The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(89)

“It’s so hard—”

“Take your time,” I said, although this might have been the most frustrating conversation I’d ever had. I reminded myself that whatever she was trying to tell me was something she had shared with almost no one.

“Carrie and I—” she started again, but her voice broke.

I remembered Gwen Ferris at Carrie Helm’s funeral, and wondered if this young woman had been grieving more deeply than I’d been able to see then. “You were close,” I said, hoping to lead her easily.

“Yes. We’d had a lot of the same experiences.”

I thought about the abuse charges against Jared Helm that had been dropped because Carrie wasn’t alive to testify against him anymore. But Brad Ferris? I felt about him the same way I’d felt about Tobias Torstensen. He was so quiet, such a good guy.

I needed to listen to Gwen. I hadn’t listened to Carrie Helm. I hadn’t had chance enough.

Finally, Gwen said, “After Carrie was gone, I knew I should say something. But Brad said it was up to me. He said that it had to be my choice. So I waited to feel strong enough. Only I don’t know if I ever really will be.”

I reached out to put a comforting hand on her, but she flinched before it touched her and I remember suddenly what Brad had said about not knowing how to touch her. Was that what an abusive husband would be worried about?

“It’s so hard for me to get the words out,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly clear. “I can see everything in my head, bright and sharp as color. That’s part of the problem, actually. I can’t get it out of my head sometimes. But it’s always there.”

I still had no idea what she was talking about. “Maybe it would help to write it down?” I asked. “I could get some paper and a pen. Or a computer, if you think you can type it.”

She shook her head so hard at that I was worried for a moment she’d get sick from the motion. “I just need to say it. For Carrie. And for me. But I can’t do it just for me. It has to be for Carrie.”

“For Carrie,” I echoed. That would be my conversational tactic—just echo what she said, help her get through this.

She took in little breaths, and her whole body seemed to be so fragile, like her skin was about to melt away and reveal everything underneath. “Brad gets so angry when I try to talk to him about it. I haven’t told him many of the details because he just starts smashing things around the house. He scares me a little, making threats.”

“Are you afraid of him?” I asked. “Has he hurt you?” We needed to be clear on this.

Her eyes flew to my face, wide with surprise. “What? No, of course not. No, he’s angry at my father.”

I was taken aback. “Your father. Oh.” The pieces clicked together in my head, and I felt sick.

She looked down at her hands, knotting around each other like an intricate knitting pattern. “I—I had an abortion when I was thirteen. And when I was fourteen. And two when I was fifteen,” she said.

I found I couldn’t say a word. I felt as if I’d fallen off a cliff and no one could hear my final scream. But it wasn’t even my horror. I was only listening to it. This woman was living it. And I’d thought an abusive husband was bad. This was far, far worse.

“And after all that, it seems that there are consequences. I’ve lost one ovary and my cervix is damaged.” Somehow, I could see the delicate lace she was knitting with her fingers, like a gift from God, the life she had made, with so many holes, so fragile but so incredibly beautiful—so good. She was good.

And I had to put words to it that would make it so ordinary. “Your father sexually abused you?” I said.

“Yes, he …” She trembled and I wished again, desperately, that I could touch her and soothe her fears.

But this was about what she needed, not what I needed. “I’m here,” was all I said, though I knew she knew it.

“It started when I was very young. He did it with both of my sisters, too.”

“What else?” I asked. “You can tell me.”

More knitting. I could see the veins in her hands, blue lines on white. “My mother claimed that she didn’t see any of it. She said that it wasn’t true, that we were liars. She is still with him. My father was in the bishopric of the ward for a while. No one would believe that he could do such a thing. He was … very beloved. And he did good things, he really did. He just had this one flaw.”

One flaw? That was one way to put it. A terrible, wrong way. That one flaw had been devastating for this woman. No wonder she was depressed and on medication, as Brad had told me. No wonder she didn’t like to be touched. And he had asked me for advice without being able to reveal his wife’s secrets to me. I hoped what I had said had been useful; though if it had, it was likely because God had intervened and given me the right words.

“He sounds like a monster,” I said, discovering that my voice was raw and my throat hurt as if I’d been rubbing it with sandpaper. “Gwen, you must realize that you are innocent of all of this. You are a victim of a terrible crime, and your father will have a lot to answer for on Judgment Day.” God had better make sure the man paid for this. I sent the thoughts heavenward. Was it wrong that my prayers could sometimes be vengeful? Maybe I wasn’t doing this right.