Dying to Meet You

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Here but by the grace of...

Eden

I t never goes away entirely.

The harsh words I tuck to the back of my mind, the truth of my past tending to seep in when I least expect it.

“ You’re nothing but an abomination. You were never meant to exist. ”

Even when I think I’ve dealt with the trauma, something will trigger the vitriol. All those ugly feelings wash through me again years later. Will it ever fade away completely?

Closing my eyes and leaning back in my office chair, I take five deep breaths.

“...then Momma told me the Divine Goddess Alshara would need to okay it. Momma said…” I try to stay focused on my patient’s recollection, but the message I found on my desk this morning evoked the past in a dizzying manner. I should’ve delayed our appointment, but Iker requested it after remaining silent in group sessions for the two months he’s been with us. If he’s willing to talk, I can’t make him wait.

“I’m sorry, Iker, did you say she locked you inside the…?”

“Yes, inside the shitbox. Twice. The second time was because I forgot to approach the Divine Goddess on my knees.” Iker blinks his wide eyes at me. No one knows his exact age; his thinning silver hair and the deepening wrinkles around his mouth and eyes give the impression he’s in his sunset years. But the way he speaks and his body language are that of a child. The trauma he suffered during his formative years caused a halt to his maturing, mentally and emotionally.

“Please forgive the interruption and continue. You were telling me about your mother’s devotion to the Divine Gods and Goddesses in the Otherworld realm.” His terms for the backwoods of West Virginia where the cult of seventy people secluded themselves. While confusing, it’s an example of his struggle since he’s been with us at Horizon Wellness Center.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my colleague Dr. Gregory Wallen leaning against the wall outside my office. “Mother used to tell me the way to favor was submission. But crawling on the rocks hurt so much.” Iker looks at me, his lip trembling. “Do you think that’s why it happened? I stopped being able to crawl to them.”

“Do you remember what I was saying in our group session? Manipulation and control are how cults operate. Your mother believed if she went against the Divine Gods or Goddesses, something bad would happen. That gave them control over her actions, and yours.”

I personally know something about the manipulation involved in cults. I grew up in one, making my current career a passion project as much as a calling. Counseling cult survivors is healing something inside me. Or, at least, I thought it was…

“You’re nothing but an abomination. You were never meant to exist.”

Several minutes pass as Iker tells me about the rules he, his mother, and his seven siblings adhered to. I used to get queasy listening to the stories of abuse. Even though the indecencies he was subjected to were staggering, I’ve listened to similar and worse. Locked inside an overflowing outhouse, starved, terrified by threats, and cut off from the world for most of his life, it’s a miracle he survived. Until he escaped a few months ago, when a passing motorist found him.

“Dr. Bradford, I listen to everything you say. I don’t understand what you mean by that…manipulation? Do you mean like when Momma would mark us?” Iker and all his siblings were subjected to repeated beatings with a stick that had tacks glued to it. The scars are visible on his pockmarked arms and legs.

Giving him a weak smile, I say quietly, “Not exactly. The people in charge would trick your mom. Tell her lies that made her act a certain way.” Another thing I can personally connect with Iker on. Years spent on high alert, because I never knew if I was safe, caused me to doubt my sanity. I take Iker’s hand gently. “If they controlled all of you, they could get you to do their bidding.” It’s a slow process explaining what I mean to this tormented man, but he’s patient while I break it down for him.

Ushering Iker to the door at the end of our appointment, he turns to me. “Dr. Bradford, I’m happy I talked to you.” A tentative smile graces his face as he clutches my hand in his. “I knew you’d understand.”

I wish I didn’t understand so well. Even if I speak occasionally in group sessions about my experiences, I withhold all the twisted betrayals. The need to keep that close is with me every day.

The realization I came close to dying.

Nodding to him, I reply, “We can talk again next week if you feel up to it.” I never want to press any of our patients. It’s not easy to trust people after being in a cult. In fact, it’s daunting to look at those in authority—doctors, law enforcement, teachers—with anything other than trepidation.

Iker says, “I’d like that.” He bends slightly toward me, adding, “You’re being watched.”

My heart thuds to a halt. Watched? My startled look must cause him to rethink his wording. “Yes, your spirit is good. The Heavens will always look out for you.”

The quick flush of heat to my face and held breath go unnoticed by Iker. The note left on my desk is making me more anxious than usual. Iker bows in my direction again before leaving as my colleague clears his throat, asking to speak to me.

