“Faith is why I'm here today and faith is why I made it through.”
Jonathan Anthony Burkett
Lightening flashed viciously blue and white beyond the bedroom window, followed by thunder directly overhead that rattled the leaded glass windows so hard in was a wonder they didn't crack. Nine-year-old Bethany huddled under her bed with her face buried tightly against her stuffed bunny, Harley. She was terrified of storms, not for their violence but for what they brought with them. She waited for the tell tale sound of footsteps between the booms of thunder and whimpered when they paused outside her bedroom door. The door opened, the feet entered, and moments later her father knelt down and smiled at her under the bed.
“Hello, sweetheart. Ready to play our game?”
Fourteen years later....
Bethany Taylor Simmons Rodriguez couldn't stop rocking. One end of her couch at home was decidedly more worn than the opposite end from her ceaseless back and forth movements. It was a never ending battle to refrain from it when she was in public and on those occasions when she had tried to work. A battle she nearly always lost when in the presence of any man from whom she detected any degree of male interest. Unfortunately, she had been cursed with beauty that was almost celestial and which she tried valiantly to disguise. She kept her lustrous silver-blonde hair hacked off with her own scissors, her large, azure blue eyes hidden behind ugly tinted, horn-rimmed glasses, and her gently rounded body covered with shapeless clothes in the ugliest of colors. For some reason, the ruse rarely worked as many men still came on to her. Predatory men. The kind she was all too familiar with.
Twice she had married, forcing herself to believe their honeyed words rather than their lascivious eyes in subconscious attempts to have a normal life. Twice, before she even made it before the justice-of-the-peace, she had already regretted it. But she never backed out for fear of reprisals. And out of an irrational fear that her father might somehow return from the dead and find her unencumbered.
Today she sat, rocking, awaiting the entrance of her gynecologist, Dr. Rochelle Cutshaw, a physician handpicked by her primary care doctor for her expertise in treating women with sexual abuse histories. She was a small, spare woman with graying hair and a gentle manner that calmed and reassured her patients during the most intimate of exams. Today she was returning with the results of tests to diagnose the terrible pain and heavy, clot-filled flows that afflicted her during menses as well as the spotting between periods. Starting as a teenager, it had finally progressed to a point where she'd had no choice but to seek out gynecological help for the first time in her life. Now, she was terrified of the results.
There was a soft knock on the exam room door before Dr. Cutshaw entered, followed by her nurse.
“Hello, Bethany,” she greeted her patient, “I'm sorry to take so long.”
Bethany smiled uncertainly in response and watched the doctor take her seat on a rolling stool while the nurse took her place before the computer stand, prepared to take notes. Dr. Cutshaw got right to the point.
“Bethany, you have a condition known as adenomyosis. Are you familiar with what that is?”
The younger woman shook her head.
“No, ma'am.”
“It's a condition where the endometrial lining of the uterus grows into the uterine muscle.”
“Sort of like endometriosis?”
“Not exactly. With endometriosis, the endometrial tissue migrates outside of the uterus to other areas of the pelvic cavity.”
“Oh, okay. So, what causes it?
“We're not certain but one of the possibilities is damage to the uterus.”
Bethany shuddered, remembering her father's brutal means of ridding himself of the products of his sin.
“My father, when I was a teenager...”
The doctor's eyes were filled with compassion.
“Abortions?”
“Yes.”
The word was whispered as tears filled the young woman's eyes.
“How many?”
“Three.”
“In a clinic?”
“No. He didn't want anyone to know.”
The nurse handed Bethany a handful of tissues and a few moments passed as she brought her emotions under control. Then the doctor laid her hand gently over her patient's.
“I'm sorry that happened to you, Bethany.”
Bethany wiped her nose and nodded.
“Thank you. So, um, what can be done about it?”
“Well, there are several treatment possibilities. You symptoms are significant with your heavy periods and intense, prolonged menstrual pain. Then there is the issue of painful intercourse.”
Bethany immediately shook her head.
“No!” she swore vehemently, “Never again!”
The doctor nodded solemnly.
“I understand. So, here are the options. The least invasive method would be treating it with hormone therapy.”
“Do you think that would work?”
“It's hard to say. Every patient responds differently.”
“What are other options?”
“More invasive methods would range from IUD's to uterine ablation to, as a last recourse, hysterectomy.”
“What would you recommend?”
“We can start with the hormones and see how you respond, then go from there. But, as with everything else, there are certain risks.”
Dr. Cutshaw succinctly explained the risks.
There was a pause before Bethany nodded.
“Okay. Let's try that.”
