Pretense Unveiled

By Bella Gregor

Pretense Unveiled is a true account of the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse that eight children endured during the late 1950s70s, told through the eyes of the oldest girl, Bella Lorne. Before any substantial healing took place in her own life, she faced many years of an abusive marriage to Jimmie Gore.

Mental and physical abuse plagued the eleven-year union and was made worse by the adoption of a foreign child who got caught in the web.

Determination to rescue her six smaller siblings from the pedophilia and violence constantly compelled her. Ever aware of Gods abiding grace, she conquered mountains and valleys but only after stepping boldly into the truth of Gods Word.

First, though, there were nightmares to face. Would the adopted daughter ever be honest or pure? Would Jimmie ever grow up? Bella learned the hardest way possible that survival depended on truth rather than pretense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449726645

Bella Gregor

Short stories, poetry, and devotionals Bella has writtenhave been published in the magazines, including Cross and Switchblade, Seek, The Gem, Purpose, Story Mates, Bread for God’s Children, Partners, Once Upon a Time, and an online women’s magazine WAHMzone as well as local newspapers. Her first book, Haystack Shepherds, was published in November, 2010.    Gaelon and I live in a large country home on a prime acre of land and enjoy his nearing retirement years. Recently I have completed three courses of biblical counseling through the American Association of Christian Counseling in Forest, Virginia; I was ordained as a minister in April of 2008. 

Book preview

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1:

The Girl Who Could Escape—1956

CHAPTER 2:

Declaration of Independence - 1960

CHAPTER 3:

New Identity - 1968

CHAPTER 4:

Mission Focus—Rescue the Six- 1973

CHAPTER 5:

Beginning of an End- 1980

CHAPTER 6:

Release of Need for Mother-1984

CHAPTER 7:

Desperate Runaway

CHAPTER 8:

The Wreck and the Ruin

CHAPTER 9:

Necessary Move-1985

CHAPTER TEN:

Freedom at Last

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RECOMMENDED READING

DEDICATION

To all of those in the body of Christ who read with empathy, who seek freedom and peace in a closer relationship with Him, and who find reality, perhaps with the unveiling of your own pretenses!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FRIENDS— With deepest affection and appreciation, I recognize these:

Nina, dearest of all my friends, has been there in every way for me since we were teenagers.

Rita, childhood buddy, shared similar pain, therefore cared with loving empathy.

Mom & Dad Watts diligently prayed and have encouraged me forever.

Peggy, Vicki, Sonny, Penny, Leon, Suzanne, Robert, Linda and Michael—you girded me up continually with timely love and prayers which was vital for this work. Thanks, Michael, for the hours of painstaking proof-reading—you’re a winner in that field!

KIN: Aunt Sally & Uncle Don, Uncle Leo and Aunt Cheryl, and Aunt Dee were persistent since my childhood with deepest love and abiding faith in my ability to survive. I count you as parents of my survival.

Lew and Kit are far more than cousins—they are beloved brother and sister of heart since we were teens.

Nancy is another cousin, not mentioned in this book but is truly dear for her consistent encouragement all of my life.

Gaelon, gifted husband, lover and greatest of my friends, put up with my days of tears as I relived and released the memories. He was lovingly patient and faithfully compassionate with my early marriage fears and lack of trust, never once condemning but always understanding the reasons why. When I began to put these words on paper, he came in from work many nights to find me an emotional wreck. How I praise God for those back rubs, comforting arms, prayers and amazing wisdom!

Sons Joel and Brent, and daughter-in-law Sheila, patiently dragged me through the maddening maze of computer set-up and making the manuscript submission-ready. (What would I have done without your combined brilliance? While I know you aren’t thrilled with my life being laid open and raw in this way, I am deeply grateful that you don’t reject my purpose.) You, with Kathy, Jay & Kali, and four grand-daughters are loved more than I can adequately express!

Personal Publishing staff: Rhyde, Ashley, David and Courtney—your help, encouragement and patience made all of this possible!

Without the efforts of all these kith and kin, the work could not have happened. Most of all I’m grateful that God never gave up on my stretched-out-over-time struggle for freedom. He is an awesome, faithful and patient Best Friend! It’s been a rich and fruitful journey!

FOREWORD

Skeptics of the existence of God often point to what is known as the problem of evil as a proof for the impossibility of there being a fully good and fully powerful God. The argument basically states that if God is all powerful, why doesn’t He stop suffering? If He is all good, why does He allow evil? Since both evil and suffering are so prevalent in humanity, then there can’t possibly be a good and powerful God. Jesus, on the other hand, made a promise while on earth: In this world you will have tribulation—John 16:33.

