Twisted Faith

By victoria Gene schwimley

Abby Stein is a good girl, but when she goes astray one night, defying her parents' wishes that she not go to her best friend's birthday party, Abby finds herself in trouble. Shunned by her family, her church, and left all alone, she makes a desperate cry for help to Pastor David Owens, who must call on God to help him save this girl's life, and th

• Language: English
• Publisher: VG Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311363176

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TWISTED

FAITH

VICTORIA SCHWIMLEY

With Jessica Morrison

Copyright © 2014 Victoria Schwimley

Published by Victoria Schwimley

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given

away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase

an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it

was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your

own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Jamie and Kaylee, two single moms making it work. You are never alone

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

David

If anyone had ever told me I would save someone’s life, I would laugh in his or her face. They teach us about this kind of stuff in seminary, but no one ever thinks they will actually use the training. I, like many pastors, expect our careers to deliver many sermons, pep talks, and a lot of advice, but we hope we never have to talk anyone out of suicide. This would be the second time in my career that I would have to pull from my memory all the things I had learned and be an instrument for God.

The urgent call came in while I was shutting down my computer for the night. I was ready to head home for some much-needed rest, much needed love, and Betty’s stewed chicken and parsley dumplings. My stomach growled at the thought of the savory dish for which Betty was famous, and I couldn’t wait to get home and devour it.

It had been a trying day, most of which I spent nursing a pounding headache. Several times that day, I almost went home early, but I couldn’t escape the mound of paperwork needing attention. It made me long for the days when all I had to pastor was a bunch of kids. I thought the paperwork was bad then. It was nothing compared to that of running the entire church.

I’m thankful now that I stayed. If I hadn’t, I would have missed the call, and I might not have been able to live with the outcome. Neither my conscience nor my heart could handle another loss.

The church council met the previous evening and spent hours bickering over whether they should spend Wendy Parson’s endowment gift on upgrading the cooling system in the youth center or repairing the potholes in the parking lot. Both projects were long overdue, but then so were the utility bills.

I sighed. Unfortunately, the endowment gift couldn’t be used for daily operating expenses. I don’t understand why people have to put such strong restrictions upon the gifts they leave. It’s frustrating when you have a need but can’t touch the money you need to fix it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I begrudge the gift, it’s just that it’s hard for me to think about spending thousands of dollars on a cooling system when the church can’t even pay for the electricity to run it.

When I first came to be the pastor of New Hope Christian Church, I had just that—new hope. I was newly married and looking forward to a new job.

A recent encounter with a young man, who had killed a girl in a careless car accident, had inspired me to make the most of my life. Taking a big chance, I answered an ad in a local clergy magazine for a church that was looking for a young, energetic pastor to revive a flailing church. I had always been a youth pastor but thought it might do me some good to broaden my challenges.

What I found was a disgruntled, fading congregation, and it was my job to fix it. My hopes dashed to the ground. How was I supposed to do that when the members of the congregation couldn’t even agree on the best way to spend their money. As a youth pastor, all I’d had to worry about was pastoring—and I didn’t have to worry about electric bills.

I stood looking at the ringing phone. A cold dread spread through my body. An omen from God, perhaps. I answered it after the fourth ring, having spent the time pondering whether I even wanted to answer it; it was, after all, past office hours, and a call that came in this late usually meant trouble somewhere. Even so, something drew my hand toward the receiver. Hello, I said, New Hope Christian Church, Pastor David Owens speaking. How may I help you?

A young voice, squeaking like a little mouse came back at me, so faint that it was almost a whisper. I’m sitting in your parking lot and I’m going to kill myself.

I froze. My heart literally slowed its beat. The temperature in the room seemed to go up about twenty degrees, and I pulled the collar of my shirt away from my neck to reduce the heat. Then, all my long hours of training seemed to kick into gear. I said, How may I help you? May I come out and see you? The girl hesitated. I waited anxiously for some kind of indication that life still clung on the other end. I crossed to the window, thankful for once that the blasted, long, cord stretched all the way. I had been badgering Ashley, my secretary, about getting a short cord, but she just kept saying there was no money. Now I was pleased she hadn’t listened to me. I peered through a crack in the blinds.

Stay away from the window, the voice came back, stress clearly audible.

I immediately dropped the blinds and stepped back. She was calling all the shots. I knew deep down that she didn’t really want to kill herself or she wouldn’t have called me. I’m stepping back, I said. Tell me what you need me to do. Suddenly, I heard a baby cry. I froze. My heart skipped a couple beats. I wasn’t just dealing with one life; there were two on the line here. It sounds as if your little one might be hungry. Do you need some food?

There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered, as if she were trying to decide if she could deny the child’s existence. She’s fine, she said. I just fed her.

How old is she? I asked, trying to keep the conversation open.

