Chapter 12 #3
After graduating from law school in 1967, Rowan worked as a prosecutor and served as a district attorney for the State of
California from 1980–1995. Along with his wife, Sadie, a social worker, he founded Jennifer’s Voice in 1997.
The organization was initially established to educate the community about coercive control through school-based programs and awareness-raising campaigns.
In 2001, Jennifer’s Voice opened the first in what is now a nationwide series of high-security shelters for survivors of domestic abuse.
Since 2004, Jennifer’s Voice been working to lobby for a nationwide law to outlaw coercive control, which is still not an offence in most states.
“You’re scaring me, Fiona,” Mum says, and I realize I’m crying again. I push the phone across the table and watch her face
as she reads. First there’s surprise, then disbelief and then my stoic mother starts to weep again.
There’s nothing for me to do except stand and throw my arms around her and hold her close while she reads every page of the
Jennifer’s Voice website several times. Then we click on a few more Google links and find photos of Rowan testifying before Congress, speaking
at conferences and colleges and, in the final photo—which we locate on his Facebook page—posing outside of a large, plush
home with his wife, three adult children, eight grandchildren and four golden retrievers.
“What is this it talks about—coercive control? I don’t know that term. What does it mean?” she asks.
“It’s a form of domestic abuse, Mum. It’s exactly what Julian did to you. Controlling every aspect of a partner’s life. Making
them both terrified and dependent.”
“I didn’t know what to call it,” she says, then she touches her fingertips to her lips. “Sometimes I thought it was just me.
He made me think I was crazy. That I was weak.”
“He tried to break you. He tried to kill you. But you found a way to survive. You were always strong.”
She gets up to fetch herself some tissues and to wash her face, and then comes back to the breakfast bar and takes my phone
in her hand again. She’s staring down at the photo of Rowan on the screen, silent tears pouring down her face.
“Rowan and I were so close until I pushed him away.”
“You didn’t push him away, Mum.”
“But he told Julian—”
“Julian lied. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, and even Rowan says it right here, see? Julian manipulated you and he manipulated Rowan
too, isolating you both and making you each think it was your own fault.”
“I wish I could tell him I’m okay,” Mum blurts, her voice breaking. She looks up at me, her eyes panicked. “Look at this page,
Fiona. He’s been worried for me this whole time. All of these years—these decades! How can I let him know that I’m okay?”
“We could call him.”
“What? How would we—”
“It says here he works out of the charity’s San Francisco office. I’m pretty sure it’s still daytime there.” I quickly check
on the clock on my phone and confirm it. It’s early afternoon for him, just past 8:30 a.m. for us.
“But what would I even say? It’s not like he’s going to answer the phone himself. How would we even reach him?” She seems
equal parts hopeful and terrified. I’m feeling much the same.
“I’ll call. I’ll tell them it’s in relation to his sister. I’m sure I can get him on the phone.”
“What if he doesn’t believe us?”
“He probably won’t at first! But it won’t be hard to prove it to him. I’m sure there’s all sorts of things from his childhood
that only you would know.”
“Well, yes. That’s true, but he’ll ask about Julian—”
“You can simply tell him that Tad helped you escape and you made a happy life here and that was the end of it,” I say. “He
doesn’t know Julian came after you and he doesn’t need the whole story.”
“I need to think about this.”
“Okay,” I say, and what an anticlimax! But it has to be her choice, so I add, “That’s totally fine, Mum. We can do it another
day—”
“Another day?” she repeats, aghast. “Fiona, for fifty years my baby brother has believed he’s the only surviving member of our family. I need to take a minute or two to clear my thoughts
but I’m not waiting another day.”
“Right,” I say, smiling weakly. It looks like we’re doing this. “I’ll drink my coffee and you tell me when you’re ready.”
Mum disappears into the bathroom again and I take a minute just to breathe. To reflect on this last shocking week, and everything
I have learned about my own family and myself.
I’ve always known that there is power in uncovering and honoring and sharing the truth about the past. In exposing history, even history that is difficult and ugly, we can learn to walk a better path
in the future. I built my entire career on that principle, and I know I’ll be seeing it in action in my relationship with
Mum over the coming years.
Jennifer Webster walks back into her kitchen, eyes red rimmed but dry, shoulders straight and chin proudly raised and hope
sparkling in her eyes, and I know that things between us will never be the same.
“Ready?” I ask her, and she smiles—brave and beautiful.
I pick up the phone and dial.
* * * * *