The level that this tribulation can reach is clearly seen in the sometimes tragic life of Bella Lorne Gore. She was raised in the type of household where no child should even spend a day! Later in life, she was in an abusive marriage that is described in Pretense Unveiled with a sometimes startling (but necessary) frankness.

Despite this, throughout her childhood and into her adult life, Bella is constantly accompanied by the presence and love of God, which at times manifests in powerful ways at just the right time. She has led a remarkably difficult life, but perhaps difficult isn’t the primary word that can be used to describe that life. Instead, it is best understood by a different word—one that is only used of somebody who has faced remarkable and deep difficulty—overcomer. That one word is most appropriate to define this memoir and actually define the life of Bella.

That she has been able to overcome is a testament in a small way to her character, and in a much greater way to the overall watch-care of her Creator and Heavenly Father. Bella overcomes because Jesus, her Savior, has also overcome. I recommend this book to you because it will show you the harsh reality of life and the true reality that all of those born of God will overcome the world—I John 5:4, 5.

As you read, you might flinch at some of the painful scenes that are described. Do not turn away from them! Realize that Bella’s childhood is tragically being repeated in thousands of homes across America. In those situations, many adults who should know better are turning a blind eye to those situations because they lack the courage or concern to intervene.

It’s likely in your life that you know of such a situation. May this book be used to stir you to genuine and ongoing action on behalf of people that are in seemingly inescapable and painful situations. Perhaps you are reading this book and are in such a situation yourself. Allow me to encourage you to turn with all of your heart to the Heavenly Father. He is with you, and despite what you are going through, loves you completely! Allow me to also encourage you to seek help and to not stop seeking help until you find somebody who will genuinely care and genuinely help.

Silence might seem like the easier option in the short term, but it is likely not the best option in the long term. I will close with the full text of John 16:33. Take it as a promise and a reality: I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

Grace and peace to you,

Pastor Chase A. Thompson WWW.Faith2.com

(P.S. to Bella: Your book has left quite an impact on me. It has made me ache for your difficult childhood; for all that the seven others faced, and for what SaMei went through. As well, it has made me want to open my eyes more to the existence of such possibilities around me and has stirred me to be more than just an idle person offering a Bible verse for comfort. There are children (and others) who need to be rescued. We have a calling to rescue and bring the light, love, Gospel and teachings of Jesus to the World. I count it as a privilege that you’ve asked me to write this foreword for you!)

(Chase Thompson and his wife Janet, are parents of five children and pastor at Agape Fellowship in Pinson, AL www.Agapepinson.com. They are true shepherds of a precious flock and are dear, faithful friends!)

P R E T E N S E U N V E I L E D

INTRODUCTION

It’s not my desire to fantasize or crudely portray some fictitious character born in the soul of a deeply troubled mind. There are plenty of books out there to satisfy the imaginations of those minds that crave such heart-wrenching stories.

This account is based on a true story of the consistent abuse of eight children that, unfortunately, led to marital abuse of the main character. Actions and words of persons involved happened as described, with liberties taken in a manner designed to protect those who may not have found hope or healing. At no time has fiction been written into the story in an attempt to shock.

Traumatic events are often burned into the memory of perceptive children. When notes, musings, old letters and diaries from pre-teen years on are kept, it helps the recall of those details and emotions of the moment. Relevant books and other written material serves to enlighten and explain improper behavior of the characters involved.

In the case of the main character, further insight was provided by relatives and old church friends. These facts would otherwise have been impossible to know due to the age of the victim. Such information further clarified the incidents recorded here.

You will see that the main character has no name in the first two chapters. This is deliberate, creating a sense of no identity that Girl had during her childhood. She felt alien, unable to feel, think or act as her parents did. Initially, the story is told in the most basic way to give simple facts as she remembered them at ages six through seventeen. You’ll walk beside her as she begins her life as a woman and see her struggle to deal with her past and conquer her present.

As you read, you may cringe or shake your head in disgust. Or you may feel frustrated that so many people who could have helped turned away from the first two and then the six children. Had it been some adult’s choice to make, not one sane person would ever place any child in that dysfunctional home. Yet, God allowed those who lived there to remain and He alone knows the reasons why.

In Girl’s case, it was to develop compassion and sensitivity to the hurt in others. Her Heavenly Father had a plan for her life! Each step forward was wrought by trial and error, up hills and down valleys, all part of God’s design to polish off many rough spots for making a diamond that He could use. At the writing of this book, the work is still in progress!