Three months, she said, sniffing back sobs.

I ran through the possibilities in my head in an attempt to get to the root of the despair. She sounded young, so maybe she was a teenage mother who had decided to keep her baby, not knowing how hard it actually would be. On the other hand, perhaps that dreaded post-partum depression, that had so recently been making headlines, had become known for her. Whatever was causing her distress, I knew I had to figure it out soon or two lives would be at stake.

What’s her name, I asked. I thought if I kept her talking about her child, I might help her see some hope in her future.

Another pause and, Her name is Grace.

That’s a pretty name.

I hate it, she said. My mother named her, she snarled.

Ah, I thought; a little more was coming clear to me. "May I ask your name?" I waited through a long pause, and I guessed she was wondering if it was a trick question. As if by telling me her name, she might be revealing herself.

I’d rather you didn’t, she said in a voice that betrayed her true wishes.

I should call you something, I said. Hey you in the parking lot doesn’t sound very flattering, not to mention it’s quite the mouthful.

To my surprise and delight, she rewarded me with a cursory chuckle. I guess you could call me Abby.

I wondered if that truly was her name, or was she trying to throw me off track. I guessed it was probably a shortened name. I took a stab at it. Is that short for Abigail?

Only my mother calls me that when— She broke off. Caught off guard, Abigail had revealed a vital piece of information about herself. I guess it doesn’t matter.

I ventured to take a step closer. It’s a little chilly outside, Abby, I said, careful not to use Abigail. It had become my suspicion that this girl was angry with her mother for some reason. Wouldn’t you like to bring Grace inside? We have a nursery in the back; I’m sure she would be more comfortable.

Her tone became angry, and I knew I had stepped too far. Stop telling me what to do! Everyone’s always telling me what to do!

No. No, I said. It was just a suggestion. If you’re more comfortable out there, then by all means you can stay there.

I pondered the notion of calling 9-1-1 on my cell phone, but that option held risks of its own. What if Abby were holding a gun and the sound of the sirens scared her into action. Besides, I hadn’t given up hope yet that I would be able to coax her inside. She had come to me, after all.

Are you still there, Abby? I asked when the silence grew.

Yeah, I’m here.

The crying had ceased, so whatever was happening outside, Grace was now content. I played on that. I see Grace has stopped crying. You must be good with her.

I’m okay, she said. She pisses me off sometimes, and even I know that’s not good.

Dan, our director of custodial services, walked in the back door, ready to clean away our daily grime. He made a clattering of noises and I made a gesture to silence him.

What was that? Abby asked, with the slight edge in her voice returning.

Nothing, Abby, I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray me.

I heard a noise. Did you call the cops? Oh, geez. I gotta go.

I heard a rustling sound. No, wait, I pleaded. I didn’t call anyone. You have my word.

The line was silent. I was just thinking she had hung up when she said, If I can’t trust a man of God, then who can I trust?

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at Dan, who had come to stand beside me. A puzzled expression on his face relayed his interest. There was nothing I could do that wouldn’t draw attention and scare Abby away, so I made a hushing gesture with my finger and Dan sat down. I was still standing at this point, hovering just far enough from the window that I might catch some kind of a glimpse. I risked a step forward and caught the faintest evidence of a car’s fender, hidden just behind the wall leading to the parking lot. Was she sitting in that car? Or was she hiding around a corner on foot, perhaps pushing a baby carriage.

You can trust me, Abby, I said.

It’s not my fault, you know, she said, as if I had a clue as to what she was referring. She blames me, but it’s really his fault.

I frowned in puzzlement. Who’s fault, Abbey? If you tell me what happened I might be able to help.

I heard some rustling, and then the unmistakable squeak of leather as someone slid across a seat. I risked peering out the window. Is that you, Abby? Is that your car in the parking lot?

Don’t come out here, she reminded me. Or I swear I’ll kill us both.

I won’t, Abby. I’m going to stay here unless you want me to come out. Then all you have to do is ask. I wasn’t worried about Abby and Grace freezing; it was April and had been an unseasonably nice day, but the nights still grew cold, and I didn’t want them to get chilled. Can we agree on that, Abby? She didn’t answer, and I wondered if perhaps she was giving silent permission. Abby? I asked again.

Okay, she breathed, her voice softening a bit.

Dan handed me a piece of paper. On it he had written: do you want me to call the police? I shook my head, wrote back, call my wife and tell her I’ve had an emergency. Dan nodded his understanding and ran off. I turned my attention back to Abby. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Abby? I get the feeling you really don’t want to hurt that innocent little baby.

She scoffed, She’s not that innocent—just ask my father. If you listen to him, he’ll say we both had it coming.

My pulse quickened as she revealed more of the story. I didn’t like the way it was heading. Thousands of children are abused by a trusted elder every day—I had special training in dealing with abused children as part of my pastoral training, but I’d never had to put the skill to the test. I’m listening, Abby, if you want to tell someone.

