The Missionary (29 page)
Authors: Jack Wilder
A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to charities that fight sex trafficking.
The story I’ve told here is based in reality. What happened to Lisa and Wren has happened far too often. I’ve taken some liberties and artistic license, since I’m a writer telling a story, but the essence is true. The biggest liberty I took is inventing the idea of interconnected shanties out of which Cervantes ran his operation. I’ve never heard of this happening, nor do I know for sure whether it’s even possible, but it seemed to work out in my head, so I used it.
But the way Wren was kidnapped, that was real, based on many different stories I came across while researching. The forced drugs, being locked in dark rooms and raped unendingly, like Lisa Johnson…that’s real. Sexual slavery exists. Human trafficking exists. It happens in every country in the world.
Irena Bulova’s story is real too, as is the story told by Senator Johnson about the depressed teenager who ends up addicted to heroin and forced into sexual slavery in LA. Horrors like theirs really happen; I didn’t invent that. It happens in
your
city. In your town. To girls and boys, men and women.
The International Abolition Coalition, unfortunately, is fictional. I wish it were real.
There are real organizations, however, that are dedicated to fighting trafficking. Manila is cracking down on trafficking, using task forces to hunt down the slavers and prosecute them. There are charitable organizations dedicated to helping victims of trafficking. You can help, you can get involved, donate your time and money.
Do something selfless. Leave the world a better place than when you entered it.
Be the difference.
Coming Soon from bestselling author
(And my wife)
Jasinda Wilder
The Ever Trilogy
Read on for a teaser from
Forever & Always
Dear Ever,
It’s hard to write this letter. I’m not sure what to even say, but I feel like I can tell you things, because we’re friends, and somehow these letters are almost like a journal. I know you read them, and I read yours.
My mom has cancer. I just found out today. Breast cancer. I guess she’s had it for about two months and they never told me. They wanted to wait and see if the chemotherapy would help before telling me, or something. I don’t know. But I guess it’s not helping, and they don’t think anything will.
My dad told me. He used the same kinds of words I’m guessing the doctors used with him, big words, medical terms. All it means, once you cut through all the bullshit, is that Mom is going to die.
Shit. Seeing that in writing is so much different than thinking it.
What do I do?
She’s afraid, and my dad is afraid. I’m afraid. But we’re not talking about it. They talk about keeping up spirits and thinking positive and fighting to the end, and all that moral-raising shit. They don’t believe it. I don’t. No one does.
How can you, when each day passes and I can see her getting skinny, like the skeleton inside her is coming out through her skin? Am I supposed to tell myself it’ll be okay, when it won’t?
Shit. I’m not a very good pen-pal, I guess. I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. It’s depressing.
I’m not even going to bother writing anymore. You don’t have to write back, if you don’t want to.
I hope you’re okay.
Sincerely,
Your friend,
Caden
~ ~ ~ ~
Dear Caden,
Of course I’d write you back. I’ll always write you back. This is what pen pals are for, after all, right? I’m okay. I learned a lot at the arts camp, and I’m using it all in my photography. Maybe next letter I send you I’ll include a print of one of my photos. Daddy is thinking of making me a darkroom in the basement, so I can do my own developing.
I guess I’m not sure how to talk about your news about your mom. I’m so sorry that’s happening. I know “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” doesn’t really help, but I don’t know what else to write. I wouldn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. When someone you love is hurt, or dying, or dies, it’s not okay. I know how you feel. I lost my mom too. She was in a car accident. I think we talked about this at camp. I told you, and I don’t tell many people. But I feel like I can trust you. Maybe we understand each other, or something. Like, in some kind of way that words don’t really explain. I feel that way. And I know what you mean about these pen-pal letters being like a journal. I write them and send them knowing you’re going to read them, but I never feel embarrassed to write things that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.
So I’ll tell you this: write me as much as you want. I’ll write you back every time. I promise. I’m your friend.
I’m sorry you’re going through this. No one should have to go through it, but you are, and you have a friend in me. You can talk to me about what you feel.
Be strong, Caden.
Your friend for always,
Ever
~ ~ ~ ~
I read Ever’s letter ten times before I finally folded it back up, slid it carefully into the envelope, and tucked the envelope—which smelled ever so slightly of perfume, like her—in the front of the shoe box which contained the others from her. There were twelve letters so far, one for every week that had passed since the end of the Interlochen summer arts camp. I picked up the lid to the box, which had once contained the very shoes I was wearing, a pair of Reebok cross-trainers. They were a year old, now, and getting too small. I wasn’t sure why I had kept the box, but I had. It sat in the bottom of my closet, buried on the left side beneath an old hoodie and a ripped pair of jeans, until I had gotten the first letter from Ever Eliot and needed somewhere safe and private to keep the letter.
Now, the blue box with the red Union Jack flag had twelve letters in it, and it sat under my bed.
I slid the box back under the frame of my bed and moved to my desk. Even though I had a laptop and there was a printer in the living room, I still wrote the letters by hand. I took a long time for each letter, because my handwriting is almost illegibly sloppy most of the time.
I stared down at the spiral-bound notebook for a long, long time, the pencil in my fingers, unable to summon the words. I blinked, took a deep breath, clicked the top of the mechanical pencil and started writing.
Ever,
It feels stupid to write “dear” all the time. So I’ll leave that part off, I guess, unless I think of something else to put there.
I’m writing, but I’m not really sure how long this letter will be. Mom is in the hospital full-time now. She stopped the chemo, said no to surgeries. I guess they said they could do a surgery and it had a 20% chance of working, and it was really dangerous. She said no. They already removed her breasts. She has no hair. She’s like a stick covered in paper, now. She’s my mom, in her eyes, but she’s not. I don’t know how to put it.
Ever, I’m scared. I’m afraid of losing her, yeah, but I’m afraid for my dad. He’s losing his mind. I don’t mean that in an exaggeration. I mean it for real. He doesn’t leave her side, not even to eat. No can, or even tries to make him leave.
Will it make me sound selfish if I say I’m afraid of losing him too? It’s like as sick as Mom gets, he’s there with her. Going with her. But I’m only 15, and I need my parents. I know Mom is going to die, but does Dad have to go too? He loves her so much, but what about me?
I hate how whiny that sounds.
Please send me one of your pictures.
Your always friend,
Caden.
PS, I tried something besides “sincerely” because that sounds stupid too. But I’m not sure if what I put is more stupid.
PSS, Is there a difference between saying “photo” and “picture”?
I thought about signing it again, but didn’t. Before I could chicken out, I folded the letter carefully and put into an envelope, stuck a stamp to it, and put it in the mailbox. I was home, and Dad was at the hospital. He always made me come home and do my homework before coming to the hospital. Something about “normalcy.”
Like any such thing existed anymore.
Jack & Jasinda Wilder
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