Many have said that the mother of the story was generous in her church services. Understand that there was a garment of praise put on or taken off at will. She was one person in the presence of other adults; quite another in the privacy of her home.

It’s an undeniable fact that she kept a tidy house, sewed garments or crisp window curtains and tended a large garden to see a country family through the cold winter months. She wrote beautiful poetry, sang in the church choir and won a Bible at age fifteen for having learned fifty verses of Scripture. A few said she always seemed highly stressed or often troubled. But they knew she had a hard life, just as many did who lived during World War 11.

An entire life was spent in deception, lies and vain imaginations. That no one believes much of what she now says is the resultant justice. Any remaining judgment will come from God. Her abuse and great dishonesty has never been acknowledged; in fact she believes that she has earned praise for Motherhood (and doesn’t understand why some don’t give it!)

The father of the story was always well-loved and generally respected. His services to the church were numerous. Folks got used to his lack of reading and writing skills, knowing that at least he was always ready and willing to help with any need. A crippling condition of his childhood never slowed him down. He could work circles around the healthiest man. There was very little manual labor that he was unable to do.

Always ready to be the center of attention at any gathering, he often embarrassed his family and greatly aggravated his wife. He was seven years older than she but always less mature. He wasn’t mean, but certainly was loud and brassy; was self-centered, but made sure his family’s basic needs were met. Consistently he taught Bible classes for all ages and frequently sang solos at churches and weddings, as well as taught himself to play the steel guitar.

Two weeks after his major surgery and when dementia was clearly known, his wife declared to their adult daughter, I will not take care of him and be a prisoner in this house. You’ll have to do something! Thus, Girl arranged with Adult Protective Services, Social Security and the directors of both hospital and nursing home for his care. When his relatives protested the imprisonment, they were told, Our daughter arranged that he not ever be released from the nursing home which became an indictment against her. No one understood that she would not allow her father to become her mother’s final victim.

Five years later, at age eighty-five, he went home to be with the Lord, finally free of the crippling of his body and mind.

The brother’s tender heart was severely bruised. Years of bitterness built an impenetrable shell, causing early health problems and unnecessary emotional stress. But he was one of the hardest working men one could ever find. He’s brilliant in any task. His written poetry stirs deep heart strings and shows great intellect that often gets buried beneath varying moods. No vehicle or motor made was ever a puzzle for his mechanical skills. Beneath the tough surface dwells a teddy bear with a heart of pure gold

The brother and sister are undeniably close, but at varied levels of healing. God’s love isn’t dead in his life, but he has yet to walk in the fullness of it. His sister has seen a mighty man of God just waiting to burst forth once he finally realizes the greatness of the One who protected him, too.

In the story, only one pastor family ever tried to stop the abuse and perversion. When Girl was about ten, the Watt family learned of the pedophilia. Amazingly, when the Reverend brought it before the church leaders, it was he—not the pedophile—who was utterly rejected. But, determined to correct sin, Rev. Watt insisted that not only the corruption stop and the man be removed from his church position, but it needed to be taken to the authorities. The entire deacon board (a couple with daughters who were victims as well) defied the Reverend. Their reason—Everybody has sin that’s hidden. We don’t want this to get blown out of proportion.

The man of God stood his ground, declaring, He goes or we go! With extreme reluctance, the church board made their brother simply step down from his position and receive counsel. But those pious leaders of that little country church wouldn’t forgive the forced penance by the Reverend. The Watt family eventually left the church in grief. They stayed in regular contact with Girl, never ceasing to pray for her or encourage her in the Lord.

One single purpose dominates the writing of this account. My hopes are great that some life will be touched and ministered to as they read of God’s constant love. You must recognize that He alone heals and restores broken lives. Somewhere out there, certain folks will read this story and weep. Pain will be great as they find similarities in their own lives. (Sympathy feels another’s pain. Empathy says, I know the pain, for I have likewise been there.) It’s to you empathizers that I write. It is my sincerest prayer that you seek out a Spirit-led counselor who is willing to help you find the freedom available in the arms of God. No psyche course, no hypnosis session or costly therapy can do the complete work of the healing of memories. God alone can, so I share my testimony for you to know that!

I do not want to cause further pain for anyone who reads these words. But, there is harshness to truth that must be clearly understood. The story must be felt as strongly as was felt by the individuals who were abused. For this reason, I’ve boldly and vividly described people and events, and apologize to anyone who is squeamish or sensitive. Those who have never known great pain (some might be called pretty little Christians) won’t enjoy this book. That’s okay; it’s not written for them anyway. It’s written for those hurting hearts that can identify with the pain and receive encouragement and hope.

