Breaking Free, page 2
Most of the time, our imaginations were our favorite entertainment. Using the few movies and books we’d read, we pretended for hours, making up stories and adventures to keep ourselves amused when we were not in school or doing our assigned chores. There was also a large front yard, and a small forest of trees in the backyard—we called it “the woods”—where Becky and I went to get away from everyone else and build huts or tree houses. It was our happy place.
There was also a large garden that we planted with all kinds of vegetables during the spring and summer. Each day, one of the girls would be assigned to water and weed. There was a small orchard of fruit trees—apple, plum, pear, peach, and apricot—and we often snacked on the unripe fruit. There was also a beautiful array of roses by the front porch. The bush closest to the front door was my favorite: a Peace rose, which produced large flowers of pink and yellow.
Encircling this Eden was a six-foot-tall cement wall, a defining characteristic of every house I lived in. As a child, I thought these walls were meant to keep the wicked world outside. But in time I came to realize that they were there just as much to keep us in.
2
Sins of the Father
“Rachel, Father wants to talk to you on the phone,” Mother Annette said one day in the summer of 1992.
I picked up the handset. “Rachel, come over to my office,” Father said.
Father had recently started singling me out for special attention, inviting me to spend time with him without the other children around. At the time, there were seven of us girls and three little boys, aged three and younger. I had no idea why he chose me above all the others. He’d take me for a drive or shopping or to eat at a restaurant, just us two, but mostly he had me spend time with him in his office. Usually I would read one of the books he had lying around, or help him clean up or do some minor task he gave me.
When I arrived that day, the light in the office was very dim. The blinds had been pulled closed, allowing only a small stream of afternoon sunlight to peek through the slats.
“Come in, Rachel.” Father was sitting in the chair behind the desk. “Come closer,” he said, and waved me over to him. He pulled me onto his lap. He moved his hands around underneath me and then slid me off his lap and turned me around to face him, pushing me to my knees. His pants were undone and his genitals were exposed. I gasped. I had never seen a man’s parts before, only my little brothers’ when I was told to change their diapers. Father had always taught us that our bodies were sacred and that it was a sin to let anyone see them uncovered.
Father took my hand and placed it on his penis. I tried to pull away, but he held my hand firmly, placing his hand over mine. He began squeezing my hand up and down.
I closed my eyes and turned away, but with his free hand he reached for my chin and turned my face back toward him. “Rachel, look. This is what a man looks like.”
I was so frightened. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry my heart out. But I didn’t dare do any of that. Strict obedience to our father and mothers was the second most important rule, after never questioning the Prophet. I was afraid of what Father would do to me if I didn’t obey.
“Rachel, see how a man goes hard when you touch him? Don’t turn away, look.”
Why is he making me do this? This is wicked. Father himself teaches us so. Is Father doing this because I am eight years old? We were taught that eight was the age of accountability, when all of our sins would be on our own head.
As his breathing got faster, the feeling of shame in my heart seemed to thicken and curdle.
I walked home from his office that afternoon feeling like a true sinner. I had done a terrible thing, and I was afraid my mothers and siblings would be able to tell what had happened in Father’s office. When I got to the house, I went immediately to my bedroom. I couldn’t eat dinner with my family; I was overwhelmed with guilt. Finally, as my sisters came to bed and settled in to sleep, and darkness filled the bedroom, I wept silently into my pillow until I fell asleep.
The next morning and every day afterward, Father behaved as though nothing had happened.
“Girls, let’s go on a hike!” Father said as he walked in the front door one warm day in July. We scrambled to find shoes and socks, since we stayed in bare feet as much as possible in summer to keep cool. Since we had to wear long dresses and long underwear, bare feet were our only relief. There was one designated sock basket for the whole family, and we’d have to dig through it trying to find a pair. That day I ended up with one blue sock and one black sock that was too big, so the heel rode up to my ankle.
When I walked out on the porch, I saw Father with some of my sisters and our dog Sunny—one of the German shepherds we had over the years—already heading toward the road to cross over to the mountain, and I ran to catch up to them. As we stood in our obvious church dresses and braids waiting for cars to pass so we could cross, the driver of a red car lay on the horn and yelled “Plygs!” out the window at us. We got that a lot, gentiles laughing and pointing at us.
The first part of the hike was an easy walk up the dirt path to the water tank. From there, the trail steepened. Father and Sunny led the way up the deer trail to the ridge. Every so often, Sunny would come back down to check on us girls. We were lagging behind, talking and laughing and getting winded. “Girls, if you want to save energy, you’ll be quiet and keep a constant pace,” Father said. We quieted down and continued walking.
At the top, we climbed over the ridge and down the other side of the mountain to what we called Lookout Rock. We clambered up to the top and looked out over Bell’s Canyon and a beautiful stream weaving through the valley below. It was easy to forget ugly things for a moment.
“Race you down to the stream!” Father said, and took off running.
We took off after him. As I ran, the cool canyon air blew against my face; it felt like freedom.
