bishop P was right. He had to know and it had to come from me.

It was now 8:30 a.m. It was going to be a long, long day. I called the number for the counselor, but they didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. I called my fiancé of one week to tell him that we probably wouldn’t be going to the movies with him and his children that evening. Of course he could immediately tell that I was an emotional mess. I told him what had happened. He said, “Do you need me to come over?”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know what I can do, but I can be with you,” he answered.

By the time he arrived, I had contacted the counselor. Each phone call brought a new rush of tears as I brought the horrible words to life once more. We snuggled on the couch – him holding me – me holding her - watching Mr. Roger’s and Barney and Sesame Street. She was ten years old, but I can’t express to you how comforting Mr. Roger’s was that day. Thank your Fred Rogers. Our appointment was scheduled for 4:30 – the earliest they could get us in. We spent the entire day just holding each other – bearing one another up. I didn’t realize the human body contained so many tears.

Andrew left to pick up his children from school. My two other children arrived home from school. I don’t remember eating that day – food is such a big part of my life, but I am unsure if we even ate. We must have, but I have no memory of food. My Daughter, Rose, arrived first. We sat her down and told her what had happened. She cried and felt enormous guilt – guilt that didn’t belong to her, but she still felt it. She had been in the house when Dewayne had abused her baby sister. At this point we still didn’t know the extent of the abuse and we wouldn’t for some time, but she was brokenhearted. Michael arrived home next. He was so angry. He cried angry tears of rage and betrayal, went outside, found a tree limb, and made a club to kill Dewayne with if he ever tried to step foot through our door again.

I don’t remember if I called Elizabeth’s dad before or after our appointment. He was mad. He wanted to kill Dewayne. He blamed me. He said, “If you hadn’t divorced me this wouldn’t have happened. If I were still in the home, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I felt guilty. I felt it was my fault. I felt I should have protected her. His words hurt and in my anger I responded, “Even if we were still married, would you have even been here – were you ever here?” The anger didn’t ease my guilt or make me feel better.

I drove our broken family to see the counselor. She interviewed each of us and then called the police. We were on our way into the next phase of the process. We had survived the first day – the telling. Elizabeth was free of the horrible secret, but it was still horrible. Our pain was raw and as fresh as all the days he had abused her. Now I found my abuse and her abuse getting all tangled up inside my head. I was unsure where mine ended and hers began.

To be continued