Names have been obscured to protect the identities of any who played a role, positively or negatively. For, many of those you will read about still live and must not, at this late date, be made to pay for deeds of the past.

While I would surely be blessed by letters that share insights or blessings, there would be no purpose served in belatedly informing me of what could or should have been done. As well, judging those who destroyed the spirits of so many is pointless. Read, weep, emphasize, and find healing…but do not judge.

I’ve chosen to use the end of each chapter to further clarify some biblical truths. Please don’t skip over these words as though it’s only my grandstand for sermonizing. Insights wrought from lessons in life should make those truths valuable for revelation and peace in your own life. The messages deserve your consideration.

Never was this account written to gain pity for anyone described in these pages. Pity is for the weak. I’m a survivor! I am clad in garments of praise that have been lovingly draped over me by the Lord I serve. If you have pity to spare, pour it out on those still tormented, those in denial but still wallow in the mire of pain and who drink of the cup of suffering on a daily basis. Pity him who touched no other life with love for he was denied love as a child.

Pity her who resists any commitment for she’s convinced that no man can be trusted. Pity those children whose eyes speak of pain but have no ready survival skills. And don’t forget to pity those who ignored the needs of eight hurting hearts, for they will be judged for the neglect.

Just don’t pity me or falsely praise me either. My recovery is ongoing. The freedom from memories that bound has been accomplished; complete recovery is in progress. A healthy future with a godly husband, wonderful children and grandchildren, and this format for releasing what burned within me to be shared—as valuable as all that is, nothing is more important to me than knowing the love of God in the fullness of His freedom.

I cannot be credited with the developing roots and unshakable faith in His promises. It’s totally the work of a loving Father in Heaven. I pray that you will sense love and understanding within these pages and will recognize that I, too, have been to hell and back. Discover freedom from the past as you read, even as you remember your own pain. I’m praying for you, my friend!

By the way, you don’t have to wait until you’re forty-something to find victory over the past!

Long, long ago Girl learned a method of survival, a way to cope with tragedy and fear. It was no accident that the survival skill nurtured the gift inside and caused her to throw words onto paper in a creative manner. What she could not say aloud, she could put onto paper, and it gave her hope.

Here is her story:

missing image file

CHAPTER 1:

The Girl Who Could Escape—1956

Little blue eyes watched the black belt swing again into the air and then strike hard into the small boy’s back. It made a solid thwack sound as he screamed, No, Mommy. No! But the belt, black and shining as it swung into the air, was already in its spiral flight upward, preparing for another blow.

The girl with the blue eyes closed it out of her mind as she backed unseen from the room. She began to disappear into soft music, colorful sounds, and sweet smiles on the faces of those who occupied her private world of imagination. It was a ready escape, a place where gentle breezes blew, where voices were pleasant and kind, and wonderful things happened in the lives of little girls and boys.

A new story was already beginning; the words bombarded her ten-year-old mind:

Laura saw the bird, so tiny it seemed to be a dark ribbon swinging through the air, darting here and there, swirling in a mad aerial dance.

The story plot developed as she slipped up the stairs. She struggled to hold onto the words as they raced through her thoughts. In her stories, gentle people spoke in soft tones, and fun things always happened. It was a safe place to be, there in her fertile imagination, where mothers touched children with love, made birthday cupcakes, and smiled with pleasure when the children tried hard to obey. In the safe place, when a little brother was naughty, as boys will often be, a mommy would look sad or sound disappointed. But she would never, ever use a belt to force her son’s obedience.

Girl didn’t remember climbing the stairs to her room. Nor could she tell just when she wrapped herself in the blanket beside her bed, preferring the cold, hard floor to the comforting mattress. She blinked back tears and saw a couple of pages of the new story on her lap. Childish letters had marched obediently across the paper and stood at attention in proper order to become a tender story of love. She’d been writing for a long time as the harshness downstairs drifted away and was replaced by thoughts of sweet goodness.

Girl heard her small brother hurrying up to their shared attic room. He snuffled and whimpered with each step. She choked back a sob, knowing he was in pain once again and would be uncomfortable before he drifted off to sleep. Perhaps there’d be another nightmare to interrupt his slumber, one that caused a shriek of terror to awaken them both.

She wished she could hug the little fellow and put a cool rag on his burning skin. She knew that lying on the bed would add to his pain, but she could do nothing to help him. The attic floor had so many creaky places. Surely she’d be heard in the bedroom below. There was some fear in knowing that they might remember she had left before the nightly ritual of good-night kisses.

