

Kidnapping My Daughter

Rachel Jensby

Copyright 2013 by Rachel Jensby

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 9-78131109-140-6

Photographic Copyright

Cover photo ©1993 Rachel Jensby

Back matter photo ©1994 Rachel Jensby

Neither image may be used, copied, or reproduced without prior written permission of the owner.

Disclaimer

The following work is based entirely on true events. I have recounted the conversations and events described, based on my memories of them. The only intentional fabrications within this work are limited to the names and physical descriptions of people, as well as dates and some locations, which have been changed in order to protect the privacy of the individuals who were actually involved.

Other Titles by Rachel Jensby

Bringing Cheyenne Home

For Cheyenne

Because life really is wonderful while you're in the world.

### Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Acknowledgements

About the Author

One

Two

Three

_Four_  
 _Five_

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

### Introduction

I kidnapped my own daughter.

Who did I kidnap her from? Many people, I suppose.

I kidnapped her from the man who was hurting her. I kidnapped her from a legal system unwilling to extend their power to save her, including a so-called agency of child protection which, despite being admittedly aware of her abuse, demanded the extent of that abuse be exponentially worse before taking action. And I kidnapped her from a family court system that dismissively and knowingly decided to place her back into the hands of her perpetrator.

I never thought of it as a kidnapping, so much as a parental act to stop horrible things from happening to my child. I kidnapped her for the same reason any other parent would snatch their child out of the path of an oncoming car, or reach out to grab hold of them if they were falling down the stairs. Though the threat facing one child may differ greatly from the threat facing another, the instinctive mechanism to save them from trauma is the same. I could have no sooner handed my toddler back to the man responsible for her sexual abuse as I could have stood on a beach while she drowned without jumping in to save her.

Rescue is rescue.

In my search to find other stories of parental abduction, it has become evident to me over the years that parents who kidnap are often demonized by the media. Consequently, I feel it appropriate here to state that I make no apologies for running with my daughter.

Before elaborating on that assertion though, I want to make any reader of our story aware that I absolutely, unequivocally believe there are times when a parent runs away with a child for reasons having nothing to do with keeping them safe.

My heart grieves for those children, and for any left-behind parent who was, in fact, a safe individual for their child to be with. I can only imagine the suffering and anguish of decent, safe parents who have had their children stolen from them solely out of spite or selfishness. I have no doubt it is a devastating and profoundly painful circumstance to find oneself in, and I wish very much it was something no safe parent, or their children, ever had to endure.

I do not, as a parent who was faced with circumstances where running became my only option to achieve protection for my daughter, now hold the irrational belief that _every_ parent who tries to keep a child from their other parent must automatically be assumed to have valid reasons for doing so. I know—with far more certainty than I wish I did—that people are sometimes cruel and wicked, solely for the sake of being cruel and wicked. I also know, firsthand, that some parents are powerfully capable of denying the rights and well-being of their children in order to serve their own desires and agendas.

I pray, literally, for _every_ child on the run. I pray that the ones who would be safer and healthier with their left-behind parent make it back home soon, and I pray that the ones who need to stay hidden because it's the only way they can be free from physical or sexual abuse remain undetected.

From the bottom of my heart, I pray for them all.

There are those who will proclaim vehemently that what I did was a crime. If that is true, then it would also need to be said that the judge who knowingly ordered my tiny daughter back into the unsupervised hands of her abuser committed a crime himself in doing so. After all, by his act, he knowingly attempted to aid in the sexual abuse of a twenty-month-old child. When he is willing to acknowledge that his action was a crime, then—and _only_ then—will I be willing to acknowledge that mine was, too.

I broke a law, that's true. Violating a court order is, technically, an act of law-breaking. I believe there are sometimes legitimate differences between breaking a law and committing a crime. Call it semantics if you want to, but my point is a valid one.

When an individual walks through a gate into a private backyard without permission, he or she is trespassing—technically breaking a law. But what if that individual went through the gate to save someone drowning in a pool in that backyard? Would their actions constitute criminal behavior?

The reality is that sometimes, good people find themselves in terrible situations which require them to break the law in order to do the right thing.

My only alternative to running was to, three times per week, knowingly give a toddler to a pedophile who had already abused her. No matter how one stretches it, _that_ would have been the real crime.

If we now, in the twenty-first century, in the United States of America, live in a society where the sexual abuse of children is openly protected by law and blessed by judges, then we have far bigger problems than those created by one custodial mother who violated a court order in order to keep her child safe.

The representatives of our judicial system would do well to remember that there are higher laws than those of man, and that someday, they will face their own Judge. My experiences have left me with the distinct impression that many of those in positions of extreme authority have become so intoxicated by their own sense of power over others that they have forgotten that—or perhaps never cared to consider it in the first place.

Yes, I kidnapped my daughter. And no, I'm not sorry for doing it.

Do I wish the agencies and individuals in positions of authority and with the power to have helped her from the beginning would have made the slightest attempt to prevent further abuse so we would not have _had_ to run? Of course I do. I wish it desperately at times, in fact. It would have been so easy for them to do. But they didn't.

So, I ran.

While keeping my daughter safe required unusual strategies, I don't identify with the label of Protective Parent. I intend no disrespect to those who classify themselves as such, and I understand the unifying purpose behind the label. I also recognize that there are many courageous mothers out there—a number of whom that have had their children taken away after trying to protect them—working hard to raise awareness under the banner of Protective Parents. I admire them very much.

I don't accept the label for myself because I don't believe we should _have_ to have a label in order to be deemed worthy enough by society to be "allowed" to protect our children from harm. I don't see a distinction between parenting and protecting when it comes to my role as a mother, I perceive them to go hand-in-hand. I'm not a _protective_ parent—I'm simply a parent. I'm not extraordinary, and I don't feel like a hero. I'm just a mom—a mom who was unfortunate enough to come up against the deplorable machine that is court-licensed abuse.

When I see the term "Protective Parent" I feel a powerful defiance in my heart telling me I shouldn't be required to adopt a label just to be believed, or taken seriously. None of us should. We should have the right to protect our children from sexual predation and incest, label or no label.

I support Protective Parents, but I am unwilling to let society think that I believe I have to be designated as one in order to deserve the right to fulfill my role as a mother.

My child needed to be saved. So, by the grace of God and with a great deal of help from others, I did what I had to do to save her.

I don't view it as having been a valiant effort on my part. It was simply my obligation, as a mother. It was my job. My responsibility.

And, it was my privilege.

### ONE

If someone had asked me before that unseasonably warm autumn if I thought I could ever find myself in hiding and running from the FBI, I probably would have laughed.

I was barely out of my teens, having turned twenty that year. Anyone who'd known me prior to then would likely say I was noted for being about as straight-laced as a teenager could be. I was very reserved in social situations, and I didn't drink, smoke, or do drugs. In fact, when I did attend parties, I usually showed up with some form of chocolate and a book. That way—when I inevitably became irrelevant in a room full of people having fun—I could find a seat somewhere out of the way and read, unnoticed, until the person I'd arrived with was ready to leave. It's probably fair to say I was the epitome of a wallflower; shy, awkward, and totally uninteresting.

I didn't really want to be any of those things. But we are who we are, I guess. I was born destined to become a quiet bookworm. I had a desire to follow rules, and an aversion to drugs and alcohol.