Five years later...
Bethany sighed tiredly as she sat back from her desk and rolled her head from side to side. Days were often long for those who worked in Legal Aid and today had been one of the longest. But at least Mrs. Baldwin would be able to stay in her apartment. They had proven both fraud and discrimination on the part of property management and the court had ruled in Mrs. Baldwin's favor. In so doing, they had also helped other seniors living in the same apartment complex. Justice had prevailed.
Rising to her feet, she yawned as she pushed the chair closer to the desk then glanced at her smart watch. She had thirty minutes to get across town to the clinic where she led a support group for sexual assault survivors. At this hour the traffic should have died down so she might even be able to zip through a drive through for a quick snack. She hadn't eaten since lunch and she was hungry.
The emotionally charged meeting ran late that night and it was nearly eleven o'clock before it broke up, the women exchanging words of encouragement as they left. Afterward, Bethany returned the chairs from their circular formation in the middle of the room to their customary places along the perimeter.
“Bethany? You ready?”
Phillip Lowery spoke from the doorway. His group of male survivors of sexual assault had broken up a few minutes before and, as always, he had waited to walk her to her car. It had taken her a long time to overcome her fear of men enough that she could be friends with them. Phillip was one of the few she was actually comfortable enough with to trust. Perhaps because they shared similar experiences.
“Yeah. More than. It's been an intense night.”
“Same here.”
He waited as she gathered her purse and coat.
“Would you like to go by the restaurant for something to eat?” He grinned. “I just happen to have some tiramisu with your name on it.”
Phillip owned a tony, upscale restaurant nearby and had treated her to dinner more than once. As tired as she was, the thought of his feeding her was too good to resist and she smiled.
“You're on.”
An hour later, they sat across from one another enjoying the promised tiramisu and cups of rich, Ethiopian blend coffee. From the kitchen came the sounds of the staff cleaning up after another successful night.
“It's a good thing coffee doesn't keep me up,” Bethany commented as he poured her a second cup from the elegant carafe. “Law school made me immune, I think.”
He grinned before taking a sip from his own cup.
“I can imagine. I wish culinary school made me immune to calories.”
She eyed him doubtfully. In his late thirties, Phillip had so far avoided any hint of middle-aged spread. He was a nice looking man with kind brown eyes and prematurely gray hair.
“You're hardly fat, Phillip.”
“Only because I spend most of my free time and money at the gym.”
“Time well spent, obviously.”
He smiled wryly.
“Now you're making me blush.”
She chuckled and forked up her last piece of dessert. After a moment, she swallowed then sat back with a groan.
“Oh, god, that was good! Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
They sipped their coffee in companionable silence as a good-natured argument erupted from the kitchen over rival football teams. Phillip shook his head.
“Carl will never be able to win an argument with Joanne where the Titans are concerned.”
“Nope. She's obviously too die hard. He doesn't stand a chance.”
They grinned at each other as the voices from the kitchen grew louder before breaking off in laughter as Carl surrendered in exasperation.
“So, tomorrow's Saturday,” he noted, “What's on your agenda for the day?”
“Sleep and clean house, as usual. You?”
“Go to the gym then watch Maevis clean my house.”
Maevis was his part-time maid.
“You could at least pick up your socks from the floor.”
“I did once. She smacked me with the her feather duster and told me that that was her job.”
Bethany snorted in friendly disgust.
“I bet.”
“No really, she did! She's quite jealous about her duties.”
He cocked his head to one side.
“Do you remember Emil? My sculptor friend?”
“Vaguely, why?”
“Some of his work is on display at the art museum. Would you like to go tomorrow afternoon?”
She considered for a moment.
“Sure, why not? What time?”
“I'll pick you up at two.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Three months later...
A late evening storm was brewing.
It was springtime in the south. It had been unseasonably warm for the past week and now a front was moving in from the plains where it had wreaked havoc with severe weather. Bethany's heart was pounding as she watched lightening fork in the distance then shakily swallowed an anti-anxiety pill with a gulp of water. Even after all these years storms still terrified her and there had been tornado watches posted all day.
“It's just a storm, Bethany,” she chanted as she paced the living room. “It's just a storm. He isn't coming. He's dead. I saw him in his coffin. He isn't coming.”
The sky continued to darken as the storm drew nearer. Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash followed immediately by a boom that rattled the windows and the power went out. Bethany sank to the floor and curled into a fetal position, whimpering as the storm erupted outside. In the distance sirens began to wail but she was deaf to them as blind panic overwhelmed her.
