Page 1 of Dying to Meet You

Chapter One

Here but by the grace of...

Eden

Itnevergoesawayentirely.

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?

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