None of those traits make for a very exciting or memorable teenager, and would seem to make even less for a girl who would eventually find herself in the midst of a serious legal situation, running from authorities and facing prison time if caught.

Sometimes, there are moments when I'm still baffled by the turn of events which took me from one extreme to the other.

### ***

Steve and I began dating when I was fourteen years old. We remained a couple—on and off—for the next four years. I was quite a bit younger than he was and as such, I was, unfortunately, oblivious to the degree of manipulation and grooming which had been occurring for those four years.

Steve had behaved in strange and disturbing ways from the very beginning of our relationship, but as a young teen I did not recognize it. By the time my high school graduation rolled around and Steve asked me to marry him moments before I crossed the stage to accept my diploma, I was so deep into his mind games that I was prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth.

Shortly before graduation I'd been accepted to a top-notch university in our area; something Steve was decidedly unhappy about. His initial reaction to the news was one of anger; he said he didn't want me living in the dorms because I might, "meet another guy". As soon as he made that particular comment, he seemed to realize how overbearing it sounded and quickly changed his demeanor from one of hostility to one of feigned happiness.

It was obvious he was faking in an attempt to cover up his controlling behavior but I dismissed it, believing that as time passed he would no longer feel threatened by the idea of me living on campus.

I didn't realize the real threat, in Steve's mind, was simply that of my world expanding in a direction which caused me to discover that emotional reliance upon him was not—as he had worked so hard to convince me—the only option I had.

But I did discover it. To some extent, at least.

After living in dorms for a few months, I grew exhausted of Steve's constant monitoring. He wanted to know where I was and who I was with every minute of every day, despite the fact that he hid most details of his own life from me.

Watching over me so intensely was something he hadn't been able to do while I'd lived with my family, but with them so far away his control tactics became much less subtle.

I tried to break away. In fact, I ended our relationship completely at one point. He didn't seem too distraught over it; in fact the only thing he appeared upset about was my engagement ring. His first words to me after I said I wanted to break up were, "Do you have any idea how much money I spent on that ring?"

During that conversation, Steve had asked me to spend the weekend with him so we could work things out between us. I declined, telling him I'd accepted an invitation from a group of girls in my dorm to attend a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show the following night.

Going out with girlfriends at night was something I _never_ would have done before because, simply put, Steve didn't approve of me doing such things. He had a certain talent for implying that doing so made me appear cheap and slutty. It was the same tactic he used when he wanted to stop me from wearing makeup, or certain clothes.

At seventeen, I didn't recognize his manipulations as abusive behavior; all I wanted was to make sure people didn't think poorly of me. As a result, I always gave in.

Steve lived nearly an hour from campus. By the time I headed into the theater with the girls from school the next night, I'd completely forgotten I'd told him about my plans. As the girls and I sat waiting for the show to begin, I heard a few of them start whispering among themselves. Before I had a chance to ask what the excitement was all about, I discovered that Steve was sitting in the seat directly behind me. He leaned forward and quietly whispered in my ear, "Come on. Let's go".

I remember thinking it was creepy that he'd shown up there. I was also intensely embarrassed; here he was acting like a stalker and now every college friend I'd made had witnessed it firsthand.

I didn't know how to deal with the situation, other than to comply. As I stood to leave, my roommate shook her head at me as she glanced from me, to Steve, and back again. I assured her I was fine, and I made my way to the end of the aisle. When I glanced back I could see that a few of the girls had turned to watch us leave, looks of disbelief on their faces.

I felt defeated. Humiliated. I didn't want to leave with him; I simply lacked the skills to assert myself—something he knew all too well.

Three months later, Steve talked me into leaving the university entirely. He wanted me to move back to my hometown. He had just moved into an apartment with a friend and wanted me to live with him. Again, I complied.

It's not that I was being forced; I don't want to give the wrong impression. These were decisions—very poor decisions—which I made, and the responsibility for having made them is mine alone.

However, it is entirely fair to say that Steve had spent years perfecting the art of getting what he wanted from me. He was a master of manipulation; unbelievably skilled at convincing me that if I didn't acquiesce to his wishes it somehow meant I was selfish, stupid, or a slut. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was good at it.

Many people tried to stop me from leaving school. My R.A., my roommate, the other girls in my dorm. Hell, even one of _Steve's_ friends tried to talk me out of it. We were at his house one night and I remember when Steve mentioned I was quitting school, the friend—someone I had attended school with when we were younger—shot me a disapproving look and said, "You can't just _leave_ ".

For some reason, it was the only one of all the comments anyone had made which struck panic in me; I thought, _Oh no, what have I done?_

But all I could do was mutter the words, "I already did".

And I had.

The best way I can describe what life was like when I first moved in with Steve is to say simply that it was odd. He fluctuated between extremes of wanting us to live like a married couple, to insisting we sleep in separate rooms and maintain an entirely platonic relationship. The way he spoke to me also changed significantly; there was much more control and far less respect in his words and tone. He stayed out late most nights, supposedly at band practice. In truth, I have no idea where he actually spent most of that time.

It was a bizarre arrangement and I remember feeling confused a lot of the time; regretful that I had agreed to leave school to move in with him. I've wished so many times that I could have simply envisioned a future without him. It's bewildering to me now that I chose to stay.

A year later, when I was eighteen, I learned I was pregnant with Cheyenne. By then, Steve and I had moved into a small house in a nice neighborhood.

I was attending a vocational school at the time, although I eventually had to give it up due to a lack of transportation. Just as I'd begun my new courses, Steve decided he could no longer afford monthly car payments and sold his truck. My dad loaned us one of his cars to use while we saved for another, but Steve always took it to band practice after work and was, in his words, "not available", to pick me up from school on time at night. I rode my bike for a few weeks—it wasn't uncommon for residents of the beach town I grew up in to use bicycles to get around—but the campus was several miles from our house and located in a somewhat seedy area. It was obvious that as my pregnancy progressed, I was not going to be able to continue to use my Schwinn beach cruiser as a form of transportation. I quit school—again—and took a job as an assistant manager at a gift shop within walking distance of our home.

Steve's behavior grew even less respectful after we found out I was pregnant. In fact, his treatment toward me became outright hostile. Shortly before I'd learned I was pregnant, he'd actually said he _wanted_ us to have a baby. So when he began acting so mean, I was puzzled and disheartened by the change in him.

One evening very early in my pregnancy, I went to dinner with two friends of mine before we stopped off at a local bowling alley to visit another friend who worked there. For years, the same bowling alley was often a place where Steve and most of his friends hung out together, or used as a meeting place before heading off somewhere else as a group. As a result, he spent a lot of time there. I half-expected to see him inside when we arrived, though I didn't.

My girlfriends and I left the bowling alley less than half an hour later, and they dropped me off at about ten o'clock that night. Strangely enough, Steve was actually home when I got there. Normally, he would have been out with friends until after midnight and I was surprised to see him home so early.

He was waiting on the porch—just sitting there playing with his work keys; a large, heavy ring with dozens of keys on it. I don't remember the exact order of events that night, but I do remember at one point he threw that key ring at me and told me if I ever went out with my friends again I need not come home at all.

The following day, Steve confronted me in our living room and told me he wanted me to have an abortion.

That was probably the very instant I stopped caring what he thought of me or what he wanted from me. It was as though that was the exact moment I became a mother.

