The Celestial Wife, page 24
“Let that be a lesson to you all. Life on the outside brings only ruin and regret. And let me tell you, the holy water in the baptism tub will wash away her sins, but it cannot make her whole again. I cannot make her whole again. I am your Bishop, at one with God. I am set apart from all mortals. Only the purest of women can be my wives. I recant the marriage vows I made to her years ago. After a period of re-education, I will assign Daisy to another worthy member of the priesthood.”
A wave of murmurs swept through the room. Men sat tall, craning their necks, trying to get a good look at me. Perversely, my too-short bridal dress that hugged my breasts and stretched across my hips made me look like some sort of strangely dressed sex worker.
Suddenly I understood the real reason the Bishop had agreed to the terms of my return. He was no longer sexually interested in me. I was not what he preferred, an innocent, timid, fifteen-year-old (or even better, a twelve-year-old). I felt a wave of relief that he was sticking to our agreement, but I shuddered at the thought of the poor girls who would come after me. Get in and get out quickly, I reminded myself. I would have to be gone from here before I was “married.” I felt emboldened. Things were falling into place.
The Bishop grasped my hand and led me to the tub, the size of a small aboveground pool. He motioned for me to climb a small set of steps with him and then kneel down on a wooden platform.
He said a prayer begging the Lord for a sign that I was redeemed, then told me to slide off the platform into the tub. The water was at room temperature, but I began to shiver uncontrollably. I gripped the plastic edge of the tub to keep from sinking over my head, my dress billowing around me.
“Do you, Daisy, repent your sins and beg for redemption?”
I looked out at the audience. “Y-yes, I do,” I stammered softly.
The Bishop rolled up his shirtsleeves and turned to the crowd. “Count with me, people.” Kneeling on the platform, he grasped a knot of my hair with his right hand and thrust me under the water. I could hear their chanting even as bubbles raced past my ears.
“One, two, three …”
At the count of ten I tried to surface, but the Bishop was powerful. With his one-handed grip, he held me down while I struggled and panicked.
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen …”
At the count of fifteen, he released me. I burst from the water, gasping for breath. Gripping the edge of the tub on one hand, I yanked my hair out of my eyes with the other.
“Do you think you have achieved redemption, woman?” the Bishop bellowed in my face.
“Yes,” I coughed.
The Bishop turned to the crowd again. “What say you? Remember, suffering is an important prelude to redemption.”
“No,” came shouts from every corner of the room.
Once again, the Bishop gripped the knot of my hair—I took a big breath—and pushed me hard under the water. I opened my eyes wide as bubbles rose and popped all around me. The muffled, slow counting started again.
“One, two, three …”
After ten seconds, I struggled to hold my breath. My puffed cheeks began to ache. The count of fifteen came and went. I fought panic. My mind flashed to a memory of reading an article on the microfiche in the library in Nkwala. Was this how Lavender drowned?
I tried to break free of the water by kicking my feet, but the Bishop pushed me down even harder, using the weight of his entire body.
At the count of eighteen, I was finally freed. Gasping and sputtering, I broke through the surface and tried to tread water, but my foot struck the wall of the fibreglass tub, sending pain shooting up my leg. I threw an arm over the edge of the tub and hung on, panting for air.
My wet garments clung to me obscenely, and my hair was plastered to my face so I could barely see.
“Can you imagine the evil that this woman entertained on the outside? Brother Tobias found her working in a café that serves alcohol. And she was wearing the devil’s clothes, tight garments that flaunted her body to tempt innocent men.”
The Bishop called to the crowd one more time. “Has she achieved redemption?”
“No!” the crowd roared.
The Bishop turned to me. “And what do you have to say?”
“Y-yes. I—for sure I feel redeemed.”
The Bishop held his right arm over his head and looked skyward, beseeching the Lord for direction. After a moment he said, “God has spoken to me. One more time.”
The men applauded and hollered.
But the women had grown quiet.