About halfway down, Becky and I stopped at Bell’s Cave, an abandoned mining cave dug into the side of the mountain.
“Do you dare go in there?” I said to Becky.
“I don’t know. It’s so dark,” she said. “Do you?”
We tiptoed to the mouth of the cave, Becky holding the skirt of my dress, and I the sleeve of hers. We took a few careful steps in until the darkness began to crowd us.
“I don’t really feel like it right now,” I said, trying not to sound afraid.
“Yeah, me neither.”
Then we heard a sound at the far end of the cave. I grabbed Becky’s arm and we both turned around and ran.
The other girls and Father and Sunny had already reached the stream by the time we got there. “Where were you?” Father asked with a slightly furrowed brow.
“We were trying to be brave and go in the cave,” I said.
“Get a drink from the stream before we head home,” he said.
We cupped our hands into the ice-cold water and drank our fill. It was a treat on such a hot day.
As we headed back down the mountain toward home, Father and Sunny walked ahead; Becky and I took our sweet time. Suddenly we heard a loud screech, followed by yelling. In the distance we could see Father running toward the road in front of our house. Becky and I started running to catch up.
“Go straight to the house,” Father said. “Don’t come over here.”
Maryanne had been walking with Father, and she helped us younger girls cross the street, but she was crying. “The lady in the car didn’t see Sunny running across the road,” Maryanne said. Sunny’s back right leg had been ripped off during the accident. While we sat in the hall and cried, Father went to get someone to put Sunny out of his pain.
“I’m sad about Sunny, but I’m glad it wasn’t one of you girls that had been run over,” he said when he came back in the house.
That night after the evening meal, we had family prayer, and Father thanked Heavenly Father that we were all safe. Then he hugged us all good night and sent us to bed.
Three days later, I was on the swings with Becky when I heard Father call out, “Rachel!” from the path that led to the school. A shudder ran through me—I’d avoided being alone with him for the last week or so, since my last visit to his office. I slowly slid out of the swing and walked toward him, my eyes on the ground.
“Come clean my office for me,” Father said as I approached. “Will you?”
I knew saying “I don’t want to” would anger him, although that was exactly what I wanted to say. He expected my obedience.
“Yes,” I said, and continued walking with him a few steps behind.
“Rachel, why aren’t you walking by me?”
I knew he knew why, but I caught up to him, keeping my arms folded to avoid any contact and trying to convince myself to ignore the bad feeling I had about this.
When we reached the school, I climbed the stairs to his office behind him. He put the key in the door, which was always locked whether he was in there or not. (His sister Rachel, the principal’s assistant, was the only other person who had a key.)
I decided I would clean Father’s office as quickly as I could and get out of there before anything weird happened. I got the cleaners and rags out and started washing down the windows. Father took a seat on the couch while I worked. My hands were shaking as I straightened the phone and papers on his desk. I vacuumed the floor and put the chairs in their proper place by the desk, and then I was done.
“Rachel, come here.”
I looked over at him. His pants were undone, and his penis was visible.
“Come here,” Father said again.
Terrified, I slowly walked toward him. When I was close enough, he took my arm and pulled me onto the couch beside him. He placed my hand on his erect penis and began moving it up and down. After a few minutes of doing that, he stood me up, lifted my dress, and pulled down my underpants. He sat me on his lap, returned my hand to his penis, and put his hand between my legs and began to rub. He didn’t say a word as he did these things.
Father wasn’t just my father—he was the son of the Prophet, the principal of our church school, the man entrusted with the spiritual education of all the children, most especially his own.
When he was done with me, Father said, “You can go home.”
The sun on my back gave me some relief as I walked back to our house.
“Rachel, come eat your dinner,” Mother Annette said when I stepped inside, as though she knew I was planning to go straight to my room again. I sat down at the place that was left for me, and my mouth went dry. Dinner that night was a dish we called “cheesy business,” which consisted of whipped potatoes, corn, spaghetti sauce, and cheese. I usually liked cheesy business, but it didn’t look appealing to me. I forced myself to swallow each bite until I was finished so that I did not seem disobedient.
That night as I lay in bed, I tried to convince myself that Father would probably never do those weird things to me again, that he was just feeling different this last week.
But things only got worse.
That summer, Father summoned me to his office over and over again, at least two or three times a week. Each time, he was more determined to get me to touch him on my own, without his having to take my hand and make me do it. I refused. I held my hand back and looked away, while he kept saying, “Rachel, put your hand here.” In the end, he would have to put my hand on him, and he would not let me leave his office until he had had his satisfaction.
One day in his office, as he sat on the couch exposing himself to me, there was a new intensity when he said yet again, “I want you to touch me.” He took hold of my arm and kept saying it over and over. “Rachel, I want you to touch me.” I realized he wasn’t going to let me go until I obeyed, so I did.
The next day, Father took me for a ride alone to do some shopping for school.
“You didn’t pass the test yesterday,” Father said, as he was driving. I looked at him, confused. What test? “I told you to touch me to see if you wanted to, and you did it. That shows me that you have immoral thoughts and desires.”