I vehemently refused the idea of abortion, and he became enraged. At the time, he had a large water glass in his hand. When I told him I would not abort my baby, he threw the glass at me as hard as he could, making an infuriated growling sound as he did. He sounded crazy. The glass exploded as it smashed into the wall about two feet from my face. Fortunately, I'd turned away and ducked in time to avoid being injured.

Shortly after that incident, Steve approached me apologetically, explaining that his unacceptable behavior stemmed from the fact that he felt a lot of pressure from his dad because we were living together—and now expecting a baby—without being married.

Steve then said he felt we should get married as soon as possible. He said he loved me and would never hurt me. He insisted he loved the baby, and would be different after we got married.

I don't know whether to blame my youth and naïveté, Steve's masterful manipulation skills, or my own sensitivity to the social stigma attached to being a pregnant teenager, but whatever the reason or reasons, I married him at the end of that summer.

I can distinctly remember not wanting to _be_ married, but in my immature mind it appeared to simply be the logical next step on the path Steve and I had put ourselves on. I simply couldn't see that getting married at eighteen was premature at best, baby or no baby. And although I understood the moral and emotional implications of marriage, I was completely ignorant of the legal ones.

Somewhere along the way, I'd also become convinced that not marrying the father of my baby would mean I was a bad mother, and that I would be condemning my baby to some degree of disgrace if she were born to unmarried parents. I don't remember when or why I developed such a notion, because it sounds ridiculous to me now. But I do remember feeling intensely pressured and even obligated to get married, despite the troubling things Steve had done.

In fact, hours before our wedding I announced to everyone around me, "I don't want to do this".

They all turned and looked at me, Steve included, with expressions on their faces which clearly said, _you can't be serious_. I promptly shut up and went through with the ceremony.

That very concession will always remain one of the most powerful regrets of my life.

### TWO

Things did not improve after the wedding.

Our first night home, I had a remarkable dream. I dreamt I was standing at a long, high counter in a local bar. In reality, I was still three years too young to even enter a bar. But once, a few months earlier, I'd walked into that very building because Steve's band was playing there and I needed to talk to him about something. I can only guess the issue was urgent enough that it couldn't wait until morning because sneaking into a bar was pretty radical behavior for me, to say the least. I was promptly thrown out, and I haven't been inside of a bar since.

In the dream though, I was standing at the counter in this same establishment. I recognized a mutual friend of ours standing behind the counter with a stack of photos in his hands. He began flipping the photos onto the wooden counter, face up, one after another. The pictures moved like in one of those little flip-books; the kind where if you flip through them fast enough they run together like a silent film.

In these photos, I watched a mini-movie of Steve kissing a blonde woman in a denim jacket.

I woke up just then to see Steve standing at the foot of our bed getting ready to walk through the bedroom door and leave for work. As I woke up, he looked down at me and I immediately asked, "What did you do?"

He stared at me, without saying a word. I knew him well enough to know his lack of an answer was his way of avoiding an overt lie. I continued.

"I had a dream of Mike showing me pictures of you kissing some blonde woman at that bar on Front Street."

It turned out the dream had been extraordinarily accurate. Steve _had_ kissed a blonde woman at that very bar; a blonde who just happened to be the current girlfriend of the guy in the dream who had shown me the photos.

This wasn't the first dream I'd had which seemed to mimic reality, but it remains one of the most vivid and accurate of those types of experiences I've ever had. One thing is certain: Steve never looked at me quite the same way again after that.

To say I felt trapped after learning of Steve's little indiscretion, which according to him took place just a few days before we were married, would be a gross understatement. He apologized and swore it would never happen again, of course. But his word was no good, and on some level I already knew that. Here I was not only pregnant, but now married as well. I was eighteen, and it seemed my fate was sealed. I felt so stupid—for all of my naiveté and shortsighted choices.

Part of the problem—a big part—was that for reasons I still don't understand, I didn't recognize that I _had_ other choices. I could have left that day. It would have been difficult, it would have been a temporary burden on my relatives, but it could have been done.

I'd grown up discovering I couldn't count on my parents to help me correct bad situations. I had been estranged from my mother since I was fourteen, after she'd walked out and left the country to marry her boyfriend. My dad was technically my ex-stepdad and I was unsure if it was appropriate to ask him to help me, though I do believe now that he would have.

Over the years, at times when I have mentally beat myself up for not leaving Steve sooner, I've surmised that the most likely reason I didn't was because I doubted anyone would help me. And at the time, I didn't have the ability or resources to do it on my own.

As a result, I have always taught Cheyenne there is no reason— _ever_ —that she cannot come home. I want her to know she never has to tolerate an unhealthy situation simply due to lack of choices. No matter _what_ her circumstances—as long as I live, she _always_ has a choice.

### ***

As I progressed into my second trimester of pregnancy, life continued to be troubled and sometimes the things Steve did were disturbing. While some of those things fell into the category of those common to many relationships, others were quite unbelievable and even shocking.

At one point, it became undeniably obvious that he and one of my friends were sneaking around very late at night to spend time alone together. Although both admitted lying to me at times in order to meet up alone, when confronted, they adamantly denied sleeping together. I didn't believe either one of them, but I still saw no immediate way out of my living arrangement.

The relationship between Steve and I changed quite drastically at that point, though. Realizing he was likely sleeping around, and knowing that my "friend" had never been very choosy about her sexual partners, I, for good reason, became genuinely concerned about being exposed to sexually transmitted diseases. I distanced myself from him emotionally _and_ physically.

It was also about this same time that I first realized Steve was capable of intentionally causing serious harm, or even death, to animals. Late one afternoon, he'd driven me to pick up a friend of mine who lived nearby. As we drove home on a quiet residential street, a small dog stepped off the curb far enough ahead of us that it would have had ample time to get to the other side of the street as long as we didn't change our rate of speed.

Suddenly, Steve became incredibly excited and asked, "Think I can get it?"

With those words, he floored the gas pedal and actually _aimed_ for the dog. There is no doubt he was absolutely trying to hit the dog with the car.

As we got closer to the poor animal—now running to get out of the way—Steve started yelling, "Vroom! Vroom!" in between bouts of laughter.

My friend and I both screamed at him to stop, but he wouldn't. The little dog disappeared under the front of the Volkswagen van as Steve triumphantly shouted, "Ha! Ha!"

Miraculously, despite ending up completely under the vehicle as we drove over it, the dog didn't die. Somehow it managed to avoid being crushed by the tires.

Even so, the experience was horrifying, and after it was over Steve continued to laugh jovially as though it had all been great fun to him. That wasn't the only time I witnessed his capacity for animal cruelty, but it was the most frightening.

When I was five months pregnant we left our little house and moved across town. It was meant to be a very temporary arrangement—one I'd had no say in and which had been an agreement between Steve and his parents—but the house was tiny and in a much less desirable neighborhood than the one we were leaving. It was owned by Steve's grandparents; in fact, it was on the same property as their house was.

It wasn't much more than a shack. His grandparents had built it themselves several decades earlier as a temporary dwelling while they'd finished building their permanent home. It was old, cheaply built, and falling apart.