Dr. Wallen accompanies me as I make my way out of the clinic. “You didn’t get back to me. How are the kids adjusting?” Seven months ago, my family made the decision to foster three children who survived a house fire and were members of the Revivalist cult. It’s been a daily battle for them to adjust, but none of us could allow them to live in the center or be torn apart from each other in the foster care system.

Sighing, I answer, “Zinnea keeps an eye on her brothers whenever she’s home from school. She’s the most diligent and serious eight-year-old I’ve ever met. Which makes sense after all she’s been through. Zachariah sleeps under her bed, and the baby is just now eating better and sleeping for more than a couple hours at a time. It’s…There are days it’s taking a toll on us.”

I wouldn’t go back and make a different decision; those children are meant to be a part of our family. I believe that wholeheartedly. If only my husbands Keir and Caleb did. It’s not that they don’t care about the newest additions to our family, they just didn’t want Waverly, Weston, or Warner to suffer ill effects from taking them in. So far, Waverly, our nine-year-old, has gotten quiet and secretive; Weston, our six-year-old, has become naughtier for attention; and Warner, our three-year-old…well, he’s still the happy and giggly toddler he’s always been.

“Understandable. Right? They’ve been through hell. Surviving that fire was only the beginning. They need therapy. More than the center can possibly provide.” Is he telling me he won’t continue trying to help them?

“Are you…are—” I stop in my tracks, turning to face my colleague and mentor as he tucks his hands deep in his pockets. He looks over my head at the trees surrounding the parking lot. He won’t make eye contact. Dammit. If he can’t make headway, our road to healing them is longer than I ever realized. “I won’t ask you to violate Zin’s privacy, but you don’t think it’s helping having her and Zach in therapy twice a week?”

His eyes are shining with unshed tears when he meets my gaze. “No, Eden. Zachariah will adjust eventually. But Zinnea, she’s…” Biting his lip and adjusting his stance, he says with a frown, “She’s presenting with multiple disorders. I’m never one to suggest separating siblings, but she could use some intensive therapy. Away from your household.”

In. Out. Count to five. Search for the right words to say to the man who helped me when my life imploded, who I was convinced could do the same for Zinnea and her brothers. Each expansion of my ribcage reminds me of Weston’s laughter this morning at our pygmy goat Petunia’s bleats making his little legs kick in delight.

Well, look at that.

All I need to do is think of one of my children. My every fiber centers when I focus on them. “You know I’m not taking Zinnea from our home. Do you have any recommendations for a psychologist who can work with her?”

He pats the breast pocket of his shirt before taking a pen out. Grabbing one of his business cards from his wallet, he scratches out a name and number. “I just met her at the conference Dr. Xiong and I attended last month. She specializes in childhood trauma.” What a bleak career path , I think before correcting myself. One of my husbands chose that vocation before settling on being a high school guidance counselor at an alternative learning center.

“Dr. Constance Almari?” One of her journal articles came across my desk recently. Specifically, her theorizing about the Camp Carroll Massacre. Immediately, I discount her as a source of help. She was scathing with her take on the FBI’s involvement, and even more so about our building on their former land. Horizon Wellness Center relocated from Illinois to its current location in New York after a scandal forced its closing. Its new incarnation happens to rest on a location with a grisly and horrific past, the site of a mass murder.

The minutes it takes to reach my vehicle are silent. Dr. Wallen appears deflated as I fight for the right words. I’m not disappointed in his decision. I’m terrified he picked up on things I’ve missed with Zin. “You can call me anytime, day or night, if you need to talk. You…Your whole family took on a massive undertaking with this adoption. That can cause stress fractures in any family. In your case-”

I cut him off. “In my case, we have enough to deal with?” The wry smile dies on my face. He’s not wrong.

My drive home takes forty-five minutes, time I normally use to decompress, listen to case notes from other doctors, or simply crank the music to stop intrusive thoughts. By the time I see the large white farmhouse with a wrap-around porch we call home, my earlier worries about the note are pushed from my mind. It could be a poorly worded message or even a prank in bad taste.

Rolling up the driveway to our home, I notice the gate to the pasture where the rescue goats, donkeys, and horses are let out in the afternoons has clearly been left open. Oh, Weston . We try repeatedly to remind him it needs to be closed. Sure enough Petunia is eating what’s left of the hanging flowers on the porch, and Clyde, our one-eyed dufus of an elderly horse, is standing with one leg stuck in a bucket near the porch steps.

Ditching my purse and messenger bag inside the car, I clap my hands loudly, calling, “Weston? Weston?!” Comically the animals only lazily glance at me before going about their business. Rounding up the ragtag bunch and securing the gate takes a few minutes. I’m wiping the dirt from animals waddling up against me off my slacks when Keir’s SUV turns off the road.

