The Other Side of Darkness (30 page)

Lynette looks dumbfounded.
“The turkey platter?”

I keep pointing. “Yes. It is contaminated, and yet we are using it, pretending that it is pretty and clean. And all the while it is filthy and corrupt. Like a whited sepulcher.”

“That’s crazy talk, Ruth.” My mother scowls at me.

“No, Mother, it’s the truth. But some people cannot handle the truth. Some people would rather be deceived by Satan than face reality. And I suppose if I have seemed stressed to either of you,
that
might be the reason why.”

“What might be the reason why?” Lynette looks thoroughly confused.

“Because of the way we live in this family.” I point to the turkey platter again. “Like
that
. I have kept that piece for years, never admitting to myself that the man who gave it to me was evil and perverted.”

“Dad
gave you that platter, Ruth.” Lynette folds her arms across her chest. “You’ve always loved it.”

“That was before
I knew.”

“Knew what?” my mother asks, her voice filled with irritation.

I pause and stare at both of them. Then I glance to see if anyone else is around, anyone who might be listening. Not that I should care. Someday the truth will be shouted from the rooftops, and everyone will know about these abominations. “Before I knew that my father sexually abused me.”

The kitchen is so quiet I can clearly hear the soundtrack from the cartoon playing in the family room and the potatoes simmering on the stove behind me.

“What?”
My mother’s hands curl into fists as if she’s ready to punch me.

Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks are flushed, and I suddenly wonder if perhaps she too has been hiding this repulsive secret. Has she been a victim too? “Do you know what I’m talking about?” I ask her, feeling almost hopeful.

“I know you are certifiably crazy,” Lynette says. “I cannot believe you would say something like that, Ruth. I cannot believe you would accuse Dad of something so horrible, so mean, so unthinkable. What is wrong with you?”

“What are you saying?”
My mother’s words come out slowly, dripping with venom. Her face is pale, but those blue eyes are hot with rage.

Now I want to retract my words. It’s not as if I had planned this. I never dreamed I would make this confession today. But I would’ve thought that speaking the truth and getting this horror out into the
open would bring relief. Instead I feel confused, worried, and slightly sick to my stomach.

“I told you. Dad sexually abused me.”

“When?”
Lynette shakes a finger at me. “When did he do something like that?”

The two stand opposite me as if they have joined forces to shut me down. “Tell us when this atrocity happened.” Lynette’s eyes narrow in disbelief.

My mother’s forehead creases. “Yes. Tell us. When did he ever have time?”

“It happened when I was too little to remember.”

“Then
how
can you remember?” demands Lynette.

So I attempt to explain to them about the deliverance prayer and Bronte’s prophetic word and how I found it hard to believe—at first.

“That’s because this horrid woman was making it up,” says Lynette.

“But she described my bedroom to me,” I protest. “How could she do that if she was making it up?”

“And how exactly did this Bronte person
describe
your bedroom?” My mother sits on one of the stools and leans into the island as if she is very tired.

Perhaps she too remembers something, something evil and hidden, something she has concealed all along. Maybe that would even explain why she has treated me so differently all these years. Why I have, in a sense, always been her whipping girl.

“Pastel blue walls and white eyelet curtains …”

“And how old were you when this happened?” My mother’s brow furrows even more.

“Probably a toddler.”

Lynette’s eyes light up. “We
shared
a bedroom when we were little, Ruth. Don’t you remember? You didn’t have the blue bedroom until you went to first grade. You must’ve been around six then. Don’t you remember the other bedroom? It was yellow. But after you moved into the blue bedroom, Mom painted my bedroom lavender. And it had white eyelet curtains too. Yours were blue.”

“That’s right,” says Mom. “So if this atrocity that you say happened back when you were too young to remember it … well, it wouldn’t have taken place in the blue bedroom. Otherwise, you would’ve been old enough to remember it.” She lets out a big sigh. “But it’s like you to put us through something like this, Ruth. You were always a difficult child. Always doing something to get attention. But to accuse your father … well, I don’t know what to say.”

I am angry and flustered now. I want to defend myself, but what’s the use? Oh, why did I allow this to go this far? Why did I trust them with my secret? Why did I waste my breath?