Beneath her floor, she heard Father ask why Girl went upstairs already. She heard Mother retort, Oh, she’s probably pouting. She’s too big for kisses anyway. She couldn’t hear Father’s reply, just whimpers from her small brother as he tried to find some position that didn’t irritate his bruised backside.

She sat silently beside her bed and contemplated more about the Laura-story. It eased some of her pain and drowned out some of his whimpers.

Girl knew her brother thirsted and had probably forgotten to use the bathroom. But going downstairs after being sent to bed just wasn’t allowed. Still, she would eventually hear the floor-level attic window open when his bladder cried for release. She didn’t know when he trained himself to awaken to relieve himself, thus avoiding another thrashing for having a wet bed, but she silently praised him for it—his own victory of survival.

When she finally heard soft snore-gurgles coming from his side of the room, she slipped into her own bed and pulled up the blanket, still warm from her place of escape. Sleep didn’t come easily again that night. Thinking about her stories or recalling one or two Bible verses usually relaxed her enough to drop off to sleep. But that evening, Girl thought only of numerous occasions when she hurt inside for her younger brother, Doug. She had to force her mind to dwell on more pleasant thoughts. So, she began to mentally quote the pieces she had memorized for the last Easter program at their little country church in Hazel Flats.

Having started full-day kindergarten as a four-year-old and realizing early that remembering new words from her reading books pleased adults outside the home, she relished in storing up a significant vocabulary. When someone so young could quote entire poems or stanzas from storybooks, such a fact didn’t escape the notice of Sunday school or elementary school teachers. Girl thrived in the praise that came when she easily recalled long stanzas, parts of stories read each week, or verses taught in church classes.

Something occurred in her fifth summer to bring her unusual memory skill to her parents’ attention. While on car trips, she entertained herself by trying to sound out words on signs in yards or the sides of mailboxes. They were usually names but often identified services offered at the home. She read, Milk for sale, Free kittens, Garden vegetables and Stud services (whatever that was).

Since Mother was relatively peaceful on that particular car trip, the little girl asked, What does w-e-y-r-y-n-e-s-k-i say? Her father said it didn’t spell anything.

Mother retorted, She’s just being a smart-aleck, making stuff up, just because she learned to read a few words at school.

Girl persisted in wanting to know how the word sounded. Father asked her to spell it again. He seemed certain that different letters would come out of her mouth.

Calmly, Girl asked, How do you say w-e-y-r-y-n-e-s-k-i?

Is that a word you made up?

I didn’t make it up. It’s written on the mailbox back there, at the white house with a porch swing and yellow flowers in boxes by the windows.

Over his shoulder, Father looked at her in disbelief. He could barely tell you what the front of his own house looked like, let alone some house along the road. For sure, there could be no such strange letters on the side of anyone’s mailbox!

So, he asked Girl to say the letters again. She repeated them clearly. He slowed the car, turned into a driveway, and went back down the road. Mother fussed about his responding to a silly little girl’s unnecessary questions. He told Mother he had to know to prove that Girl was making up stuff.

He asked how she could repeat the letters so exactly.

She answered him, Why, I can see the mailbox here in my head. On the side are the letters W-E-Y-R-Y-N-E-S-K-I.

Sure enough, about three miles back down the road, and in front of a white house with a swing and yellow flowers, was a mailbox with those letters on it.

Father quietly said, I can’t pronounce it, but it’s probably the name of the family who lives here.

On the night of the swinging black belt, Girl finally ceased her trembling and slept. Before long, a troubling dream disturbed her. She was in church, naked and speaking her memorized pieces. She had to use the bathroom badly, but she was expected to stand still and perform well. There was no chance she could stop the recitation and dash to the bathroom. Just before she actually made a mess on the platform of the church…she woke up.

She truly did have to use the bathroom! Why, oh why didn’t I do it before I came upstairs, she chided herself. Not knowing if it was late enough that the parents would be sound asleep, she didn’t dare cross the floor to go downstairs to the bathroom. She looked around the dark room, illuminated only by the moon shining through her window. There on her nightstand was the square, glass bowl that held her barrettes and ribbons. Hopefully, it would be large enough! Dumping the hair ornaments, she did what was needed. In the morning, she simply had to remember to empty it out the window. It became a tolerable routine, less frightening than sneaking downstairs to use the toilet. Whether it did or didn’t help the tiger lilies beneath the window was anyone’s guess!

Her earliest memory of Doug’s abuse was when both children were in the backseat of the old, black 1940’s Chevy. She was about six years old and he was four. The little fellow was especially full of wiggles, restless on that hot, flannel backseat, with the windows open only enough to let in a little air.

