Storm Tossed: A troubled woman finds peace with herself and God in the midst of life's storms. (6 page)

They were now in little nine-year-old Kelly’s room, the victim of her stepfather’s sexual abuse. Her mother Morgan was in the room with her, a victim herself from his physical battering. She kept telling herself he loved her, he’d change and stop hitting her. But she had no idea that late at night, after he’d had several glasses of whiskey, he’d come into Kelly’s room and climb in the bed with her, threatening her life if she told her mother or anyone what they were doing.

One night Morgan, a very heavy sleeper, had woken up and something—was it God?—prompted her to go into Kelly’s bedroom. The house was quiet, but she felt an evil pervading presence throughout the house, something like she’d never sensed before in her life.

And there in her daughter’s bedroom was her husband perversely forcing her child to perform oral sex on him. If she’d had a gun, Morgan would have killed him. She’d thought about it already after several episodes of his drunken, abusive beha
vior, slamming his fist into Morgan’s face. You could still see the yellow-purple bruise around her eye and her cut lip from the last time he hit her, a couple of weeks before she discovered him sexually abusing Kelly. He’d never hit Kelly, only Morgan.

But Kelly and Morgan were equally traumatized. Morgan was on heavy doses of anti-depressants and Ativan.
Autumn had also assigned her to write a letter to the abuser, her husband, to express her bottled-up feelings, which Jolene thought was an excellent, creative idea.
Underneath Morgan’s depression was an incredible amount of rage.

Autumn’s calm, gentle personality made her one of the most highly requested therapists by Child Protective Services on some of their toughest child abuse cases. She intently disliked CPS, as she felt they had far too much power, pushed their weight around, and took children needlessly out of the home sometimes, just for minor things like a sink full of dirty dishes and a messy bedroom.

Jolene told Autumn that this was quite a compliment that Mrs. Walton, one of the strictest CPS workers, wanted Autumn on all her cases. She had requested Autumn as the therapist for this case, too.

Kelly was in therapy at the hospital daily, opening up a little more each day about what had been happening at home. She had finally started to cry and get angry about it, which was progress, and Dr. Goddard and Mrs. Walton were pleased with her fast breakthrough.

Even though it was in the middle of the night, Morgan had the hospital TV on. When it was too quiet, she started panicking so she filled the room constantly with noise: the TV show Jeopardy, The Apprentice, Dancing With The Stars, Gilligan’s Island, The Flinstones, Scandal, Rachel Ray,
anything to keep her from thinking too much and reliving that fateful night.

Fox News was now reporting about Hurricane Ana, and the storm surge hitting Panama City and the surrounding areas. As Autumn walked into the room with Dr. Goddard, she caught the tail end of the report of a 12-foot storm surge that was destroying homes and businesses, and 9 deaths were already reported.

“Wow,” Dr. Goddard said, “now that’s some waves.”

Autumn glanced over at him, frowning. He was always making light of the news and telling stupid jokes about serious things. He used sarcastic humor for deflecting any somber conversations or to keep people from getting to close to him and really knowing him. It was one reason she couldn’t stand him, despite his charm and good looks. Fear rose up inside of her and she said, “Dr. Goddard, Morgan, please excuse me a minute, I have to make a phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“What, now? Can’t it wait? We’re almost done here,” Dr. Goddard said, and he greeted Morgan cheerfully, but she didn’t hear him. Her eyes were glued to the TV, tears filling them.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, “I have a cousin, Adelle, who lives in Panama City. I hope she evacuated.” Jolene was watching, too, gasping. Although it was difficult to see anything filmed by brave news crews in the dark, stormy night, the scenes of destruction of entire cities were surreal. They looked like war zones. It would look even worse tomorrow in daylight.

The governor, Susan Rudy, had already declared the area a disaster, calling for outside Red Cross resources for food, water, blankets, tents and medical supplies, as the local chapter had been destroyed by the surge. One of the dead was a Red Cross supervisor there.

She’d also ordered help from the National Guard and requested help from FEMA. One of the graveyards in Destin had been hit hard by the surge, and a few coffins were loosened and floating in the streets. A Disaster Mortuary Assistant Team was being called on for assistance to deal with these and other dead bodies from the hurricane.