Even after close to seven years, my heart still picks up pace at the sight of him. If life hadn’t dealt him the ugly cards it had, he could’ve walked a runway. A stunning face, hazel eyes and a lean toned body that moves with a gait I can’t tear my eyes from make him irresistible. I never miss the second and third looks and attention he gets from men and women alike when we’re out. He’s striking. Even better, there is no one else with such a warrior’s heart. He’s saved my life in big and small ways since I met him.

Clad in his well-fitted gray suit, he gets out of the blacked-out Suburban, pulling his service weapon out to lock in a box mounted in his FBI-issued unmarked car. With a chuckle he yells, “I’m guessing Weston strikes again?”

The little monster comes ambling from the barn with a dripping ice cream cone, wearing oversized galoshes and a Rangers hockey jersey he’s drowning in. The sight of him causes me to choke down laughter. I can’t stay irritated with him long. “Weston, what have your daddies and I said about leaving the gate open?”

Wide-eyed he licks his ice cream before saying, “To not to.”

Keir walks our way. “Is that the autographed hockey jersey that was hanging in the barn office? Where are your clothes, buddy?”

Ugh. He’s right. The galoshes are an old spare pair that sit in the tack room. “Weston, what happened?”

“Um, I was hiding from a ninja. Then…soshite nanika warui koto ga okimashita. That means something bad happened in Japanese. I fell into the horse water.” The water trough sitting beside the barn in the animal enclosure is surrounded by a moat of water from having a six-year-old splashing in it. He blinks a few times at us before continuing to make a mess of his treat.

“Where did your ice cream come from?”

He points west of us. “Farmer Toad.”

The sigh I let loose is from the very core of me. Our neighbor has been an ongoing issue for the past couple of months. He has been dubbed “Toad” by Zach because he is unfortunate-looking with a wide face and double chin. I’d attempt to reign in the use of the nickname more, but the man has made several unwanted criticisms of our family. He’s been flat-out horrendous.

Keir quickly snags a clean towel hanging on a hook inside the barn and scoops the globby cone away. “Hey, Wes, we’ve talked about this before.” He shakes his head as he continues, “No talking to any adults without Mommy or one of your Daddies around and absolutely do not accept any food or drinks from them. Right?” Squatting eye level with Weston, he wipes his face clean.

My hand smooths through Keir’s hair, coming to rest on his neck. He wasn’t much older than Weston is now when his family fell into a cult’s clutches. His parents lost their lives eventually, while Keir was sex trafficked-abuse he suffered until he escaped as a teenager. His protective stance over our kids is only amplified by what he suffered through.

“Daddy K?” Weston rests his head on Keir’s shoulder. “Farmer Toad is bad? He gave me ice cream for pulling weeds in his garden.”

Keir clears his throat. “Wes, you aren’t supposed to leave this yard if we’re not with you. Not to Farmer…not to Todd’s house, not the vet clinic across the road where Daddy C is, not to your friends Hunter’s or Delilah’s houses.”

“Where’s Zach at?” Since coming to live with us, he follows either Wes or Zinnea around. Since Zin and Waverly are dropped off close to five, I would expect him to be on Weston’s heels.

With a shrug of his little shoulders, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “He’s scared of the ninjas.”

Weston’s imagination is unparalleled. It doesn’t help that Daddy H tells him stories about ninjas, while teaching him Japanese. Hutton has been doing work with a tech company located in Japan and overhearing him talk to his contact fascinated Weston. Immediately he wanted to know more. He's a sponge, picking up everything Hutton teaches him. With Caleb he learns about animals and plants. With Matt, he’s getting life lessons. Keir is trying desperately to instill street smarts, and Blaine…well, he’s the wild playmate. Blaine stokes his imagination and revs up the hijinks. I just hold on for dear life, knowing we only have so much time before he’ll be an adult, no longer needing us this way.

Keir kisses his head. “Go find the clothes you took off.” We watch him happily skip back to the soaked pile in the middle of the tack room, while I wrap my arms around Keir’s waist.

“I understand the need to lecture him. I do, but are we running the risk of making him paranoid about people he doesn’t know?” Keir frowns at my question, but I don’t want to steal his childhood away by talking to him constantly about the dangers in the world. Weston has always been an outgoing little boy. The thought of him changing is farfetched, but I don’t want to smother his spirit with rules. With reminders that bad people exist.

The note. I quickly shut down where my mind starts to head.

Sucking in a quick breath, I add, “I just want him to have what we never did-a normal childhood.”