He finally spotted a yardstick on the floor and pulled it to himself, waving it slowly in front of his body, being so careful not to poke the back of the front seat, where Mother drove in stony silence. The opening in the window seemed a tempting place through which an insatiably curious boy could put the stick. He was fascinated to feel the resistance of air pressure. He poked the stick a bit further, brown eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery!

How could such a small boy understand the physics involved in air pressure and speed of a car? The inevitable happened. The stick flew out the window just as Mother looked in the rearview mirror. She slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. She reached back and cuffed the boy on the side of his head, screaming about his stupidity.

She told him, Get out and go back to find that yardstick.

With tears and great misery, he opened his door and looked out, saying, I don’t see it.

Mother told him, You’d better get yourself back down the road and look for it. If you don’t find it, I’ll leave you right here forever!

He believed her. Girl, already having gained some wisdom, knew it was just another angry threat. But she couldn’t communicate that to her little brother.

He whimpered and stepped out of the car, hip-deep into grass growing alongside the ditch of the country road. He was much more concerned about the car he left than the lost yardstick.

Girl looked out the back window, watched Doug struggling through tall weeds and wished she dared ask if she could go help him look. She was afraid he might fall into the swampy ditch where the snakes were. It was only a week ago that Father stopped the car so the boy could pee. Mother had warned, Watch out for the snakes in the ditch!

So Girl nervously watched her brother, fearing that some monstrous reptile might slither out and gobble him up. The tall spiky grass surely hid dozens. Girl was certain that a yardstick bouncing off their heads would anger many terrible snakes!

Just then, Mother slowly began to pull the car away from the ditch and then back onto the road. With a strangled shriek, the little boy ran after the car. Girl was in shock, quickly looking at the back of her mother’s head, then out the back window at her brother.

At that moment, a sound that would trouble Girl’s dreams for years penetrated the air. Mother was chuckling! She was amused at the scene in her rear view mirror of the small boy tearing through the tall grass desperately trying to catch up to the car.

Fifteen yards or so down the road, Mother stopped. When the toddler caught up to the car and threw himself inside, she yelled, Where’s the stick? He just shook his head and gasped breathlessly. Fortunately, he wasn’t made to get back out. But for the next ten minutes, Mother fussed, Next time I won’t come back! You should be thankful I’m in a good mood today. Because you’re so bad, your father will probably beat your brains in when we get home! She didn’t end making such threats until her anger was vented, many miles down the long country road.

Girl knew Father barely even paddled his children, so would never really damage their brains. Her brother just whimpered in fear…and wiped his nose on his shirt.

She recalled another occasion when in the car, in their own driveway, Doug bounced forward in the back seat to ask Mother some question. He didn’t realize that she was backing the car up and needed to see clearly out the rear window. Mother whipped her hand across his face. It split his top lip. He screamed and grabbed his mouth in pain.

Mother told him, Maybe now you’ll learn to keep set down in the seat where you belong.

Girl kept glancing over at him. She was sure that so much blood meant at any minute he’d drop over dead. She didn’t understand how Mother wasn’t concerned about her little boy sitting there with blood running down and his lip swelling badly. What had he done to deserve that?

Girl and Doug grew. But with such different personalities and the harshness in the home, neither understood love in word or action. Sometime before her sixth year of age, she had learned to tune out the angry words. She somehow realized that she could spare herself beatings by never questioning authority and silently submitting to whatever came. She had learned that it was the best way to prevent Mother’s screaming and whipping.

But young Doug seemed unable to reject that. When he found himself screamed at, slapped around, pushed against, terrorized and often beaten with belts or small narrow boards, it wasn’t done silently. Vicious and cruel words sliced through the air like razors. Unable to prevent it, he was chained verbally by words and physically by weapons of abuse.

Meal times were some of the greatest moments of stress. Two adults and two small children were emotional prisoners as they sat together at the Formica-and-chrome table. Mother sat sullenly at her seat and Father burbled silly comments in his own attempt at keeping peace. But, there was no peace at all if Mother was in one of her moods. Children’s lips were bloodied for the simple sin of spilling milk. Arms were pinched hard for reaching across the table. Pity the child who dared to say something served was not wanted, for he forfeited his supper. Venomous words were hurled into the air for the crime of speaking out loud when Mother wanted silence.

One time Girl got full and could eat no more of the potatoes Mother piled onto her plate in the absence of meat for the meal. She was made to sit at the table for hours until she ate up every bite. It was late in her adult life before she could stomach potato salad, remembering those cold, slimy potatoes.