“Whoever this Bronte witch is, she must be crazy too,” says Lynette.

“She’s not a witch, and she’s not crazy. She knew what happened to me; she knew it in detail. And I know in my spirit that she was right. Maybe it did happen in the blue bedroom. Maybe, like Bronte said, I suppressed the memory and I was older. Lots of people do that. And it explains a lot of things.”

“Like what?” Lynette sounds almost bored now as she turns down the flame beneath the pot of simmering potatoes.

I am about to tell them everything, to explain all about the demons I’ve cast out and how I’ve been in need of great deliverance again and again and how this family is cursed and only the Lord can deliver us, but I suddenly realize, with amazing clarity, that would
be like tossing my valuable pearls down for the swine to trample upon. These two women cannot possibly understand the spiritual ramifications of all these things. They have allowed Satan to blind them and to deaden their hearing. In fact, it seems that only their mouths are able to work right now, but their tongues are full of lies and hatred and confusion. And I know without a doubt that I can’t remain in this house for one more minute.

Suddenly my spiritual eyes are reopened, and I realize that this whole house is crawling with Satan’s demons. Legions of them. Why didn’t I notice this earlier? Why did I allow my family to distract me from doing warfare? I can see the hideous fiends hiding in the doorways, skulking behind the furnishings, creeping around corners. They rule this household, just as they rule this family. I can even see them lurking behind my mother and sister now, probably where they’ve been hiding all along. And their repulsive demonic expressions are reflected in the faces of these two women—two people who have beaten me down my entire life. I can’t believe I set myself up for this.

Without even trying to explain anything, I leave the room. I can hear my mother and sister whispering behind me as I go. Or perhaps it’s their demons talking, congratulating themselves for defeating me once again. But no one seems to notice as I gather my purse and coat and let myself out the front door. My heart is pounding with fear as I get into the car, but as I look back, no one is watching. At least no one human. I’m sure all the demons in the house are laughing and celebrating that I’m gone. There is no one left to hold them back.

I know that I am defiled now. Just like the rest of my family. We are all defiled. The sins of the fathers, the multigenerational
curse—how can one ever escape it? All I want is to escape this evil, to go someplace pure and safe, a place where I can get clean. Oh, how I need to get cleansed again; I need to be purged by fire. All I want right now is to be clean. Clean and free. Free and clean.
O Lord, please help me. Deliver me from my enemies. Make me clean. Make me free
.

I
think I was about five years old when I started watching my step out on the sidewalk in front of our house. “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back,” Lynette had told me one time when we were playing outside. After that I took the cracks in the concrete very seriously. Lynette, however, didn’t seem to really care whether or not she broke our mother’s back. At the time I couldn’t see the irony in this. Lynette was the one who enjoyed our mother’s favoritism; whereas I, on the other hand, was the one who usually earned her criticism. Still, I didn’t want to be responsible for breaking Mom’s back. That would’ve been too heavy a load for me to bear.

Sometimes I got careless while walking to school, and I would absent-mindedly lose track of the sidewalk cracks. Before I knew what had happened, I would accidentally step on one. The only remedy for this was to turn around and go back until I had carefully stepped over seven cracks. Because, in my mind, seven was a magical number with the power to undo things. After stepping over seven cracks, I could turn back around and head to school again. But if I stepped on a crack a second time, the penalty return trip would double—two times seven cracks would be needed to undo my mistake. Likewise it would’ve required three times seven for a third infraction of this rule. However, I rarely stepped on three cracks during a single trip.

But as I’m driving around town now, trying to figure out where
I should go and what I should do, I wonder how many cracks in the road I have driven over today. And although I know it’s perfectly ridiculous, it’s very unsettling to know that I’m driving over so many. At this rate I would probably have to drive in reverse for three days to undo what’s been done.

Maybe my mother and sister are right. Maybe I am crazy. Perhaps I do need serious help. Perhaps I am the source of all this family’s problems. But what about their sinful choices? What about the way they allow Satan such easy access into their lives and their homes, welcoming him and his demonic friends as if they were invited guests?