The sirens continued to wail as the wind whipped ever more violently outside. Her whimpers morphed into shrill screams that drowned out the pounding on the front door.
“Bethany!” Phillip yelled above the storm, “Bethany! Open the door! Bethany!”
A moment later he appeared in the French doors that overlooked the back yard and saw her where she lay tightly curled up and screaming. Looking around he grabbed one of the cement planters and heaved it through the glass, then stepped quickly through the hole onto the shards of glass and pottery and hurried to her side.
“Bethany!”
Her screams increased as, impossibly, she pulled herself into an even tighter curl.
“Nooo,” she wailed, “Not again! Go away! You're dead! I saw you! You're dead! You're...!”
The wind grew louder outside, beginning to take on the tell tale sound of an approaching locomotive, and Phillip knew they were running out of time.
“Bethany! Come on, honey! We've got to get into the basement!”
He barely touched her shoulder and she erupted violently, hitting out in mindless panic, and he was forced to wrap his arms about her, holding her arms down as he struggled to lift her from the floor. Somehow he managed to drag her from the living room and down the hallway. Reaching a door midway down, he released her with one arm and threw the door open, revealing steps leading down to the basement. She continued to struggle, one arm freed and flailing, as he held on to the handrail and pulled her with him down the stairs. Once at the bottom, he paused long enough to peer through the dim light until he made out the shape of the table she used for folding clothes then pulled her with him beneath it. By then, her struggles were lessening as exhaustion took its toll and he pulled her close against him, tucking her head against his chest as the roar of the wind and crash of debris erupted above them.
It seemed to go on forever when in truth it had been barely a minute before the rapidly moving storm moved on. Afterward, a few moments of eerie silence remained before the sounds of emergency vehicles began to fill the rain and earth scented air.
In his arms, Bethany had grown quiet but she was trembling violently. Pulling away slightly, he peered down into her white face. Her eyes were tightly closed and her lips were moving slightly, silently.
“Bethany? It's over now, honey. Come on, sweetheart. It's over.”
After a moment her eyes fluttered open and stared straight ahead for a moment before looking up.
“Phillip?”
“Yeah, honey.”
“Oh, Phillip!”
Once again he pulled her tight against him as she dissolved into tears, rocking her as he murmured soothingly in her ear. Minutes passed before her sobs finally slowed to ragged hiccups.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For loosing it like this.”
He gave her a squeeze.
“It's okay. You're okay.”
“I-I thought that after all these years, that after all these years I'd come further than-than this.”
“Bethany, you and I both know our flashbacks are probably going to continue to happen when the triggers are strong enough. And this one was a biggie.”
She nodded then pulled away.
“Yeah.”
She looked around the basement then up the stairs where light shown brightly.
“I'm afraid to see what it looks like up there.”
“At least the floor's still above us and there's light through the door so the house didn't collapse on us.”
She nodded.
He began to shift out from beneath the table. After rising to his feet, he held down his hand.
“Come on. Let's get out of here.”
The tornado had missed the house but it still incurred considerable damage from flying debris. All of the windows on the western side of the house were blown out while those on the east side remained intact. Rain poured in from outside and was pooling rapidly on the carpet. Someone's mangled car was resting in the backyard with a large limb from a now leafless tree lying across it. Yard furniture and ornaments, hers as well as her neighbors, littered the ground around it.
“Oh god,” she whispered and leaned against Phillip, allowing herself to accept his comfort as his arm tightened around her shoulders. “I can't believe this!”
She looked up at him, her eyes once again glistening.
“Thank you for being here. If you hadn't been...”
“I knew you'd be terrified,” he told her and lifted a hand to gently brush hair from her face, “I was worried you'd be too scared to know what was going on.”
“I was.”
He looked at what remained of the French doors then smiled crookedly.
“At least you won't have to tell your insurance I broke them first.”
As his apartment building had escaped unscathed, Phillip helped her gather some of her things then took her home where Maevis met them at the door. She quickly engulfed Bethany in a soft blanket then led her down the hall to the guest bedroom then spent a good part of an hour helping her settle in. After carrying her small suitcase to the bedroom, Phillip retreated to take a shower and put on clean clothes. By the time Bethany emerged, herself freshly showered and dressed in comfortable sweats, Maevis had bowls of soup and sandwiches ready, which she served on TV trays in front of the gas fireplace in the living room. After fussing over them a little more, she finally retreated, leaving them to eat in peace.
He watched her slowly lift the spoon of chicken noodle to her mouth and take a hesitant bite. She was an average-sized woman, if a little plump, but the wing back chair seemed to dwarf her. His heart ached for her. She looked so shattered. So lost. But he'd been where she was himself. He knew she was going to be okay but it would take time. The storm had triggered a bad flashback with very real danger. It might take a long time.