On both sides of her parent’s family, there were seven aunts and uncles. In each home, the oldest daughter had died tragically at age thirteen. The father’s oldest sister, Loretta Lorne, died of polio when the epidemic raged through that country town in the 1930’s. The mother’s oldest sister, Eve Leyland, died in the hospital after jumping through an upstairs window of a burning house.

Father’s younger sister Ginny, also a twin as he was, married Mother’s brother Leonard, known to all as Leo. And Father’s baby sister Jonna married Mother’s oldest brother, Lewis. The results were one son each with blood lines as close as actual siblings; double-cousins by title and dearest of all the cousins to Girl and her brother. The Leylands and Lornes were not close despite the triple marriages. Mother’s family was melancholic and moody; Father’s was boisterous and brassy. Both were farm-poor and proud.

Occasionally, the double-cousins were left in the charge of grandparents while the adults put flowers at the gravesites of deceased relatives. As grandparents do, Grandma and Grandpa Lorne gave the children carte blanche permission for play activities. There were creeks to explore, hills to tumble down, haymows to build forts in and wild flowers to gather. The children were allowed to romp and play in the huge yard or the hay field as long as they wished, coming back to the house only when they were hungry. And Grandma invariably had wonderful fresh bread and farm-raised meats for thick sandwiches, followed by blackberry pie or oatmeal cookies.

(Years later when she was an adult) Uncle Leo told her about numerous incidents when Girl was just a baby. That was long before she had any conscious memory, before she learned how to disappear. When Girl was about six months old, she, Mother, Father, Uncle Leo and Aunt Ginny were all at the County Fair. It was a hot summer afternoon; they all were tired of the noise, the walking, the crowds and the awful sticky heat. Seated that day in an old 1940’s metal baby stroller, she was fussy and tired, sunburned and miserable. Mother repeatedly shook her, slapped her and screamed at her to shut up. She prided herself in keeping her baby clean, fed and dry but expected her to not ever annoy her by fussing.

Uncle Leo couldn’t take any more of the unjust treatment. Snatching up his niece and taking off with her, he went into the shade and rocked the beloved little one to sleep. Keeping her gone for nearly three hours, he finally realized that he couldn’t actually kidnap her. The temporary respite had to be enough for the baby. Anger at his sister and grief for her firstborn translated into a lifelong love for Girl. Little did he know then of the great sustenance such love provided throughout her entire childhood.

At another family gathering when Girl was just nine months old, Mother tired again of her baby’s fussing and literally threw her across the room onto the couch at the grandparents’ home. Grandfather stormed in and told Mother, I had better not ever see you treat one of my grandchildren like that again!

He told his son to get his wife under control before something terrible happened. Perhaps at that time Father scolded Mother. Perhaps some inner rage was created that day and began to threaten the carefully orchestrated control over what she owned. It did explain why Mother always had animosity toward that side of the family. Visits to any of the homes of Father’s kinfolk were always very stressful. Doug and Girl had to be on model behavior, quietly sitting in church clothes, staying clean and behaving as perfect children.

Even before the family arrived, Mother warned about unsatisfactory behavior during the visit. The long ride in the car was her opportunity for non-stop threats about what would result if there was any misbehavior. One might think some sort of praise would come on the trip home after the children had endured sitting still for so long. Not so. While Mother griped about the misbehavior of the other cousins, nearly always Father would softly begin humming some tune.

When Mother ran out of things to rant about, he sang the songs out loud which caused either Girl or Doug to vie for the chance to recall all the old ballads in order to keep up a sweeter atmosphere. It mattered not that Father sang nasally or the words got mixed up. The children were just grateful for the change of mood.

Mother’s youngest sister Sally was a mere eight years older than Girl. Aunt Sally was by far the most wonderful aunt a young girl could ever know. Sally put up with a pesky little niece. She cut paper dolls out by the dozens, read piles of books, took her for walks and taught her how to make daisy chains. No girl ever born had such an adoring friend as the young aunt.

Aunt Sally and Aunt Dee had such loving personalities that Girl often wondered how Mother could possibly be an older sister to them. One time, she found herself wondering if perhaps Mother had been an alien as well, just like Girl was…only from a different planet.

Girl often daydreamed. She imagined a life where one would smile freely and families could laugh together. She saw the difference in Mother when the family went to church. It was a completely other person who shook hands and smiled in friendly ways at fellow parishioners. The child learned early to fear the moment they drove away. For, punishment was certain to come for having turned around to glance at a friend or having wiggled at all during the service.

