MY ENTIRE BODY tensed when I saw my father through the glass doors of the terminal. He stood sentinel by his white Honda, worry fixed on his face. I was shocked by how much he’d aged—his full brown mane had been replaced by balding patches of white, his formerly robust shoulders had caved. Guilt overwhelmed me. I felt responsible.
I emerged from the arrivals gate. He stared directly at me but didn’t see me. It wasn’t until I lifted my hand to wave at him that he finally registered my presence. A tentative glimmer appeared on his face as he stretched out his arms. Instantly, my body was torn by two separate impulses: the urge to run into my father’s embrace and the urge to run away for good.
But I didn’t run away. I took a deep breath like Jeremy taught me—in for three seconds, out for three seconds, hold, repeat—and registered the rhythms of my heart. The pounding lessened. I approached my father and hugged him. We wept for what could have been a minute or an hour.
“It’s good to see you,” my father said finally, breaking the spell. “Should we go to the farm?”
Snow fell as we drove. By the time we reached my grandfather’s strawberry fields, the dead farmland was completely erased by white. Fear seized me; what if I was snowed in, unable to escape my father’s farm, trapped where he could torture me, just like Richard trapped and tortured me? My mind knew this thought was irrational, but still, I started sweating and biting the skin around my fingernails. Once again, I practiced Jeremy’s breathing exercise—in for three seconds, out for three seconds, hold, repeat. My father filled the ride with nervous chatter about his chickens. I just sat there inhaling, exhaling, hearing my father but not listening.
By the time we rolled into the driveway, I at last felt calm. My father turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “I know you’re nervous.” He sighed. “I am too. But no matter what happens, know that I love you.”
I said nothing. I’m desperate to believe in his love but still so afraid to trust.
We e-mailed my mother on that first day. We wanted to speak with her, to explain how we’re healing, invite her back into our family. Her response was devastating but not surprising: I’m sorry, but I don’t wish to speak to either of you at this time. You are both living in defiance of God’s intention for our lives. I pray that the two of you can once again allow Christ into your hearts. But until that time, I will not engage in any further communication. Your sins have done enough damage to my life.
We try not to let my mother’s e-mail dominate our thoughts. We understand the awful grip of the evangelical church. We hope she finds freedom. We hope she finds us.
I’ve been on the farm for three days now. Each day is easier than the last. My father has put me up in the Strawberry House, so called because it was once the roadside stand where my grandfather sold his strawberries during the early days of his farm. It has since been converted into a small guesthouse with one room, big enough for a queen bed. If I need an escape (and there are moments when I feel claustrophobic around my father, when I see a flash of Richard’s face), I can retreat to my tiny Strawberry House.
Overall, however, I feel strangely at peace. Memories of Richard seem to be fading. He has evaporated from my dreams. I sleep through the night. I feel so far from my life in New York. Here, there is no risk of passing a restaurant or storefront or some stretch of city that brings me back to Richard, which then brings me back to the basement, which brings me back to the night I held Richard’s life in my hands.
Fear of being prosecuted for my revenge has prevented me from seeking other forms of justice. Not that I have any faith in the legal system at this point. The state investigation of Richard and his cohort fell apart. Chase filed a civil suit that was dismissed due to the statute of limitations. Michael—homeless for years—has now vanished, joining Evan in the ether. Only Seb managed to get a settlement—an insulting seventy-five thousand dollars.
No one has been held accountable. Richard still walks free.
Some days I wish I’d killed him. But most days I don’t. It was hard enough in the months that followed my final visit to his compound. I lived in constant fear of being arrested. I scanned the headlines daily. The fire was reported, of course. The news provided cathartic justice for so many, and there were countless tweets that celebrated Richard’s fate. It was arson, that much was confirmed by the police. Richard claimed that an unidentified man had broken into the compound and set fire to the house. Whether it was guilt, fear, or gratitude that prevented him from reporting me to the authorities, I don’t know. And to be honest, I don’t want to.
I’m writing this sitting in the Strawberry House. Despite all the injustice I’ve endured, a fragile optimism has taken root in my mind. I find myself thinking about the possibilities of my future instead of the injuries of my past. I think this feeling is called hope, though it’s been so long since I’ve experienced it that I’m not quite ready to trust it.
Earlier this evening, my father asked me to go to church to hear him preach. I never thought I’d step foot in another church as long as I lived, let alone to hear my father preach. I told him I couldn’t handle it. I’m afraid that going back to church will break me. I’m afraid that not going back to church will break me.
“But it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. “Please, just give it a chance. Give me a chance.”
“Okay.” I hesitated. “I’ll do it for you.”