Days after moving into the little house, I tried making plans for Steve's birthday which was quickly approaching. I was still working at my job at the gift shop and had been saving to take him to an expensive restaurant to celebrate. However, because we rarely spent evenings together—even birthdays or holidays—I mentioned my plans a few days early in case he needed to cancel anything. To my dismay, he turned down my offer of dinner and said he wanted to go to a friend's house instead.

The plan sounded suspicious from the start. The friend was someone Steve had known since childhood. I'd met him very briefly several times over the years but Steve and I had never actually spent any time with him as a couple.

I questioned the sudden interest in spending his birthday with someone he hadn't really interacted with in years. He casually explained that his friend had gone through a messy divorce earlier in the year, and he just thought it would be nice to make some time to spend with him. He thought we should both go, in fact.

The truth of the matter, was that he wanted a quick and easy activity to take part in with me—allowing him to later deflect any complaints about not getting to spend his birthday with him—before dropping me back off at home so he could leave again for the night to indulge in whatever his _real_ birthday plans were. Plans in which I was not invited, nor welcome, to participate. Naturally though, I didn't realize that until later.

So in the early evening of Steve's twenty-fifth birthday, we drove to an apartment complex a few blocks away to visit Ben; an insignificant encounter apart from the fact that it served as the backdrop of my introduction to the man who would become—and who remains—the most important person in my life.

I could tell when we walked into Ben's apartment that even _he_ wondered why we were spending Steve's birthday with him. He was extremely polite though, and full of friendly conversation.

The three of us sat around exchanging niceties and lighthearted discussion for less than an hour when out of nowhere, Steve announced he wanted an ice cream sundae for his birthday. And while I was admittedly perplexed and offended that he'd turned down my plans of a fancy dinner in lieu of a trip to 31 Flavors, I mentally threw up my hands and conceded that it was his birthday and he could do whatever he wanted with it.

Despite the weirdness, Ben was mercifully cordial about the whole thing. He grabbed his keys and offered to drive. The two of us inched our way toward the front door, but Steve sat planted on the sofa as though he had no plans to get up. Aggravated, I made an attempt to get the birthday boy up off his rear end to join us for this ridiculous jaunt to the ice cream parlor.

And that's when he unknowingly—and certainly inadvertently—changed the course of all our lives, forever.

"Steve!" I barked at him.

"Huh?" He answered stupidly, as though he was confused as to why I was calling him.

"Are we _going_?" I was so embarrassed; convinced that Ben was going to come to the conclusion that Steve and I were both nuts.

Steve's eyes shifted around before landing on us as he conjured up his best innocent face and sputtered out a reply which—if you can imagine it—took the scenario to a whole new level of strange.

"No...um...hey, why don't _you_ guys go?"

Ben and I just looked at him. Nothing about the entire evening made any sense to me, and probably much less so to Ben. Steve spewed some nonsense about being tired and wanting to relax—and could we please bring him back some Pralines and Cream?

I think Ben and I were so annoyed and confused by Steve's antics by that time that we both wanted the same thing, which was to do whatever it took to get the night over with. We walked out of the apartment, leaving Steve behind.

And in one form or another, we've been leaving him behind ever since.

### ***

The drive to the ice cream store was quiet, and awkward.

Ben and I had met six years earlier, but I doubted he remembered. When I was twelve years old, a mutual friend had introduced us as we left school for the day. Our paths had crossed several times over the years since then simply because we lived in the same town and knew a lot of the same people. But beyond saying hello the one time six years earlier, we'd actually never spoken to each other before that night. In fact, I'd managed to attend his wedding with Steve two years earlier without exchanging a single word with him.

By nature, Ben is friendly and wonderfully at ease with himself. He is a fantastic mix of sincerity and humility, coupled with a penchant for silliness and a great sense of humor. He is kind, thoughtful, and open. Because of these attributes, he's an easy person to feel comfortable with. By the time we left the shop with our bag of ice cream, I was enjoying his company so much I'd forgotten about the weirdness we'd left behind at the apartment half an hour earlier.

The drive home took less than fifteen minutes, but in my memory it seems like we were driving for much longer. We talked as though we'd been good friends for years. Ben explained that less than a year after the wedding, his wife had had an affair. The other man had been his friend, he said. He even confided that he'd walked in on them together once; an event I could tell was still the source of a lot of pain and confusion.

I told him how sorry I was, and I tried to sympathize by saying I didn't know what I would do in the same situation.

Ironically, I would find out just a few nights later _exactly_ what I would do in the same situation.

The morning after Steve's birthday, he and I learned that a very young member of his extended family had been murdered the night before in an act of gang-related violence. Understandably, it was a tremendously difficult loss for those closest to the boy who had died. One of the most distraught among them was Steve's young cousin, Celia, who was about twelve years old at the time.

On the evening of the victim's wake, Celia called me at home. She was nearly inconsolable. A group of friends and relatives had gathered at her family's home after the service, and she was overwhelmed in the midst of their grief and mourning. I thought the best way to help her at that moment was to offer to get her out of the house for a little while. She sounded relieved and asked me to come get her.

Steve was at band practice across town. Someone would be dropping him off at home afterward. I decided the drive into midtown was the perfect distance to give Celia a break from the misery at home without keeping her out too late. It would also mean that the person scheduled to drive Steve home would be off the hook for the night. It seemed like a good plan.

To make a long story a little shorter, Steve was not playing music with his band mates; he was having sex with the woman from the bar. When I arrived to pick him up—oblivious to what was going on and thinking he might actually be glad to see me—I walked in and interrupted them. I had Celia with me, which created an entirely separate set of issues, and I had to send her back to the car to wait. It really was an awful scenario.

When I got back to the car myself—distraught and crying—this little girl who only hours before had endured the viewing for one of her favorite people in the world, was trying to comfort _me_. I felt terrible about that for a long time.

When we finally made it home that night, there was a lot of drama. Steve's mother and sister were there; his sister was consoling me, and his mother was consoling _him_ (a telling sign of how much support I could expect from her in the future).

He and I had another don't-leave-I-swear-it-will-never-happen-again argument, which would become almost common by the time we finally split up for good.

I did stay that night. I could have left and gone to my sister's house, or to my dad's. But I was so humiliated that I didn't want to tell them what had happened.

I didn't tell any of my friends about the affair, either. I knew they would call me a fool for staying, and rightly so. But without the strength or courage to leave Steve yet, I couldn't face the humiliation on every front.

A few nights later, needing desperately to talk to someone, I decided I would confide in Ben about the scene I had walked in on. He had recently been through a very similar experience and although we'd only had the one short conversation, I believed I could trust him; not only to be willing to let me vent, but also to keep my secret.

He was surprised to see me when he opened the door. I asked if he had time to talk. He was kind enough to listen patiently as I spilled my guts.

I asked him if he thought guys who cheated ever changed; he said he thought it could go either way. He was trying to be diplomatic; still I could see something else in his eyes. He knew Steve better than I did—he'd known him since they were kids—and I could tell he knew things about him he didn't feel he could divulge to me.

When I left Ben's apartment that night I felt relief at having been able to talk to someone about Steve's affair, but I knew my marriage was likely never going to recover.

### THREE

The last few months of my pregnancy were a dichotomy of stress and joy. On one hand, I was dealing with Steve who was an endless source of strange behavior and confusion. On the other hand, I was looking forward to meeting my baby; a soul I already felt eternally connected to.