This time, the Bishop dug his hands painfully into my shoulders to thrust me under. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to take a big gulp of air first. My lungs screamed and panic gripped me. I struggled, but the pressure on me was too great. Instinct took over.
I dove down, deep into the tub where the Bishop couldn’t reach me, swimming sideways to escape his hold entirely. When I surfaced, I was across the width of the tub from him, staring into his red, angry face. If I had been within reach, he would have struck me.
“We are not done,” he roared. He stood and turned to the crowd. “In order to be truly redeemed, Daisy must pray nonstop while she undergoes a period of re-education. She will repent from afar in a seclusion trailer set out in the woods for two weeks. She must pray for the Lord to make her worthy—only then will she be welcomed back into our community.”
The crowd cheered as the Bishop walked away, leaving me to drag my sodden, exhausted self from the tub.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I sat sandwiched between Mother Rose and Mother Hyacinth in my wet, itchy clothes as they drove me along the dusty old track that led to one of the isolation trailers. I remembered them both.
When I was young, Mother Rose was mean and never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was the spawn of an apostate. Mother Hyacinth, on the other hand, was always kind. One of Mom’s regulars, she secretly visited my mother despite the rules against it.
In the back seat of the car were all the supplies I would need for my two-week period of re-education—two small boxes of food, a change of clothes, and a can of gas for the generator.
My heart had sunk when Bishop Thorsen had pronounced my fate. This was not part of our agreement. How would I be able to work towards my goals if I was locked away in the wilderness by myself for two whole weeks?
Isolation was what Brighten had had to endure too, but hers had lasted for weeks on end and it was followed by forced sex with Brother Earl until she conceived. At least I knew there was an end to mine. Two weeks—I could do it. I would just have to put my head down and get through it.
I tried to look on the bright side. Out here in the country, I could look out the trailer windows and watch birds and wildlife, even enjoy the unseasonably warm autumn weather. It was so much better than what Brighten had suffered, locked in a windowless room with absolutely nothing to do.
I had to squint at first when I caught sight of the small, silver trailer as it glistened in the hot afternoon sun. Set just off the dirt road, in the middle of a grassy field, it looked small and shabby. It rested on deflated tires.
With just a couple of narrow, cracked windows and no shade trees nearby, I guessed it would be hot, so I was relieved to see that there was a screen door. If I left the main door open, I would be able to get some breeze through in the heat of the day. I could have done worse, much worse, knowing Bishop’s Thorsen’s cruel streak.
We parked and got out. I stretched my neck and shoulders, still sore from the Bishop pressing down hard on me in the tub. Mother Rose handed me the two boxes of supplies from the back seat, while Mother Hyacinth grabbed the gas can and topped up the generator.
I was concerned that two weeks’ worth of food weighed so little. The two cartons felt like about twenty pounds. I had a quick look inside the top box: canned beans and peas, and bags of rice, oatmeal, and pasta. Pretty crappy meals. I would be lonely and bored, but at least I wouldn’t starve.
Mother Rose interrupted my thoughts. “The generator is on a timer. Six o’clock in the evening—you’ll get one hour. That’s when you can cook, shower, and flush the toilet, so don’t dillydally like you used to. Remember to fill your water jugs then, also. The tap is on an electric pump.”
She gave me a queer, smug look, but I saw something else as well. She had a nervous tick in one eye. Odd, I thought. Mother Rose had always been so confident.
Mother Hyacinth came back from filling the generator and stowed the empty gas can in the car. I tried to catch her eye and give her a quick smile, but she kept her head down, refusing to look at me.
“We’ll leave you now,” Mother Rose said. “We’ll be back in two weeks, and in the meantime, we’ll pray for you every day.” She stepped forward and opened the screen door for me. I struggled, trying to balance the food boxes while opening the heavy metal main door to the trailer. It eventually swung wide, and I stepped into the moldy, airless space. Dropping the boxes on a small plastic table, I turned around just in time to see Mother Rose close the door behind me. Then I heard a dead bolt slide into place.
