Before I Let You Go(45)
Robert told Mom and Lexie that I was not allowed to go to school that day, and he prohibited Lexie from seeing me. From the bedroom I heard Lexie’s wild protests.
“Mom, you can’t let him do this to her!” Lexie had wept, and my mother spoke firmly to her.
“Robert is the head of this household, Lexie. We have to trust him to discipline Annie as he needs to. You’ll see. Sooner or later, she’ll respect him for his correction.”
When her lessons finished, Lexie ran home from school and she burst into the room.
“What did he do to you?” she asked me, her face red with rage. “I’ll get the police. He can’t hit you like that. It’s not right.”
“I don’t even care,” I said to her, and I went back to staring at the ceiling, as I’d been doing all morning since they left. I’d been in some kind of shocked trance, more numb than stoic—I hadn’t shed a single tear. “He can hit me, but he can’t hurt me.”
“Annie, you have to stop provoking him. Please.”
“I’m just getting started.”
I had all morning to think about the incident with the skirt, and I’d come up with a plan. It was against the rules for girls in the community to cut their hair—the sect adhered strictly to a biblical teaching that long hair was a woman’s crowning glory. But the girls at school were encouraged to do “feminine activities” like cross-stitch and other crafts, so I had easy access to scissors.
When the bruising on my thighs had gone down enough for me to go back to school, I slipped a pair of scissors into the pocket of my skirt. I waited until everyone else was asleep, then I went to the bathroom and gave myself a jagged bob and even a fringe.
When I arrived at breakfast the next day, Robert was so angry that I thought he was going to kill me. As he dragged me back to the bedroom, I could hear the way his breathing caught in his throat and I started to worry—what would happen if he did actually kill me? Would anyone even care, other than Lexie? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to die, and for a few moments I really wondered if I’d gone too far. The belt against the still-fresh bruises on my thighs was agonizing that day, and I couldn’t help but cry. I heard Mom and Lexie arguing on the other side of the door, and Robert must have, too—because after only a moment or two he stopped. He lifted me with two tight fists against my upper arms, until I was dangling in front of him at eye level. His breath on my face was hot, and I wanted to cower away from him—but I wouldn’t. Instead, I stared right back and I clenched my teeth so that they couldn’t chatter.
“Filthy, sinful little whore,” he hissed, then he threw me onto the bed. When he left the bedroom, he slammed the door so hard that the hinge broke.
Robert made Mom drag me before the entire women’s assembly that week to apologize for dishonoring the community and the Lord. Lexie begged me to do as they asked—just so that the fuss would die down. I was all set to, until I found myself sitting on a stool on the stage of the worship hall, staring out at that sea of judgmental faces.
Two hundred women and girls stared back at me. Their gazes were sharp, and in pockets all around the room, women and girls whispered to one another. I could feel their condemnation and the odd hum of excitement in the air. I was a living, breathing scandal, and the drama of my haircut was the most exciting thing that had happened in Winterton in forever. This was as close to a frenzy as the women were generally allowed to experience, and all of that energy was focused on me. The butterflies in my stomach disappeared and all I felt was sick and terrified. My skin was clammy, my heart was racing and the expansive hall seemed to sway before me.
They were enjoying this. They all thought I was a monster—a child of the devil.
Over a haircut.
The absurdity of the moment struck me, and I started to laugh. It was a nervous response, nothing more than anxiety manifesting itself physically, but to the crowd, it seemed a further rebellion, and I heard the audible gasp that rippled through the assembly. This was fuel to the fire of my nerves, and the laughter grew louder.
Mom was on the stage, too, wringing her hands and pacing around me as she waited for me to say the magic words that would make all of this go away, but my laughter confused and then infuriated her—the pleading in her eyes faded, until she was simply staring at me with that same disgusted look in her eyes that the crowd wore.
“Stop it, Annie! You need to say sorry,” she pleaded, but I could only shake my head. I was petrified—in physical shock at the public shaming—and although I’d had the best of intentions to apologize and put the whole thing to rest, I couldn’t stop the giggles.
And when she realized I wasn’t going to apologize, my mom burst into tears and for the very first time during all of this, I actually felt a little guilty. When Mom ran away, one of her sisters stormed up the stairs onto the stage and took over the process of facilitating my confession.
“Admit your sin to the congregation!” my aunt roared. My nervous laughter faded and finally disappeared. I stared up at her, at the sharpness of her stare and the red that stained her cheeks. Even now, twenty-one years later, I can still remember how small I felt under that scornful gaze.
That’s when I decided that I wouldn’t apologize. Until that moment, I had the best of intentions, and the only reason I hadn’t said the words they wanted to hear was that my nerves had gotten the better of me. I was still nervous and still terrified, but suddenly I was also determined. That same sense of indignation that saw me defy Robert almost daily in our house rose within me, and I met my aunt’s gaze and I said, “No.”