I think a lot of mothers and babies know each other well before the birth. There's a spiritual connection that develops long before a mother ever holds her child. By the time the world got a look at her, Cheyenne and I were already old friends.

Because I didn't feel particularly safe being home alone at night in our new neighborhood—well known for gang activity—I asked Steve to start coming home earlier in the evening and to cut back on going out after work. He acted resentful and resistant, like a spoiled five year old who's been asked to share a toy.

I resorted to spending most evenings at his sister's house, which was just across the street from ours. A new mother herself and recently separated from her child's father, she didn't mind the company. We had a lot in common. We were both very young mothers, the fathers of our babies were both immature and unreliable, and beyond the immediate responsibility of being moms, neither one of us had any idea what we were going to do. We spent hundreds of hours talking; encouraging each other and consoling each other when times were at their worst. We laughed and cried together. We were very close, like sisters.

I still don't know why, but one night Steve called Ben before going out. As I was getting ready to go over to his sister's house, I heard Steve asking Ben if he was going to be home that evening.

"Hey, do you mind if Rachel hangs out at your place while I'm at practice tonight?" There was a short pause and then, "Yeah, she doesn't like being home alone when it's dark. Yeah? Cool. Thanks, man. See you in a bit".

My first reaction was one of embarrassment; had he essentially just asked his friend to babysit me? However, I warmed to the idea quickly. His sister's baby was in the throes of a nasty flu which I was trying to avoid catching. So, I agreed to go to Ben's.

It was awkward at first. Few things are stranger than a guy asking his friend to sit with his pregnant wife while he goes out for the night. But Ben and I settled into easy conversation quickly as soon as Steve left, and the rest of the night was very comfortable.

And this became our routine. Sometimes Ben would call my house when he got home from work to ask if I was coming over, or he'd ask before I left at night if he could expect me back soon. I believed he was simply being chivalrous for my sake, and while it left me feeling a little bit pathetic (why couldn't my husband do the same?), I desperately appreciated that he was offering me a friendly, safe place to be at night.

Our evenings were uneventful, and likely boring in the eyes of most. We watched documentaries, we ordered dinner in, and we talked for hours—about everything. We laughed a lot. I began to look forward to our time together more than I wanted to admit. So did Ben, although I didn't know it. Within a couple of months, we had become best friends.

Even after all these years, we still don't understand why Steve put forth such effort to ensure that Ben and I would end up in each other's company so often. Our best guess—although nothing more than speculation—is that perhaps, after having me show up unexpectedly during one of his "indiscretions", Steve felt safer knowing exactly where I'd be while he was out.

The quality of life at home continued to deteriorate. As I neared my due date, I spent Valentine's Day aware of contractions which were becoming increasingly regular. After a call to my obstetrician—who said he was fairly certain I was in labor—I asked Steve not to go out in case we needed to go to the hospital.

He said he would stay. But around nine o'clock that night, he suddenly said he needed to go to the store.

"I'll be right back, I promise", he assured me.

He didn't come right back, of course. In fact, he didn't come home at all the entire night. It was the only time while we lived together that he ever stayed out all night. And he chose to do it the night my doctor thought I was in labor.

I didn't sleep at all. In the early morning hours I was nervously trying to figure out what to do. I could call my dad to take me to the hospital if I needed to, but he lived all the way on the other end of town and the hospital I was registered at was nearly an hour away—in the opposite direction. Years later I realized of course that I could have easily relied on my dad and would have still made it to the hospital with several hours to spare before the baby arrived. But as a young and nervous first-time mother-to-be, I didn't understand that at the time.

At four o'clock in the morning I decided to call Ben. He was extremely displeased about being woken up by the phone and answered with a gruff, "This better be important".

Sheepishly, I apologized and explained my situation. Finally, I asked him if he would take me to the hospital if my contractions grew any closer together. His tone immediately softened when he realized it was me on the phone, and said he was more than willing to drive me if necessary.

It was impossible to miss the hint of annoyance in his voice. Years later when I mentioned it, he explained to me that he hadn't been upset with me during that call; he was merely angry at Steve for leaving me without help or transportation.

When Steve sauntered in two hours later, he made no apologies for ditching me at the worst possible time. Naturally, I asked where he'd been all night.

"Out with friends", was all he was willing to offer.

"I'm probably in labor! Why didn't you come back?"

Sheer irritation and impatience in his voice, he responded with, "I didn't feel like it, all right?"

And that was that. We never spoke of it again. That episode turned out to be false labor and by noon, the contractions had stopped.

Life with Steve continued to grow stranger and more disturbing. A week after ditching me on Valentine's night, I was woken in the middle of the night by him punching me in the side of the head. Dazed and groggy, not quite sure upon wakening what had happened, I simply asked, "Why did you do that?"

He said I'd been grinding my teeth in my sleep and he didn't like the sound.

Days before Cheyenne was born, Steve and I were out shopping one morning when he began to describe, in detail, the physical punishments he intended to inflict on the baby when the time inevitably came that she would "misbehave". He spoke of using a belt on bare skin, and, just as disturbing, he appeared to enjoy the topic.

I became incredibly distraught as a result of this conversation. I was so disturbed by the reality that Steve was already thinking about, and _planning_ for, how and where he was going to beat a baby who hadn't even had a chance to take a breath yet. It was sickening. We had a huge argument over it, and although by the end of that argument he was actually in tears and apologizing, my protective maternal instincts had shot up to a whole new level.

More intensely resolute than I have probably ever been at any other moment in my entire life, I told him that day that if he ever hurt the baby, I would do whatever I had to do to make sure he never got the chance to do it again.

Little did I know when I said it that, one day, I would be left with no choice but to follow through on my promise.

### FOUR

As it turned out, Steve was home when I went into labor at four o'clock one morning.

A few hours after arriving at the hospital, I called my dad to let him know his granddaughter was about to make her big debut. Ben had also asked me to call him when I went into labor ("even if it's at two in the morning", he'd said). Within an hour, my dad arrived with my older brother. To my pleasant surprise, Ben appeared a short time later, with his two roommates in tow. Steve's relatives were also at the hospital and I found myself with a pretty big group waiting for the baby to arrive.

My labor was fairly easy. It lasted twelve hours in all, but only the last few hours were difficult.

Steve stuck around more than I expected he would, although he did disappear for a couple of my worst hours. He told someone he was running down the hall to make a phone call, but then nobody could find him until just before I was wheeled into the delivery room. I still have no idea where he went.

Cheyenne's birth was both wonderful and frightening. When she was partially delivered, it was discovered that her umbilical cord was not only wrapped around her neck, but also around one of her legs. As the delivery progressed, the section of cord stuck on her leg was causing the loop of cord on her neck to constrict. Consequently, my doctor asked me to stop pushing and I began to panic. To calm me, he told me to put my hand on Cheyenne's head while he worked to free her from the cord. It worked; I was instantly calmer. A few seconds later, Cheyenne was free but still not breathing.

The nurses quickly took her to a table near my side. They began working furiously, cleaning her airways and trying to stimulate her to breathe. Having become completely reassured as soon as she'd been freed from her umbilical cord, I didn't understand anything was wrong until I noticed how quiet the room was. Nobody was talking. I asked what was wrong, but the nurses and doctor would not answer me. I saw the nurses glance nervously at each other before looking back down at the baby and continuing their efforts. I caught a glimpse of Cheyenne on the table and was startled to see that her skin was a sickly gray color. Just then, Steve said, "She's not breathing". Mercifully, the moment he finished saying the words, Cheyenne was suddenly crying—the most amazing sound I'd ever heard.

