If you don’t want to see me, I’ll understand. I’ve always depended upon strangers in life, so it shouldn’t be any different now that my time is running out.
My mother loves playing the death card on me but she’s healthy as an ox, and she’s not going to guilt me into being the dutiful daughter. When my stepfather died, she tried to “reconnect”—that’s the word she used, making it sound like one of us had accidently kicked a plug out of the wall.
I continue reading.
I forgot to tell you before now, but Mr. Bowler passed away recently. I know that you had your differences, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him—just as I pray that you’ll forgive me.
She has included a torn newspaper clipping from the Yorkshire Evening Post.
BOWLER Charles Stewart Passed away peacefully on 18 October in St. Anne’s Hospice, aged 68. Mr. Bowler joyfully served as one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses along with his wife, Elizabeth, and children, Helen, Nancy, Margaret, and Bernice.
He found great joy in glorifying the word of Jehovah, our Creator, by teaching the “Good News” of the now-established heavenly kingdom to “those rightly disposed to everlasting life” (Acts 13:48; Matthew 24:14), and learning about all of God’s wonderful creations.
A service will be held on Monday, 23 October, at 11:40 a.m. at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses, 103 Silvermere Road, Leeds.
Elizabeth requests that all guests wear bright colors, please. Family flowers only. Donations in lieu to St. Anne’s Hospice.
I picture the funeral—the coffin being lowered while his wife and children weep, wearing bright colors, celebrating a life that brought so much pain to me. I see the elders lining up to sing his praises, talking about Brother Bowler’s kindness and godliness.
My hands are shaking as I open my laptop and search for more evidence, wanting to be sure. I discover Bernie’s Facebook page and remember her giving evidence against me at the judicial committee hearing. She has posted a picture of her father, calling him “my rock and guardian.” Dozens of her friends have commented, sending their condolences. I want to add a comment calling him an evil pervert, but I’m too scared.
You’d think after more than twenty years I’d be free of Mr. Bowler, but I still wake some nights with the smell of fish and chips in my nostrils and a voice telling me to open my eyes. I keep them closed. I don’t want to see his face.
I could never explain to my therapists or social workers how society misuses words like “horror” and “monster.” For me, horror is something that infects me like a disease, and my “monster” can be conjured up by the smell of vinegar on chips.
I don’t want to be a victim, which is why I downplay what happened, telling myself that I slept with my abuser only a handful of times and that Mr. Bowler truly loved me, but I’m arguing against my own memories, detoxing details, trying to convince myself it was less awful or that I’m untouched by what happened when in reality it has poisoned everything.
I was pregnant and fifteen and my church and family had disowned me. As we drove home from Kingdom Hall that evening my mother quietly sobbed and my stepfather gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Later, lying in my bed, I listened to them arguing while the creature inside me whispered.
I told you not to tell. I told you not to tell.
The next morning the sun rose unexpectedly because I did not believe that any day could follow the previous one. My stepfather told me I wasn’t going to school. Instead he drove me to a large Victorian house on a quiet street on the outskirts of Newcastle. I looked at the bay windows and soot-stained walls and wondered if it might be an orphanage or a children’s home.
“What is this place?”
“It’s a clinic,” he said.
“I’m not sick.”
A group of protesters were on the opposite side of the road, holding banners and posters. One of the placards read A PERSON IS A PERSON NO MATTER HOW SMALL. They were singing a hymn: “Amazing Grace.”
“I want to keep my baby,” I said.
My stepfather spoke softly, holding my hand. “Maybe if you were older.”
“I’m nearly sixteen.”
“You’re barely fifteen. This way you’ll get to finish school and go to college and have a career. One day you’ll get married and have a family.”
“I didn’t lie to the elders.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Bowler is the father.”
“We let Jehovah decide these things.”
Two security doors had to be unlocked before we reached the reception area. My hands were shaking so much that my stepfather had to fill out the forms. A nurse came to fetch me, a smiley woman with skin so black it almost shone purple under the fluorescent lights. Her braided hair was threaded with brightly colored beads that clacked as she walked.
“I need to speak to Agatha alone,” she said to my stepfather.
He tried to argue. She told him to be quiet and sit down. I don’t think I’d ever heard any woman speak to him like that.
“Remember what we decided,” he said as the nurse led me away. She took me to an examination room with a low bed, a desk, and an ultrasound machine. I wondered if this was where it happened—the termination. Jehovah doesn’t condone abortion. Mr. Bowler taught me that in our scripture classes at Kingdom Hall, which would have seemed ironic if I weren’t so frightened.
“Hello, Agatha, my name is Janice,” said the nurse. “Why are you here today?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I see. And why have you come here?”
“I’m too young to have a baby.”
“How old are you, Agatha?”
“Fifteen.”
“How long have you been having sex?”
“Since I was thirteen.”
“Were you raped?”
“No. I mean, it wasn’t rape. We did it, you know. We both decided.”
I glanced anxiously at the door.
“The man in the waiting room—is he your father?”
“My stepfather.”
“Is he the father of your baby?”
“No.”
Janice asked me to hop up on the bed and lie down. “I’m going to do an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and see how advanced it is. Then I’ll take a blood test and a medical history.”
She pulled up my blouse and smeared gel on my stomach. “I’m sorry if it’s cold.”
“That’s OK.”
“Would you like to see the fetus?”
“No.” I paused. “Thank you for asking.”
“You look about twelve weeks. Does that sound right?”
I nodded.
She wiped down my stomach with a paper towel and told me to button my blouse.
“Have you told the father?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he your age?”
I shook my head.
“Is he much older than you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Have you considered talking to the police?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Again I said nothing.
Janice didn’t get angry or make me feel ashamed. She gave me a drink of apple juice in a box with a straw and held my hand, speaking in a gentle voice. I almost told her about Mr. Bowler. I almost said, Help me.