Page 4 of All Your Firsts Without Me

“Everyone’s been cleared.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Evidently, not everyone.”

We go in search of the sound, following the duct work in the basement. No luck, there isn’t much down here. Before we head back upstairs, a beautiful tone rings out. We both turn to stare at a big metal cabinet with canned goods on it. Quickly, we shove it aside, finding a locked door. “Shit!”

Giles runs upstairs to find bolt cutters. While he’s gone, I press my ear to the door, listening to the girl sing quietly from the other side. I can’t make out the words, but her voice is amazing. Giles pushes me aside and I draw my weapon as he cuts into the bolt. “Count of three,” he whispers.

When his third finger raises, we push the door open. I catch a small girl flee to the corner of the room in a blur. Dust motes float eerily through the light of our flashlights. Cautiously, we move across the threshold. It’s not hard to clear, it’s completely empty except for a bucket used for toileting and nothing else. The girl is wearing a similar dress to the other women who were removed from the compound. It’s long, flowing all the way down to her ankles. Her hair is long but dirty and unbrushed.

“Found one more in the basement. Get a medic over here,” Giles says into his radio.

Slowly, I move towards the girl, crouching down beside her. “We are here to help you. Can you tell us your name?” I ask gently.

The girl hugs herself tightly but doesn’t speak.

I take in the state of her health. She is incredibly thin, pale, and terribly dirty. “My name is David,” I tell her calmly.

She turns her head so she can peek at me. “David, like in the bible?” she questions timidly.

I nod and reach out, placing my hand on her bony little shoulder. “We are here to help you.”

She looks past me to the open door behind me. The poor girl begins to tremble. When her eyes meet mine again, she asks, “Do you sing and write poetry like King David?”

Smiling at her kindly, I tell her no, “I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

“Is my father out there?” She nods her head towards the doorway.

“What is his name?”

“James Declan,” she answers in barely a whisper, afraid to say it too loud for fear he will materialize right before her eyes.

“He’s been taken into custody. Is he the one who locked you down here?”

She nods but begins to whimper as medics begin to crowdthe small room.

“Hey, shh. Don’t be scared, they’re here to take care of you. You need to go to the hospital, to make sure you’re okay.”

I try to back up so the medics can get to her, but she reaches out and snags my arm. Her knuckles turn white as she hangs on to me for dear life. My gaze drifts to my partner.

“Go with her,” he says sadly.

So, I did. I went with her to the hospital. Sat with her through all of the tests they ran. I continued to sit with her when one of the female officers in our unit questioned her. Any time I tried to leave the room, she would shut down and say nothing.

Her name is April Declan, and her father locked her in the dark room in the basement when she was twelve, the same age as my son. April is now sixteen. For four years she had been locked down there. She told the social worker that her mother and sisters brought meals to her once a day. They also brought buckets filled with water so she could clean herself, though she made it sound like it didn’t happen often. She was allowed to read and was given one candlestick per day. Her father also assigned homework that her mother would collect daily. The only time she ever saw him in person was when he came to preach (her word, not mine) about how sinful she was.

Do you want to know what hersinwas? Kissing a boy. That’s it. She kissed a boy. On the lips, behind the barn, one time.

Her father cut her hair and paraded her through the compound naked so the whole community could ridicule her. Then he locked her in the hidden room in the basement.

What happened to the boy you ask? Nothing. When he turned sixteen, he was given her younger sister to take as his first bride.

The whole thing makes me sick. Just sick.

The problem with April is that she has since refused to speak to anyone when I’m not around. It seems I’m the key to unlocking her voice.

She was so far behind other kids her age, the judge presiding over the case sent her to a facility that could meet her needs. He did this under the high recommendation of mental health care professionals and educators.

I’ve been visiting April once a week for the past two years here at Lakewood House. They tell me she follows the rules and does her schoolwork without fight, but she does not speak to them. Not until I arrive. She waits for me by the doors every Wednesday afternoon. It is sweet and sad in equal parts. Once I arrive, she grabs my hand and rushes me through the building so she can talk to everyone about all the things she was unable to say to them during the week.

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