I didn't know it at the time, but my dad was just a few feet behind me, on the other side of the delivery room door. He'd repeatedly sneaked into an unauthorized area despite being shooed away several times by nurses. He wanted to hear Cheyenne's first cry. I learned later that he'd had a partner in crime; Ben had evidently joined in on my dad's mischievous baby-hearing mission.

The only other thing I remember about Steve being at the hospital after Cheyenne's birth, was that he made a very strange and inappropriate comment about a certain part of her body. He said it in front of Ben and his roommates, as well. Accustomed to hearing Steve say nonsensical things, we all dismissed it.

Years later I remembered his words and they became, like so many other things, just another item on the list of things said and done which could have alerted me to his intentions, but somehow didn't.

In the days and weeks following Cheyenne's birth, Steve seemed to want to get as far away from us as possible. Every afternoon when he returned home from work he would shower and simply leave again, saying he was going to band practice. He was playing in two bands then and the nights one didn't need him, the other inevitably did. Or so he said, anyway. Usually he would come home around one o'clock in the morning, reeking of alcohol and saying nothing to me before passing out in bed.

When Cheyenne was a few weeks old, Ben's roommate was having a St. Patrick's Day get-together at their apartment. I was unaware of it until Steve walked into the house that afternoon, explaining that when he'd mentioned to his parents he'd be spending the evening with friends, they'd offered to watch Cheyenne so I could go with him. He said they wanted to give me a chance to get out of the house for a bit.

I didn't particularly want to go. But the truth was I really hadn't been out of the house since Cheyenne's birth, with the exception of one drive across town to see my dad. The gathering was going to be less than a mile away and I knew Cheyenne would likely sleep the entire time I was gone. I agreed to go, thanking Steve's parents for offering to stay with her. I nursed her right before we left their house, knowing I'd have two hours before she'd need me again.

I couldn't deny that it was somewhat refreshing to get out of the house. Even so, I called Steve's parents twice to check on Cheyenne, and an hour and a half after leaving her, I told him I needed to get back because she'd be waking up soon for a feeding.

About halfway back, I realized Steve intended to simply drop me off and go back to the party. It became an argument very quickly because I'd dared to ask him to spend the evening home with Cheyenne and me. By the time we pulled up to his parents' house (which was directly across the street from ours), Steve was furious at me. He literally leaned over me, opened the passenger-side door, and violently shoved me out of the vehicle.

As he drove off, his dad came out of the house, yelling at Steve to stop the car. Steve ignored him and disappeared around the corner. His dad told me he'd seen what had happened, and asked if I was okay.

When we got inside the house, Cheyenne was still sleeping. I asked Steve's parents if I could wait at their house with the baby until he came back because I was uncomfortable being at our house alone with her late at night. My father-in-law said of course I could stay, and then he asked if we could talk.

He pulled up a chair near me, and asked his wife to sit down with us. Then he asked, "Do you think Steve is doing drugs?"

"I'm not sure", I answered. And that was true.

"Well, Rachel...I really think he is. I know you're aware that I battled a drug problem myself when I was younger and I'm telling you, Steve is absolutely behaving like someone who is using".

We sat quiet for a moment before he continued, "He's putting you through a lot". Tears stung my eyes. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged that what I was going through was not easy.

"I don't know what to do", I said. And that was true, too.

"You need to stop making yourself available to him".

I looked up at him. Was he suggesting I should leave his son?

His wife stepped in just then.

"You can't tell her what to do", she snorted. "It's their problem; you let them work it out".

"No", he told her. "It's not healthy for them to go through what he's putting them through. It's not healthy for Rachel and it's not healthy for the baby, either".

"You need to stay out of it", she huffed at her husband.

I directed my attention back to my father-in-law. "Do you think I should leave him?" I asked.

"Can you?" he answered.

Just then, Cheyenne woke up and as I stepped into the other room to get her, I heard Steve's mother admonishing his dad. By the time I went back into the living room, our "talk" was clearly over—no doubt thanks to my mother-in-law's fierce loyalty to, and willingness to ignore the unacceptable behaviors of, her eldest son.

The next morning, Steve's dad called our house and asked us to come over. He had us sit down together with him and his wife. Steve's mother appeared to be absolutely seething. She wouldn't even look at me.

His dad wasted no time. He bluntly asked Steve if he was using drugs.

Steve immediately became dramatic, insisting he had absolutely no idea why on earth his dad would ever think such a thing. Then he turned to me and angrily accused me of going to his parents and telling them outlandish lies in retaliation for his refusal to sit at home with me at night.

His father stopped him, and assured him I had never implied he was using. He told Steve he recognized the behavior of someone on drugs and had decided, on his own, to confront him about it. He also told Steve he wanted to get him help if he needed it. He expressed his pain at seeing the way Steve was treating his own body and his new family. He told him he'd seen him push me out of the car the night before.

Steve denied pushing me out of the car and insisted he wasn't using drugs. Then he said we were all crazy and began laughing at us, loudly and theatrically. He stood up and walked out of the house.

I never asked him about drug use again, although months later he brought the subject up himself.

Something else also happened around this time; something I was never able to fully dismiss.

Steve had two sisters; the one I was close to and one who was much younger. His youngest sister had turned thirteen around the time Cheyenne was born. She was an unpleasant and extremely spoiled child who was, like her oldest brother, used to getting her way and therefore inclined to completely disregard the comfort or feelings of others as she pushed them around in order to get what she wanted. I made it a point to avoid her except at times when she was being uncharacteristically considerate. As a result, I usually only saw her if I was at the older sister's house because she would frequently run in and out to see her sister's baby or give her grandmother (who also lived there) a message from her parents.

This younger sister had a friend who lived just around the corner. They went to school together and, as far as I could tell, had known each other for much of their lives.

At one point, it seemed the friend was hanging around the neighborhood with Steve's youngest sister more than usual, and would sometimes also come into his other sister's house with her.

One day, Steve and I both happened to be at his older sister's house visiting with her. Their little sister and the friend came inside for a few minutes at which time it became impossible not to notice that Steve was really looking at the friend. She couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen at the time, but he was completely checking out this little girl.

When it happened, it instantly brought back a memory.

Three years earlier, Steve and I had been driving through our hometown when out of nowhere he'd begun telling me about how his little sister was "developing". Which, in and of itself isn't such a strange thing, but it was the particular things he'd _said_ that were disturbing. He'd started rambling details about very specific body parts and he was blushing as he spoke of her. She was ten years old at the time.

His descriptions and apparent preoccupation with his baby sister's body had made me extremely uncomfortable that day and when he realized it, he quickly laughed it off and said something about how hard it is for big brothers to accept when their little sisters grow up. I was only sixteen at the time and I had accepted his explanation.

But three years later when I saw him hungrily staring at parts of another little girl which he, as a twenty-five-year-old man, should have been ashamed to even be looking at, I couldn't brush off the feeling that something wasn't right.

Even more disturbing, was that when Steve spoke to her, he was openly flirtatious. Sadly, the little girl seemed to appreciate the highly inappropriate attention and in her own thirteen-year-old way, actually flirted back.