At first, I thought she either hadn’t heard me or was ignoring me, but then she began her tale. I sat down in my big, comfortable chair and listened with rapt attention to Abby’s story. I expected child abuse, sexual assault maybe, but I never expected the truth of her tale.

Abby

My name is Abby Stein. I’m a junior at Waldorf High School in Ashcroft California, a small coastal town in Northern California that is run by a bunch of Bible thumping, backward thinking men, who lay claim to their women at an early age. At least that’s the way it seems to me. I’m sure there are some people who wouldn’t agree with me, but then they’ve probably all been brainwashed their entire lives.

My father is an accountant, and although he has an office downtown, he usually works from home, which makes it extremely difficult to escape his constant scrutiny. Every week he stands all three of us, my mother, my sister, and me, against a wall and throws questions at us. He will want to know to the detail what we’ve spent our money on that week. If he feels we’ve wasted any of it, he will cut back the household budget the next week by that much. His control makes me want to puke. I swear my eyes glaze over when he begins ranting. When he finishes yelling at us, he’ll look me in the eye and say, What the hell are you doing standing there in the corner when the man of the house needs a beer?

The man of the house as my father is so plainly fond of saying—could mean a lot of things to a lot of people, but to me it meant the chauvinistic pig of the house. While I was small and growing up, I didn’t understand the term, but as I grew I understood this to be an honored place—a place where a man took charge of guiding his household—seeing them through the adjustments and changes that life threw at the family. But in my house, it meant the man who got waited on hand and foot, owner of the remote control, hoarder or the last dish of ice cream—owner of the dreaded belt.

My father was a heavy disciplinarian—a trait passed down from his father, and his father’s father, and his grandfather’s father…well, you get the point. In my home ‘yes sir’, ‘no sir’, ‘right away sir,’ were all words by which to save your fanny. My mother stood by, watching of course, supporting, if not secretly reveling in the punishments my father doled out to us. By us I mean me and my little sister Gabby, short for Gabriella.

Gabby is fourteen and very lucky because my parents have learned all their mistakes with me. This also means she has to pay for my mistakes, which makes me feel bad, but hey! I’m just learning myself—right?

Gabby is a girls’ softball star, a star pupil in school, and slotted to be the next pastor of our congregation—that is if they ever start giving females the credit they deserve and actually let them make a difference to the fledgling flock. Don’t get me wrong, though, I love Gabby and wouldn’t hurt her for the world. It’s not her fault she’s Mommy and Daddy’s pet. I try to do right, honestly, I do, but sometimes I just get so…angry. When I’m angry, I often step out of line—which is how I’ve come to this dreadful point in my life of no return. I’m about to rock my parents’ world—and there’s nothing I can do to avoid it. And, unfortunately, I’m scared of what’s going to happen.

I came home from school that day, tired, cranky as all hell–there’s one sin against me—and sicker than a dog (pardon the cliché). Throughout the school day, I couldn’t keep a thing in my stomach. It’s been happening to me for a few weeks now. I had pushed all the possibilities aside—stomach flu, food poisoning, bad reaction to medication—which I took hoping to give myself a bad reaction, but in the end I had to admit to the possibility—I might be pregnant.

As I’ve suggested before, I come from a strong Christian family with strong Christian values. That means I’m always expected to hold my head above all the temptations, all the negative behavior that my parents can’t possibly imagine is out there, and be a good girl. I’ve tried explaining peer pressure to my parents at every turn, but all they ever say is, Don’t you think Jesus had temptations, too? I really want to laugh when they say this, but I don’t. They don’t seem to understand that I’m not Jesus, and Jesus didn’t have to live with R rated movies, four-letter curse words, scantily clothed bodies running around the school campus, or guys and girls making out in the hallways. Jesus didn’t have to live in the twenty-first century. I even begged my parents to put me in an all-girls Christian academy to avoid these temptations, but they said I should be able to rise above them—after all, Jesus did. I have really gotten tired of hearing those words.

Although, I have to say today of all days I was glad I attend a public high school, because when my friend Brittney, who sits behind me in English class, jokingly uttered the dreaded words I’d been trying to avoid, I took a deep breath, heaved a huge sigh, and carted myself right off to the nurse’s office. If I had been in a Christian high school, I never would have dared to do that.

I pushed open the door, which seemed heavier today than it had ever felt before, and marched my little butt up to the desk and said, I’d like to see the nurse please.

Wendy Snow looked me over and asked, Are you sick?

