We didn’t leave the house except for emergencies, for fear that someone might be lying in wait to try to kill us. The business was temporarily closed. One day, a banking matter needed to be taken care of at the office, so Lillian sent me. I was thankful that Don accompanied me to the empty and darkened building. The appliances inside were still covered with the black dust the authorities had used to lift fingerprints off them. As I entered the office, I gasped when I saw the bullet holes in the wall.
I also remember going to an eye doctor appointment not too long after the funeral. I was terrified the entire time driving there and back, worried that someone might follow and target me. The FBI had taught us evasive maneuvering tactics and reminded us to vary our routes if we had to drive places we frequented, like church or a relative’s house. They drilled into us how critical it was to never follow a distinct pattern with anything and to always keep on the lookout for family members we suspected. It struck me one day that when we were younger, the sister-wives had taught us to fear the authorities, yet now we were cooperating with them for our protection.
At one point, Jim Coates and his wife, Bonnie, invited me to come stay with them for a while. Lillian had plenty of help from other siblings and the women from the church, so I didn’t feel guilty leaving her and the kids. Besides, if she needed me, I wasn’t that far away. The Coateses’ home proved to be a welcome respite for me. I hung on every word Jim said to me, soaking up his wisdom and street smarts as he drew from his law enforcement background to give me advice on how to stay safe. He was rough around the edges, but he provided comfort and security.
One evening, before I headed out to church, Jim asked me to join him on the patio. “I have something for you.”
I followed him out the sliding glass door and sat down at the table. “You and Bonnie have done so much for me already. That’s really not necessary.”
“I think it is.” Jim opened a wooden box on the table. He took out something wrapped in a maroon cloth and placed it on the table between us.
“What’s this?” I lifted one side of the cloth and pulled it back. Underneath rested a silver .25 caliber gun. “That’s . . . I don’t know how to shoot —”
“Now don’t argue with me. I’m going to teach you everything you need to know, but I firmly believe you need to carry this weapon with you at all times —for your safety and for the safety of your family.” His deep blue eyes bored holes into mine.
I agreed. Over the next week, Jim taught me how to hold the gun properly, gave me shooting lessons, and showed me how to clean it safely. The small gun felt odd in my hand. He told me that if I was ever stopped and questioned by the police, I needed to tell them I was “transporting it” from my home to my workplace or the other way around. Jim taught me many other tactical things as well. He said if I ever felt threatened, I should crouch down and make myself as small a target as possible, and if someone came at me, I should stand with my back against a wall and defend myself from that position.
I can still remember the feeling of the gun tucked into the pocket of my cotton shorts that summer, especially how it banged against my leg when I walked. When I carried it, I was reminded that I could still be a target.
Near the end of the summer, the security presence around the house was lessened, and Lillian used some of the money from Mark’s life insurance policy to fly out to California with her children to stay in the home of some friends who were on vacation. The authorities agreed that having Lillian out of the state would be preferable to having her where she would be recognized.
I was left behind to manage the house and business, which we had reopened, helped by a few other family members.
After they’d been gone about a month, Lillian bought me a plane ticket, using an assumed name for me —Amanda Glass. This was before IDs were required for air travel, so all I had to do was show up at the airport with ticket in hand. “I plan to attend some Bill Gothard training seminars here, and you will get a little break from running the shop,” Lillian told me on the phone.
I appreciated the invitation, but soon after I arrived in California, I realized the actual reason she wanted me to come: She wanted me to help her start homeschooling the children. She had invested in a teaching curriculum put out by Bill Gothard’s Advanced Training Institute of America (ATIA), and she needed my help to implement the program.
“I don’t think I can do that, Lillian. I’ve been talking with a few of my friends, and I really want to finally go to the International Institute of Accelerated Christian Education.” Prior to Mark’s death, both he and Lillian had wholeheartedly approved of my decision to attend there. I desperately needed the familiarity and support my friends offered.
I struggled with what I should do because I didn’t want to disappoint Lillian. I knew she needed help, and she was used to having my help, but I didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to continue putting her needs above my own.
“Well, would you at least stay with the children while I go to Chicago to meet Mr. Gothard and attend the training?”
“Of course.” I bowed my head, disappointed that Lillian would expect me to continue putting my life on hold for her family. I was nineteen now, and I needed to start making decisions for myself.
When Lillian got back from the training, she bubbled over with idealistic notions of how schooling her children would play out. She begged me once more to stay with them. When I declined, she sent me back to Houston.
A few weeks later, Lillian and the children returned to Houston. Celia, the friends who dropped in to check on us, and I could all see that Lillian’s mental state had continued to decline in the months after Mark’s passing. Lillian’s mood swings were dramatic —from high to low, making it necessary for her to take prescription medication to keep balanced. However, when she returned to Houston, the reality of her situation and Mark’s death settled in, causing her to sink into a deep depression.
I was caught in a conundrum. Part of me believed I owed it to her to stay in Houston and help her with the children and Reliance Appliance, after all she had done for me. The other part of me longed to join my friends at college and begin life on my own terms. I knew that if I didn’t separate my life from hers at that juncture, it would likely never happen. Lillian depended on me so much that it felt suffocating.
I sought solace from Celia, and counsel from some of the older women at church. They encouraged me to follow my dreams, go to college, and enjoy my young-adult years, if that’s what I wanted. I consistently prayed about the decision and sensed the Lord calling me to go to school. Lillian supported my decision to go to college. She still had help from some of her friends and fellow church members, who were bringing meals, taking care of the kids, and doing the grocery shopping.