But he knew she was tougher than she realized. She'd shared her story with him so he knew just how bad it had been for her growing up. It was amazing she had survived as well as she had. To have gone to college, finished law school, and pass the bar on the second try. Then be so willing to help people and function as well as she did. It was simply amazing.
If he could he'd resurrect her father and beat him back to death.
Much as he'd beaten his own incestuous father to death when he was just sixteen.
He watched her nibble on her sandwich. He wondered if she'd ever realize just how special she was.
It took nearly two weeks for her house to be repaired. During that time, she returned to work and continued to lead the support group, and came home each night to his apartment. Gradually the shadows lifted from her eyes and she began to smile then laugh again. She seemed to blossom under Maevis' motherly fussing, something her own mother had never done, and Phillip felt himself dreading the day she would move back home. For nearly three years he'd fought his attraction to her, understanding as he did her background. But now, having had her living under his own roof, his feelings were getting harder to hide. She'd grown so precious to him. The last thing he wanted was to shatter her trust and frighten her away.
On Saturday morning, she moved back to her house and that afternoon she opened her new door to find him waiting with take out from his restaurant in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“Housewarming gifts,” he greeted her and she laughed as she opened the door and motioned him in, where the homey scents of apples and cinnamon wafted from an oil warmer to mask some of the odor of fresh paint.
They enjoyed the repast of chicken tarragon and rice pilaf before retiring with their refilled glasses of wine to the living room. Smooth jazz played softly as they relaxed on opposite ends of the new sofa. Phillip leaned his head against the cushioned back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to luxuriate in her nearness, and the sense of peace it brought him.
“Phillip?”
“Hmm?”
She paused and took a nervous sip of her wine.
“Phillip, I have something to say. But I'm not sure how to say it.”
He opened his eyes and rolled his head so he could look at her.
“Just say it. That's usually the easiest way.”
She nodded.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
She took another sip of wine before setting it on the coffee table and turning slightly to face him.
“Phillip, you know my story.”
“Yes.”
“You know how I feel about, about things.”
He nodded, his gaze sharpening even as he went completely still.
“Yes, I know.”
Her struggle for words was obvious until she finally sighed and rubbed her hands down her cheeks.
“Phillip, I, I have feelings for you! There! I said it.”
He slowly sat up. His heart was beginning to pound and he caught himself holding his breath.
“What kind of feelings, Bethany?”
“Feelings feelings,” she replied desperately, “Like uh , like women have for men.”
He didn't mean to make things more difficult for her but he needed to know exactly what she was trying to say.
“A woman can have any number of feelings,” he pointed out.
“Yes, I know.”
She blew out a breath and started to reach for her wine glass, then changed her mind and finally turned to face him fully. He watched in hopeful wonder as she gathered her courage.
“I-I want us to be together. As a man and woman, I mean.”
Suddenly she wasn't nearly thirty years old, but a shy teenager taking a very large step, and he knew he'd never love her more than he did at that moment.
“I'd like that, too,” he confessed quietly.
“You would?”
“Yes.”
Her shy smile bloomed with relief, and she watched him rise slowly to his feet. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to take it then pulled her to her feet. Etta James began to sing At Last as he pulled her into his arms and began to rock slowly side to side.
“I would like that very much,” he assured her as he rubbed his cheek against hers. “In fact, I've wanted to do that for a long time. I just didn't know if you did, and I was afraid I'd scare you away if I told you.”
She was quiet for a moment as the truth of his words sank in.
“Thank you,” she finally murmured.
“For what?”
“For understanding.”
He pulled back and brushed her bangs from her face, then leaned forward and placed a tender kiss first one cheek, then the other, before finally finding her lips. For an instant she stiffened and he stilled, not lifting his head as he waited, until she finally pressed closer, opening her mouth in invitation. A few moments later, he again pulled away and met her eyes with a smile.
A beautiful story of two people overcoming the dark stories of their youth through years of counseling and, in some cases, surgery to correct physical problems. A good lesson for those who have had to go through such pain. And, a warning that that kind of behavior exists in our society and should be stopped at all cost.
A young widow joins her aunt’s house-restoration project in the wilderness, determined to take a stand for independence, but two men have different plans for her—and so does God.
Falling to a rare sentinel illness and separated from her charges during a retrieval mission Xevera Nanay encounters the biggest threat to her survival but more importantly her autonomy when paramedic Michael Constantine recognizes and imprisons her