“Bodies begin decomposing within 24 hours and are facially unrecognizable after three to five days, requiring dental record identification and DNA testing,” one of the reporters tactlessly was saying as he interviewed a forensics expert from Panama City.

“Is the guy crazy reporting something like that? Nothing like giving the audience nightmares and cause them to freak out.
Let’s hope everyone evacuated,” Dr. Goddard said. “There will be nothing left of that place when this storm is done. There’s a rip tide that’s making things even worse. A lot of people are going to die from this.”

A little cry escaped Autumn’s lips, and Dr. Goddard turned to look at her quizzically. One of the reasons he enjoyed working with Autumn so much is that she was so professional. While she demonstrated empathy and compassion toward their patients, she never fell apart, as he had found some interns to do, unable to handle their emotions from seeing such severe abuse cases. Autumn stayed under control, and that’s what he liked in a peer. For her to cry was almost unheard of. She almost ran out of the room, cell phone in hand, speed dialing her father.

“Dad,” she said in the hall, sobbing, “I’m so sorry to call so late. But have you seen the news?”

“It’s okay, hon. I was already awake. Can’t sleep at all. Yeah, I just saw it. We need to really pray. I can’t believe Rachel was this stupid to stay! Lord Jesus, please protect her!”

“Dad,” Autumn’s voice broke, “there’s already been some deaths. Are you able to get ahold of her to see if she’s okay? My God.”

“No. It’s just like Katrina, just not as bad. The towers are down. Let’s see if the idiots in Washington learned anything from Katrina and are more organized this time. I’m going to keep trying. I’ve also got a friend who’s a deputy sheriff down there, Lance, who I’ve been calling like crazy to get ahold of him, to check on her if there’s some way possible. I don’t know how he could with the roads flooding. Keep getting his voice mail.”

“Okay. Well,” Autumn hesitated a moment, swallowing hard, “keep me posted. If you get ahold of her by some miracle—“

“Yeah, hon?” Jackson’s voice sounded weary, full of despair. Autumn could hear how scared he was, how worried, and her heart went out to him. Despite hers and Rachel’s tumultuous relationship, she knew that her dad really loved her and she didn’t want her dad to hurt because she loved him. And, despite it all, she loved Rachel, too.

“Nothing, dad. I’ll pray for her. Gotta’ go. I have some more rounds to make.”

“Get some sleep, hon.”

“I’ll try. I love you, daddy.” Autumn was a grown woman, but he’d always be her daddy. Jackson smiled wistfully at the sentiment. It seemed as if the years had flown by. His heart ached over how hard her life had always been, between her mother’s cold, selfish abandonment and Rachel’s seeming inability to handle her or love her unconditionally. He missed his little girl.

“Love you, too, pumpkin.” Jackson hung up, gingerly rubbing the black-grey bristles on his chin from several days of not shaving. He grinned wryly, thinking how Rachel would tell him he looked like a goat if she could see it. She hated for him not to shave. It hurt her soft skin when they kissed, she’d say. If it was up to him, he’d have a beard as long as the Duck Dynasty fellows’.

He was in a white T-shirt and blue and black checkered pajama pants that Rachel bought him last Christmas, telling him how sexy she thought they were. Sexy, right. Like that mattered with their marriage! Sometimes he wanted her so bad, he couldn’t stand it and had to walk away from her.

She never believed him when he told her how she always turned him on. But he just didn’t want to make love with someone who seemed ticked off all the time. Somehow, it felt wrong, like he was using her body. And she never initiated.

Never.
It made him feel rejected. Why bother trying if she wasn’t interested? He didn’t realize her inability to initiate stemmed from her fear of being rejected herself. Didn’t she realize that all she had to do was touch him and he was instantly aroused?

Even now, thinking about her, he wished she was there and they could make love. How long had it been now?
God, heal my marriage,
he prayed, but he felt hopeless.

Jackson sighed deeply in frustration and worry. He hated pajamas. He preferred walking around in his birthday suit. But it was impossible with Faith still living at home.
I can’t wait until all our kids move out. Then I can do whatever I want
, he thought, and then he felt guilty. It was hard enough with Autumn grown and on her own, and rarely visiting him anymore. She lived her own life now, although she would call when she got too lonely. If Faith moved out, he’d be completely alone. And he’d really miss his movie buddy.
What I really miss is my wife. Our closeness.