I never said anything to him about it, because, frankly, I had no idea how to address it. I mean, _what do you say_ to someone about an encounter like that?

Not long afterward, I wondered if the little friend had moved away, because I stopped seeing her around.

Nearly a year later—after Steve and I had split up and at a time when I was rarely seeing his sister with whom I had previously been so close—she made it a point to tell me that the friend had been "sent away", due to a pregnancy. Evidently, the girl had been shipped off to a relative in another part of the state; hidden from the world until she'd delivered her baby, and had recently come home.

Obviously, I have no idea if Steve had anything to do with that situation but like I said, it was just something I never could quite fully dismiss. It seemed to me that his sister, through tone of voice and facial expressions, was trying to point out the obvious to me without coming right out and actually saying it.

But that seemingly apparent disclosure from his sister was still a year away at the time Steve had been confronted by his father about drug use.

Not long after the St. Patrick's Day party at Ben's, I started going to his apartment again on evenings when Steve stayed out late. There had been an intense gang-related shooting directly in front of our house when Cheyenne was newborn—during which I literally hid in our bathtub with her, trying to keep her safe should a bullet make its way into the house—and afterward I was entirely unwilling to be home alone after dark. Steve was ditching work a lot and losing his clients. Considering his increasingly negligent work ethic, moving back to a better neighborhood was not in our immediate future. With a new baby, I couldn't resume my evening routine with Steve's sister—Cheyenne's noises would inevitably wake up her baby—so I was actually spending more time with Ben after Cheyenne's arrival than I had during my pregnancy.

Ben looked forward to the time the three of us spent together. He was enjoying being a part of Cheyenne's life. Sometimes he would stop by after work unannounced—still in his work uniform because he hadn't even gone home first—to see if he could help in any way so I could have a short break.

Cheyenne was a rather intense baby. She didn't sleep very much and became easily bored even in her earliest weeks of life. Keeping her mentally stimulated in order to avoid fussiness was a constant challenge. Even though Steve's relatives lived, literally, all around us, nobody ever offered to even come over and sit with her for a tiny while just so I could shower or take a small break. I had asked my mother-in-law a couple of times, but each time she had him-hawed and stuttered before finally giving me some nonsensical reason for why she couldn't. Having taken the hint, I had simply stopped asking. I'd resorted to carrying Cheyenne around the house in a baby wrap everywhere I went, or setting the car seat on the bathroom floor with a wiggly, constantly-curious Cheyenne strapped into it just to be able to shower without having to leave her screaming in her crib.

On the days Ben came by after work, he found that standing on the porch with Cheyenne kept her happy and busy for about fifteen minutes. I would sit on the sofa—soaking up every moment of my blissful respite—and watch them through the window. She loved to watch the leaves move in the breeze; she would make tiny noises and Ben would often say she liked to "talk to the trees". Their brief visits on the porch afforded me my only breaks from constant baby care.

As time went on, Ben and I started taking Cheyenne out during the time we spent together, as opposed to just staying at his apartment. We went to the movies once, and also the zoo. Often we would simply drive while Cheyenne slept in her car seat, or take her inside the mall so we could walk and talk.

One night, Ben asked if I wanted to go to dinner. We'd never gone to dinner alone before, and although he was trying to deliver the idea as "not a date", it _felt_ like a date. I hadn't been taken out to dinner in a very long time, and it sounded nice. I knew he was doing it solely to do something special for me.

Cheyenne was sleeping when we arrived at the restaurant. Naturally, the moment the waiter brought the food to our table, she started squirming and getting fussy.

As if I didn't already have enough reasons to fall totally in love with him, Ben immediately smiled at me and said, "I'll get her. Go ahead and eat".

He gently scooped her up out of her baby seat and walked outside of the restaurant with her. Our table was near the large, front windows of the restaurant and as I ate my dinner in rapturous peace, I watched him walk back and forth in front of the building while carrying Cheyenne, patiently talking to her with the most sincere look of endearment in his eyes.

Obviously, our situation was becoming complicated. It wasn't just that he was willing to help care for her; it was that he _wanted_ to help care for her. He was doing it for me, but he was also becoming attached to her and making the most of every moment they had together. I remember watching the two of them stare into each other's eyes, the way parents do with their babies, and thinking, _she's bonding with him_. She was bonding with him the way she was bonding with _me_. I was conflicted about that.

At home, things were only getting worse. Steve continued to drink heavily most nights and Cheyenne and I nearly never saw him. Most days, his only interaction with the baby was to give her a passing glance. He might smile and say hello, sometimes he would even pick her up for a moment or two. But he never acted overly interested in her.

From my perspective, it seemed Steve saw Cheyenne only as a cute little thing to acknowledge when the mood struck him. Frankly, he'd given more attention to the kittens we'd brought home the year before.

It was about that same time that I learned he hadn't stopped seeing the woman he'd had the affair with. I didn't know it at the time, but he was, in fact, also using drugs (I have no idea which kind; he told me about it months later and although he made passing references to cocaine and marijuana, he never offered any specific details).

Finally, when Cheyenne was six weeks old, I began to screw my head on a little straighter and I left him.

I went to my sister's house, in a desert community two and a half hours away. It was a good place to be. I've always been very close with my sister's children, and she and her husband have always been wonderful to Cheyenne. I knew I had time to be still and breathe for a while as I worked out where to go from there.

After three days, Steve called and begged me to come home. He said he missed me, and promised things would be different.

I went home the next day. That same night, Steve told me he'd not only had another affair with yet a different woman in the short time I had been gone, but he'd actually conducted _that_ particular date at our home. In our bed.

Less than an hour after learning of his most recent affair, I'd talked him into running out to pick up some dinner to bring back to the house. I'd sent him out on purpose, because I'd wanted to leave while he was gone. My bags were still packed and I simply grabbed them and headed for Ben's house.

Ben had just moved out of his apartment. His parents were moving back to town from a neighboring city, and they had all decided to rent a larger house together for a while. He was staying at the empty house alone until his parents wrapped up a few loose ends and moved in.

I hadn't had a chance to call him before I showed up at his door, but I knew he wouldn't be angry. I slept on his living room floor that night and went back to my sister's house the following day.

After staying with my sister for a few weeks, Steve came to visit. Within moments of arriving, he held his hands out to take the baby. The second she was in his arms, Cheyenne began crying loudly. He thrust her back at me and with a look of complete disgust on his face he said, "She doesn't even know who I am".

Evidently, he attributed that actuality to my having left him, as opposed to the fact that he'd only bothered to spend about three minutes per day with her since she was born. Not surprisingly, it was a short visit.

As the weeks passed, I prepared for a new life. It became clear that my only financial option for the immediate future was to apply for welfare. It was an awful experience, and it was so very different from what I had envisioned for myself and my child. But I was a teenage mother facing single parenthood. Steve was contributing absolutely nothing, and I had run through the money I'd saved from my job at the gift shop. So, I swallowed my pride and did what I had to do, consoling myself with the knowledge that my reliance on state assistance would only be temporary. I began saving money for an apartment. I was moving forward, in every way possible.