I did all right for the first two days, but on the third evening, the generator sputtered, then quit.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I read somewhere that people die of thirst before they die of hunger. I wondered how long that would take. The evening the generator died I had to fight blind panic. I had already learned that the windows were rusted shut and the one window big enough to break and crawl through had a metal grill nailed over it. Catching rainwater was impossible.
Being in the small metal trailer was like being locked in a hot car in the sun with the windows closed. All I could do in the heat of the day was to lie on the bed with my clothes stripped off, sweating.
At night, after the hot autumn sun dropped below the hills in the west, the temperature plummeted, and I was so cold I couldn’t sleep. There were no blankets, but I found a tablecloth stashed in one cupboard that I managed to cover myself with. It helped me get some sleep.
I had searched the trailer from top to bottom, looking for anything that I could use to pry the door open and force the lock, but the only “tools” I could find were a plastic fork, knife, and spoon. On the fifth day I managed to use the handle of the single cooking pot to break a piece of glass out of a window. It helped with the heat, but it made the cold nights worse.
To help with my anxiety, I tried to do some gentle, calming exercises that Saffron had taught me. She called them yoga, and had learned them on a trip to Los Angeles a few years ago. The fluid stretches and poses helped me feel less panicked, but they built my thirst.
I rationed what little water I had managed to save before the generator failed. Added to this was the fluid in the cans of beans and peas but, by day six, my thirst was an all-consuming agony. My throat was so dry that swallowing had become slow and painful. My pee had turned to a dark orange, a sure sign of dehydration.
Not wanting to lose any precious fluid from my body, I tried not to cry as I battled despair. One evening I thought I saw a moving light on the dirt road, and I tried to call out despite my hoarse and aching throat, but if anyone was there, they were too far away to hear me.
Once I had eaten all the tinned food, there was nothing left but the rice, pasta, and oatmeal. I had no way of cooking them and trying to chew on them when I had no saliva was impossible. The first time I tried, I ended up tossing the hard, dry spaghetti onto the floor in angry exasperation. I stared off into the setting sun as twilight descended. Dark thoughts crowded my brain.
I was going to die.
God was punishing me.
For lusting after Tobias, for lusting after Jean.
For being disobedient.
On the seventh night my thirst felt like a raging fire inside me, one that I couldn’t extinguish. All I could think about was having a long drink of something, anything that was wet and cool.
After several hours of fitful thrashing about in my bed, I dropped into a strange dream-filled sleep, one that I had trouble rousing myself from when I heard a noise followed by the gentle swaying of the trailer on its deflated rubber tires. Either I was hallucinating, or someone or something was moving beside me. I struggled to pull my eyelids open, but the effort seemed too great.
I heard the strike of a match, and the sudden light felt like it was burning my eyeballs as I managed to drag myself from a semiconscious state. Someone was speaking to me; I struggled through my deep fog, trying to hear.
“Daisy, it’s me. Try to have a little sip of water. I’m holding up a cup to your lips, take it slow and steady, just a little bit to start or you’ll be sick.”
Mom?
“Mom? How?” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Someone old and feeble. Mom’s face was illuminated from behind in a halo of white light. Was she real or was I hallucinating?
Please, God, make this real.
“Shush. I’ll tell you everything in a minute. Just take some small sips for now.”
I felt the soothing touch of her hand on my forehead, a gesture I’d known from my earliest days. It was as if an angel were reaching down from heaven, caressing my very soul. In that moment we were so deeply joined I didn’t know where she ended and I began.
The warmth of her touch was replaced by a cool, wet cloth on my head. I was floating through water as if I had been gently dropped into an arctic sea filled with ice crystals and magical creatures that swam alongside me, drawing me into the shimmering light that beckoned from above.
God was in the soothing hand of a woman on the brow of a child.