During the days of summer Girl found pleasant escapes in the back yard of the church next door. When her chores were done she took off, crossing the bridge that ran beside her house. Often she’d slip beneath the bridge to play for a while. There were fossils and other interesting rocks to be found or perfect maple leaves floating in the water. Tiny crabs caught in a glass jar would be turned loose whenever Mother called for another chore to be done. Girl knew that wherever she was, she needed to be near enough to hear her name called and return quickly.

Those places were temporarily safe places to daydream or to imagine, but especially to disappear to when the arguing between Father and Mother reached a frightening pitch. In the evenings or when it was too rainy or chilly to be outside, Girl created a safe place in her closet or under a blanket tent, on the side of the bed not seen from the top of the narrow stairwell.

There were no doors to separate the two rooms in that attic. Anyone coming up the stairs had an easy view of both beds separated only by a thin wall and a flimsy blanket covering the space between. She had the room furthest from the stairs so there was a sort of privacy as she grew up. The privacy wasn’t as important at the time as the security of a safe place. To wherever she chose to disappear, she’d take a book to read or a tablet on which to draw interesting sketches or write happy stories.

One of the stories that ran through her head and brought tears to her eyes as she tried to describe it on paper was about a girl who hadn’t been wanted. It came from somewhere in her heart, a sense of identification with such a girl. So often she wondered if she herself was an accident. How could a truly wanted child ever be ignored or screamed at? She had to be an alien dumped into that house. Only by not causing trouble could an alien child hope to be fed and clothed.

Later in life Uncle Leo and Aunt Dee told her that Mother wanted a boy first and was disappointed when her first child was a girl. Aunt Dee said there were three strikes against her from the very first: the pregnancy wasn’t wanted and it shouldn’t have been a girl. Her doom was sealed when Girl came out looking just like Father’s side of the family. At the time of writing the stories, however, the small child didn’t know this.

Her feelings of being unwanted came from comments Mother often made, It’s terrible to be a woman. It’s a stinking shame when a girl baby is born into this world. And it’s worse when homely ones are born, for they’re never wanted. Never forget that being born a woman is a curse.

Girl didn’t know exactly what a curse was, but it had to be bad if it made Mother so miserable. She knew from her own reflection in the mirror that she wasn’t a beautiful child. She had Father’s round pudgy nose, Mother’s too-small mouth and straight-as-a-board hair. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. That she’d been plagued with chronic kidney infections and therefore frequently ill didn’t help either, for she was terribly skinny and pale.

Most of the time, Girl felt she’d been born with only faults and not one thing made her desirable. She looked hard in the mirror one time trying to find a redeeming quality. There was nothing there but huge blue eyes, so she determined to show kindness in them. Her inherited turned-down-at-the-corners mouth often made her look sad. So she practiced smiling in the mirror. But a girl couldn’t go around with a perpetual grin or she’d look like an idiot! So she worked hard at bringing smiles into her eyes instead. She didn’t want to duplicate Mother’s eyes that were connected by a deep, angry wedge formed by years of scowling.

She didn’t mind being plain and scrawny or painfully shy. But to be unwanted was the ultimate insult. So the best she could do was to portray her book characters as able to defeat lack of acceptance. She made sure the heroine’s good qualities—those of kindness and service to others—were emphasized. And always, those were the things that made the main character loved and wanted by others.

As she grew up, Girl’s memory skill increased in leaps and bounds. Besides the rewards of praise, it was a wonderful way to block out bad things happening downstairs or in the car. A sort of mantra covered and warmed her as she repeated those lines or Scripture verses over and over.

Before long, a Sunday school teacher utilized the unique ability. Girl was the one given the longest pieces to say for Christmas or Easter programs. If she hadn’t been so shy, she might have been given parts in the dramas at elementary school. But her introverted personality didn’t match the memory skills. As a result, she was rarely chosen for the hard parts bolder students got. Still, if one sat by her in rehearsals they could have heard her quote line by line nearly every word each character had to learn.

Teachers discovered that Girl read well and could express vivid emotions. So she was often called on to read to the rest of the class. The encouragement she didn’t get in her home was provided strongly by those teachers who discovered her ability and reinforced it. She also excelled at spelling which was an expected result of the early reading-and-memory skills. Rarely having to study any spelling list, she’d simply take a mental picture of the list and immediately recall it when a test was put in front of her.

Social Studies class was boring for she couldn’t relate to its relevance in her life. But she did well on tests in that class because she easily remembered dates, times, people and events. Arithmetic was another thing entirely. She couldn’t rely on memory pictures to solve number problems. It all tangled up in her head. Science was the same. Data that had to be worked out (and couldn’t be memorized or taken a mental picture of) seemed impossible to comprehend.

Mother told her repeatedly "You’re as stupid in math as I am but you’d better pass the class.