He tells me I must obey him, and now he says he was just testing me?
I didn’t say a word to him, just turned my head away to look out the window and cried silently.
“Becky, let’s pretend we’re camping on the mountain,” I said to my sister when we were playing in the yard one afternoon. “I’ll be Father, and you are my wife. Melanie, Shirley, and Angela”—our little sisters—“can be our girls.” I had to play Father because I was the oldest girl playing. Besides, we didn’t have any big brothers, only little ones too young to play.
Becky went to get our sisters to join us, and I started gathering up “camping things” for our adventures—an old backpack, some play dishes, a blanket. Almost every time we played pretend, we spent more time setting everything up than actually having the adventure. It didn’t matter—we thought it was fun, and we stayed out all afternoon until Mother Gloria, father’s third wife, called us in for dinner. I hated to go in and break the spell of a “normal” childhood.
“Rachel, do you want to come on a ride with me?” Father asked. By this time I’d had enough experience that I could sense when he had that fishy feeling about him, but I was afraid to defy him. In the past, when I had disobeyed him, he punished me or withdrew privileges from me. He might take my sisters and brothers on an outing and tell me in front of them, “Rachel, you can’t come with us.” My siblings assumed I had done something naughty, and they would treat me badly for it. That hurt more than what Father did, and I couldn’t bear it, so I had to make a choice. To keep my family’s goodwill and affection, I had to stay on Father’s good side and do what he said. It was worth it to me to have my sisters’ approval, even if they hadn’t the slightest idea of what I was going through.
Father took me on a drive up the canyon that day, up to the top of the mountain. When he stopped the car, he said, “I need to use the bathroom. I’ll have to go in the trees. You come and stand guard.” He told me where to stand and walked off a little ways.
“Rachel! Rachel! Come here!” Father called out, not a minute later.
With dread anchoring my feet, I had to drag myself step by step toward him. I stopped a yard from where he stood. He had his back turned to me, but I could tell he was uncovered.
“Rachel, come right here.”
I took another tiny step, close enough that he could reach for my arm and pull me around in front of him.
“There’s a bunch of mosquitoes on me right here,” Father said, pointing to his genital area. “I need you to get them off me.”
“No, please,” I said, trying to look away.
“Yes, I need you to.” He pushed my head toward his genitals. I was short enough that I didn’t have to bend down very far. “Get them off.”
I pulled away, but he pulled me back toward him. “Right down there, get them off.”
I began to cry, but tried to angle my face away so he wouldn’t see. I didn’t want him to know. Rachel, if you want to get this over with, you’ll have to do what he says. Just do it and it’ll be done. I opened my eyes. My father’s intimate parts were right in front of my face.
“There are no mosquitoes!” I said.
“Yes, there are.”
Father wasn’t going to let me go until I touched him one way or another, so I pretended to brush away the mosquitoes.
When I was ten, Father started taking me to bookstores and libraries to show me pornography. He would park me in the children’s section, then go to the back of the store where the “adult” books were shelved, choose whatever he wanted to show me, and bring it back to me. To other patrons, it looked like a loving father was simply reading to his child.
“Rachel, look what men and women do together,” or “Look what men and women do to themselves.”
If the children’s section was busy with other kids, Father would have me follow him to a different section of the store, say gardening or earth science, where there weren’t any customers around, so he could explain to me how babies were made and born in great detail. “Father, I don’t want to see.”
“I want you to look at these pictures.”
Father put his hands on either side of my head and forced me to look. I was embarrassed that other people in the store could tell I didn’t want to look at what he was showing me, so I always ended up obeying him. Many times he would take me back to his office, undress himself and me, and then have us imitate, minus the actual penetration, the positions in the pictures he’d just shown me.
I rejoiced every time Father got a new wife because with each new marriage he left me alone for a few months. Father married his fourth wife, Brenda Jessop, in the spring of 1993. When he married Monica Sue Jessop, his fifth wife, in September 1995, he left me alone for six glorious months. I loved those six months of freedom, and I loved Mother Monica for keeping him occupied.
I spent a lot of time with my sisters during those months, pretending we were camping in the “woods” in our backyard.
One day I said to Becky, “Let’s play like we are gentiles, and after a while we turn good. Melanie is your girl, and Shirley and Angela are my girls. Levi”—the oldest of our little brothers—“can be the preacher who convinces us to mend our ways.”
We all rolled up our sleeves and leggings to expose our limbs like the gentiles. We set up our “homes” by making little huts out of branches, and we pretended our bikes were cars for transportation.
“Let’s go on a vacation together,” I said. We got on our bikes and rode around the house. When we got to the glass door, we got off our bikes and admired our bare arms and legs in the reflection. It didn’t occur to us that anybody inside the house could see us. We hopped back on our bikes and headed back to our huts in the woods.
Two minutes later Mother Barbara came out. “Father wants you to put on your pajamas for having bare arms and legs.”