I pursed my lips and sipped. My parched throat reacted with repulsion at first, the liquid causing painful spasms as I swallowed, but soon it felt as though I was drinking the nectar of the gods. It was all I could do to stop myself from wrenching the cup from Mom’s hand and drinking great gulps.
Blinking with newfound consciousness, my vison cleared, and I looked at Mom. “How did you know?”
“Mother Hyacinth. She was very worried about you. She often sets up these trailers for seclusion re-education. She said there wasn’t the usual amount of gas in the can—not enough for two weeks, anyway. She could tell as soon as she picked it up. When she spoke to the Bishop about it, he told her that it was none of her business and to just do as she was told.”
“But how did you find me?”
“She drew me a map and gave me her key to the padlock on the door. You weren’t hard to find, once I knew the route—only an hour’s hike from my place, but still, I got lost the first time I tried. Maybe you saw my flashlight in the dark? I talked to Hyacinth again, and that’s how I found you.”
We cried and hugged each other as my strength began to return. She filled my saucepan with water and left fruit and bologna sandwiches. Promising to come back every night until I was released, she set off well before dawn so she would be home before anyone was up and around.
The days and nights passed much more easily after that. During Mom’s visits I told her about seeing Dad again, about my life in Nkwala, about my struggles to get an education, about Saffron and Jean, but mostly we talked about how the Bishop’s corruption was ruining people’s lives and it had to stop.
I consoled myself that my seclusion was coming to an end. Who would come to fetch me? The Bishop? Would he come alone, expecting me to be dead, having died of thirst? What would he do to me when he found me healthy and well? Revived by a mother’s love?
I tried not to dwell on my scary thoughts. Instead, I thought about what I would do to bring down the Bishop and help the people to reject him and leave Redemption. I remembered my one meeting with my dad and what he’d told me about Bishop Thorsen’s takeover of Shoemaker Forest Products. Dad had said that the Bishop had “quietly cut all my employees’ wages, but he kept two sets of books, so no one knew.”
* * *
On my last night in the trailer, Mom and I had a heart-to-heart. Sitting on my little bed, wrapped in the blankets that Mom had brought from home, we held cups of steaming tea and I told her all my plans.
“A love-in? I’m not sure what you mean by that,” she said.
“It’s like a festival of peace and love. I want the people of Redemption to see the outside for all the good it has to offer. I want them to choose to leave for the chance of a better life, and I want to sow seeds of distrust about the Bishop so they feel compelled to leave.”
Mom got up, opened the door to the trailer, and checked outside for a minute. Convinced that no one was lurking out there, she sat back down, wrapping the blanket around her one more time. “How are you going to manage that?”
“Brighten is my spy on the inside. She’s looking for evidence of financial wrongdoing, and I want you to help me organize some of the women to tell their stories. The world needs to know what goes on in here.”
Mom took a sip of her tea and was silent for a minute. “Whatever I can do to help, just tell me.”
“I need you to do two things for me. Saffron’s written an article about the abuse that goes on here. It’s in the Georgia Straight. It’s going to make the whole world sit up and take notice. I need to see it. You could get a copy from the library in Stewart’s Landing, and while you’re there, use the public pay phone to make a special call for me. You’ll have to be careful. No one can know what you’re doing. It’s the key to everything.”
“No problem. Give me all the details and I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Chapter Forty
I was roused by the sound of a pickup truck skidding on gravel and stopping just outside the trailer. I heard the sharp metallic sound of the dead bolt snapping back. The trailer door slowly opened. The silhouette of a tall man standing in the doorway was backlit by the bright sunshine.
“Daisy?”
“Tobias?” Thank God it wasn’t the Bishop. I could handle Tobias.
“The Bishop sent me to get you. Are you okay?”
My heart skipped a beat. I was floored by the depths of the Bishop’s depravity. He’d told Tobias to come and get me, thinking that Tobias would find me dead. He knew full well that Tobias claimed to love me and that finding me dead would be a terrible blow. Had he planned to inflict pain on Tobias, or was he setting up Tobias to take the blame for my death?