I dropped one shoulder, cocked my head to the side, and raised my eyebrows. I just had to shake my head at her. I couldn’t help it—why else would I be asking to see the nurse. I opened my mouth to respond, expecting to say, Yes. What I said was, Is that any of your business. I was so shocked that I clamped my hand over my mouth, as my eyes became wide circles. I’m so sorry, I added, but the damage was done. Tiny little Wendy Snow, who has never said a cross word in all the years I’ve known her, cried. Later I learned it was the hormones speaking, but that didn’t change the fact that I had made someone cry.

Wendy shoved a clipboard at me that had a place to sign in and a reason for my visit. I took the clipboard and wrote my name. Under the column that asked the reason for my visit, I wrote, sick.

Wendy took back the clipboard, looked at what I wrote, and then narrowed her eyes at me. Sit, please, she managed to get out between clenched teeth, and I did.

It seemed like forever, but eventually a door opened and the nurse walked out. She was tall and lean, had slightly graying hair, which made me think she was probably in her forties, but what do I know. I’d been there on a few occasions when my stomach was aching, and remembered her to be kind. How kind would she be now when she found out why I was here? She looked around the room, surveying her choice of patients I suppose. As I was the only patient in the room at the time, I got to go first.

I stood nervously inside the door. I kept my hands at my sides, my palms resting against my thighs, so she wouldn’t see how sweaty they were. She shut the door and sat at her desk, indicating I should sit in the seat next to her. I took a huge step sideways and slithered into the chair. She smiled at me. Her smile was warm and friendly, and my shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. What can I do for you, Abby? she asked.

I’m sick, I said.

I got that from the sign-in sheet and the fact that you’re here. She put the back of her hand on my forehead, just as my mother had done every year since birth. I pulled away, suddenly ashamed at comparing the image. She was nothing like my mother. I don’t have a fever.

If I offended her, she gave no indication. She just smiled again. Well, she said, perhaps you won’t mind humoring me. Then she stuck a thermometer in my mouth. I thought about taking it out, but really, I welcomed the delay. While the mercury was climbing, she picked up my wrist and took my pulse. She smiled again, so I assumed it was okay. She took the thermometer out of my mouth and looked at it. No fever and your pulse is good and strong. So what brings you here?

I swallowed and repeated, I’m sick.

We’ve established that, the nurse said, and despite her niceness, I could see she was growing impatient.

And I’m tired, I added.

Are you sleeping well?

And my boobs are sore. She cocked her head in a puzzled frown. And I’ve missed two periods.

She had taken out her pad of hall passes by now, the same kind every teacher on campus puts in his or her drawer. I can write you a note if… and then she caught on. Her mouth rounded in a big O formation as her eyes grew wide. I see, she said. You’ve had a test?

I shook my head. No.

Would you like me to help out there?

I nodded and looked down at my hands, afraid to speak, ashamed to look her in the eye.

She opened her bottom desk drawer. It was divided into two halves. One side held a dozen or so pregnancy tests. Condoms filled the other side. Oh how I wished I had come to her earlier to get my hands on the other side.

My mother had been one of many parents who had thrown a real ruckus when the school had decided to hand out condoms to the students. They had even formed a protest group and picketed out front. It’s our right not yours to teach our children about sex and birth control, they had all ranted. Their marches had lasted five days, and I took the teasing of my life. I, of course, hadn’t cared one way or the other about the issue—at the time, that is. That was before Jimmy Martinez had noticed me, and before the big blow up with my parents made me run straight to him—and unfortunately, his bed.

I watched the nurse take out the pregnancy test. Her hand paused ever so slightly as she began to hand it to me. I’m not here to judge, she said. You don’t need to be shy or embarrassed. I tried to smile but could only manage a nod. There’s the bathroom, she said. There a cups in there. Do you need me to go over the instructions with you?

No, I said. I can figure it out. I tentatively reached out a hand and took the package from her. Inside the bathroom, I sat on the toilet for what seemed like ages. Then I took everything from the box and thoroughly read the instructions. Then I read them again—anything to prolong the inevitable. With a heavy sigh, I peed into a cup and, using the tiny plastic dropper that came with the test, I extracted a small amount of urine and dropped it onto the circle indicated. I cleaned up, washed my hands, and took the stick back to the nurse. I knew the results from the look on her face. I could see genuine empathy and was grateful for it. I felt like my heart was in my feet.

Do you know what you want to do? she asked.

I shook my head. Perhaps when the reality sank in—when I went from maybe pregnant, to probably pregnant, to definitely pregnant… I might think straighter.

You have options available. She turned my chin toward her face. I’m here to help.

I stared at her. Sure, she was here for the eight-to-three shift. What about when I had to break this news to my parents, would she be there then? I tried to smile, but my lips betrayed me—I just couldn’t bring myself to express any kind of joy when I knew what was in store for me. Tears welled in my eyes, but I was determined to be brave and sucked them back. I thanked her and rose to leave.

She handed me a card with her name printed on it. She raised her eyebrows in a serious