I drive past the Pratt home for the fourth time. There are a number of cars parked out front, but I imagine myself parking across the street, then walking up to the house, knocking on the front door, and telling them my whole sad story. But what if they have just sat down to dinner? What if I interrupt them as they’re asking the Lord’s blessings? What if they have a houseful of guests—family and friends—and what if Kellie and Glenn just stand there looking at me, embarrassed for me and wishing they didn’t know me and hoping I will simply go away? No, I can’t do that. As badly as I need a deliverance prayer right now and as much as I want the comfort of my fellow believers, I must attempt to cleanse myself this time.

So I drive home and am somewhat surprised to see that Rick and the girls aren’t here. Of course, they’re probably still having a good time at Lynette’s. Don’t they wonder about me? Don’t they care that I’m not there? Aren’t they just the least bit worried? I see the little red light flashing on the answering machine. Of course, that’s not so unusual. But, like always, I ignore it.

On a mission I head straight for the bedroom and strip off my clothes. I realize with a stab of spiritual clarity that I’d been wearing
the pantsuit Lynette had enticed me to purchase, but hadn’t there been rumors that the designer is a known Satan worshiper? Of course my clothes are tainted. I creep through the house in my underwear, carrying the contaminated suit at arm’s length out to the garage, where I put it in a large black trash bag and then stuff it into the already-full garbage can.

Back in the bathroom I continue my preparation for a meticulous cleansing shower. It takes many careful steps to successfully perform this sort of shower. Naturally, I don’t normally go around telling others about these particular steps, although I have been trying to teach my girls how to be more careful with their daily hygiene habits and how to prevent contamination following a shower. For instance, there is a right way and a wrong way to towel dry. I’m amazed at how many people aren’t aware of something this basic. But then I’ve observed many shocking practices, particularly in public rest rooms. My girls fully understand the importance of avoiding direct contact with doorknobs, handles, faucets, and such. As well as how to use paper products to protect their hands from being infected with germs. I feel that I’ve done a fairly good job in this regard.

Of course, I haven’t taught them how to take a cleansing shower yet. I suppose it’s one of my little secrets. But this is a showering technique that I devised for those times when I feel particularly unclean. Like today. For starters, I must thoroughly disinfect the shower stall. First I remove all traces of Rick’s things. Then I scrub down the shower with Lysol cleanser until my nose and eyes are burning from the strong chemical smell. Then I wash my bottles of shampoo and soap in the bathroom sink, shaking them dry before I replace them in the shower, careful not to touch or bump anything. After this, I wash my hands once more so they are sanitary enough to retrieve some
clean towels and washcloths—three of each for the various stages of cleaning. After one washcloth is contaminated, I’ll toss it into the laundry hamper and then use another. Likewise, I use three towels to dry off with, although this seems fairly straightforward. The first one is to wrap my wet hair into. The next one is to dry the upper half of my body. After that I place it on the floor to step onto since I know the bath mat is unclean from Rick’s use. The last towel is for drying the lower half of my body, feet last.

Finally I am finished and dressed, and I am ready to bow down before the Lord in an effort to be made fully clean—inside and out. But as I’m praying, I hear a noise. Thinking perhaps Rick and the girls have come home, I rise and prepare myself for what I’m sure will be an unpleasant inquisition from my husband. But when I get out into the kitchen, it doesn’t seem they are here. Still I hear a noise.

It’s a scratching sound that seems to be coming from the living room, and judging by the hairs standing out on the back of my neck, I feel certain this sound’s origins are demonic. With my Bible, the best tool for exorcisms, in hand, I pray aloud as I slowly walk toward the source of the noise, loudly rebuking Satan and his followers just as I’ve been taught, using my authority to command that they leave my home at once. “In the name of Jesus! Be gone! Depart!”

That’s when I see a black form scurrying across the carpet. I let out a little scream and jump, but then I realize it’s actually Spooky, the kitten. Still, I know that this innocent-looking cat is really just one of the devil’s pawns, and I’m getting sick and tired of having this creature continually contaminating my home like this. Especially now, seeing that it is no longer contained within the confines of the laundry room. Things are getting out of hand.