He’d put the pajamas on tonight, almost like a good-luck omen, even though he didn’t believe in luck.

He wondered if Rachel was afraid in the storm. The storm should be afraid of her. He sure was. As he told his friends who laughed uproariously when he refused to go to a strip joint with them one night after they played poker, he was afraid of no man, no bullet, no fire, no disaster, but his wife was a completely different animal. She could command an army of men. Sometimes she seemed made of steel.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and the most stubborn and had the quickest temper of anyone he’d ever met. The smallest thing set her Irish temper off instantly. But she always got over whatever it was fast, and was quick to repent to God.

He knew she despised her temper more than anyone else did. She hated it and berated herself over it a lot. But one thing about her, Rachel was real and she didn’t pretend anything. You always knew where you stood with her. What you saw is what you got. She was very passionate about everything, whether she was hoppin’ mad, stressed to the max, or happy as a lark.

And talk about hard headed. Once she made up her mind to do something, there was just no stopping her. You couldn’t talk any sense into her. Logic didn’t work. Rachel flew by the seat of her pants, moved by the Spirit of God and sometimes too by emotional whims. Like this crazy idea to rent a beach house in the middle of hurricane season in Florida
. What was she thinking?

Their friends had said she was crazy and criticized her and Jackson for letting her go—as if he could stop her from doing anything--but she didn’t care what people thought. She never had. “I answer to God,” she’d tell Jackson and others. She bought the airplane ticket out of her book royalties and went to Florida after spontaneously renting the beach house without even seeing it, crying hard as she hugged Faith and telling Jackson she’d call him soon to check on things, giving him a stiff hug. She’d packed her red Volkswagen Beetle bug full, with her most cherished belongings, as if she planned on not coming back.

Jackson knew their marriage was real bad off. They were on dangerously thin ice, on the verge of divorce more than ever before. He still loved her. He always had, always would. Despite the floozy. But he didn’t for the life of him know how to fix their marriage.

God knew, he had tried. Roses, chocolates, spontaneous trips away with just the two of them. He’d cook romantic, candlelight dinners. He was quite the chef. One night he made her beef bourguignon, a la Julie Child’s French recipe. There were just no words for how delicious it was. Her friends thought he was the best husband they’d ever met.

Of course
, she’d tell them,
you don’t live with him.
But he tried so hard—and his efforts always seemed to fail. Never good enough. The way his father always made him feel. She loved his cooking, raved about it, but with everything else, he bombed.

He didn’t know how to satisfy the woman. She said the same thing about him. But all he wanted was something good to eat, his TV shows, and some gentle touch.
And your beer, endless spending money, and your poker buddies
, she’d remind him angrily
. And your floozy
, she’d think, but would bite her tongue, reminding herself again and again to forgive.
Just let it go.

But still. All it took was one look from her and he melted. She didn’t believe how much he loved her, because dang it, he just didn’t know how to show it and she’d never really had true love from a man and didn’t understand love. Even all the nice things he did for her to romance her and show her how much he loved her, she viewed with suspicion somewhat. Her trust and her heart had been irrevocably broken, and she didn’t know how to mend them.

But he did love her, by God. He’d lay down his life for that woman. He knew he didn’t deserve her. Despite her flaws, she was a good woman. A woman of God. She had a heart of love the size of Australia. But she really didn’t know how to release that love, because she was afraid; she kept up carefully constructed walls to keep out him or anyone else who might possibly hurt her.

Yet he knew deep inside of her was a woman of great love. He also knew that her character was sterling. She was passionate about Christ and was serious about the calling of God on her life. She wanted this too for her family and friends. Yes, she was a woman after God’s own heart. A better person than him. He just wasn’t about to tell her that, because she’d never let him forget it.

And God, she was beautiful. Even when she first woke up, the dark circles under her eyes and her long, brown hair looking like what she called “bed head,” her slightly wrinkled face without a trace of makeup, fairy dusted with a few brown freckles, she was the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen and her smile just undid him. He wished he could hold her in his arms right now. The song and video
Wake Up Lovin’ You
by Craig Morgan played in his head. He ached for her.