For the next two months Cheyenne and I spent nearly every moment with my sister's family. It was a good time for us and I was happy to get to spend so much time with my niece and nephews. My sister taught me more and more about mothering and my brother-in-law went above and beyond his role as uncle to fill in as surrogate dad to Cheyenne. I've never seen a baby or child who didn't adore my sister's husband and Cheyenne was no exception. Every time she saw him she would break out in smiles and wiggles, knowing he represented fun and play.

Ben and I spoke on the phone regularly during those months, and we saw each other a few times when I went back to my hometown to visit my dad.

During those visits back home, Steve would insist that I bring Cheyenne to see him. But after the first few moments of each reunion—during which he always greeted her in a manner so exaggerated and fake it was actually laughable—he would simply ignore her completely. He was always sure to have friends present at the time, as though his brief interactions with his daughter really were intended to be nothing more than a performance for others. As a result, we never ended up staying at his house very long, and on most occasions he didn't even so much as turn his head to acknowledge the fact that we were leaving.

When Cheyenne was four months old, Steve asked me to come back home one more time to try to work things out between us. I can't explain why now, but at the time I felt obligated to make the attempt. It wasn't because I loved him or missed him. It wasn't because I wanted to be with him; frankly I had come a long way in getting over him by then. I simply believed I was not doing the right thing if I didn't try. So I went back.

It was June then, and I knew summer classes would be starting soon at the local community college. With the pregnancy behind me, I was anxious to get back to school. About a week after moving back in with Steve, I asked him one morning if he would agree to watch the baby while I attended a couple of classes. The time commitment would have only been a few hours per week. He answered with a simple, "No". That was all. No explanation, no reasons. Just, no.

The first day of registration arrived and Steve left the house early that morning. I naturally assumed he'd gone to work. He came back after only a couple of hours, though. I was nursing the baby when he walked in and he headed straight toward us, tossing some paperwork down onto the coffee table in front of me.

I asked what it was, and he responded, "I enrolled in a music class at the college today".

He just stood there staring at me until the realization of what was happening washed over me. I guess he wanted to see the look on my face.

He hadn't gone to work at all. Instead, he'd gone to the college to sign up for a class; a class for which he only attended one lecture. That's because it was never about wanting to actually take the class. It was simply about throwing it in my face that he could do what he wanted, and I could not. He appeared to love the feeling of controlling my life in any way he could.

Despite that, I never could quite wrap my head around the reality that a person who constantly professed their love for me could be so intentionally cruel. Every time it happened, I was still caught off guard by it even though I shouldn't have been.

A few days later, Steve became violent toward Cheyenne for the very first time. He'd become furious with me because I wouldn't allow him to take something of mine away from me and leave the house with it. He became absolutely enraged when I would not let him do what he wanted. But instead of taking it out on me, he lashed out at the baby.

Cheyenne was in her swing, sleeping, about six feet from where Steve was standing. He picked up a large, metal flashlight which had been sitting nearby and hurled it straight at her, narrowly missing her head. It crashed against the wall next to her, leaving her startled, awake, and screaming.

Without saying a word I immediately put myself in between the two of them and grabbed her out of her swing. I ran out of the house and across the street, toward my sister-in-law's house.

As I did, I could hear Steve yelling in the house behind me. There were sounds of glass breaking and loud banging as though he was punching or throwing things against walls.

Once inside his sister's house, I locked the door. Scared and out of breath, I tried to explain to her what had happened.

Just then the phone rang and she answered it. It was Steve. When she handed me the phone he began screaming that he was going to kill himself. He hung up the phone before I had time to respond.

His threat of suicide left me terrified he was going to come over and hurt me and Cheyenne first. I started to dial 911, but then I heard the sound of tires squealing and an engine gunning and realized Steve had driven off.

The immediate threat was gone, but I knew there was no relationship to salvage. I knew I could not allow Cheyenne to live in a violent home where she was in danger. I was shocked that Steve had lashed out at her, and it was nearly impossible for me to comprehend that he had done so in a way which could easily have killed her. A heavy, metal flashlight can be a lethal weapon when used against an adult, let alone the soft skull of an infant. I was in absolute disbelief that he had done what he had done.

Had I been less ignorant of how domestic violence is handled by the authorities and within the family court system, I would have immediately called the police and filed an incident report. But the thought never crossed my mind. I'd started to call them when I thought Steve was going to hurt us, but when he drove away and the danger seemed to have passed, it never occurred to me to still call the authorities in order to establish formal documentation of the matter.

In the months and years which followed, I wished bitterly that it had.

### FIVE

I left Steve immediately after the flashlight incident, and once again went back to my sister's house in the desert.

Three more months passed. Cheyenne was seven months old and although she was happy, bright, and alert, she wasn't growing as expected. The stall in her growth seemed to have begun when we had moved back in with Steve the last time. She had stopped gaining weight, and the delay in muscle development which had earlier simply led my sister and me to think of her as "floppy", began to concern the pediatrician. He explained to me that we were approaching a diagnosis of Failure to Thrive (FTT) if Cheyenne's physical development didn't improve in the near future.

It worried me and I didn't know how to fix it. She'd never had any trouble breastfeeding and by the time the doctor began talking about FTT, Cheyenne had started solid foods and loved to eat.

She had a full, enriching, and nurtured life; there was always someone to cuddle her and talk to her, or interesting things to look at and listen to. I took her on long walks nearly every day in my backpack carrier, which she loved. A year earlier, while I was pregnant, my dad had clipped an article for me about the importance for babies of skin-to-skin contact. Remembering what I'd read, I started making a conscious effort to massage Cheyenne's little arms, feet, hands, or head often. And while she loved all of the interaction and activity, none of it seemed to make any difference where her weight and muscle development were concerned.

In retrospect, I can't help but wonder if my own emotional state was somehow affecting her. While I weathered the stresses in my life fairly well and with a positive attitude most of the time, it would be a lie to say I didn't experience sadness, fear, and overwhelming worry during my pregnancy and the months immediately following Cheyenne's birth. The timing of her growth delay correlated with a period of time in which I was also experiencing physical changes and symptoms due to the constant stress and tension in my life. One of those changes was unintentional weight loss.

I was so preoccupied with Cheyenne's care and dealing with Steve and trying to move toward living on my own that I was mostly ignoring the physical changes occurring in my own body. In addition to the weight loss, I was also losing my hair, and would break out in a rash on my arms every time Steve called on the phone. Headaches were a daily occurrence and I was getting very little sleep. At the time, I attributed most of the symptoms to hormonal changes and breastfeeding. I never associated any of those things with tension, but I realize now that stress was likely the culprit in many, if not all, of the physical changes I was experiencing then.

During those same three months, I was still returning to my hometown periodically to visit my dad and also, to see Ben. Ben and I were not a couple, but he, Cheyenne, and I were becoming a family, nevertheless.

Before these trips home, I always informed Steve as to when I was going to be in town. By that time he was no longer asking me to meet him at his house, but would instead insist that I bring Cheyenne to his sister's house so he could see her there. When I did, it always became quickly evident that his focus still was not on visiting with his daughter, but on showing off to anyone he could convince to stop by and witness his goofy performances of feigned fatherly adoration. He also liked to pretend in front of the people he'd invited over (who were often complete strangers to me) that he and I were still an intact couple. I shied away from his pretend affections and when he didn't get the response from me that he wanted, he would simply collect his audience and leave.

During one of these visits though, Steve asked me to attend church with him. As I mentioned earlier, we'd attended church many times together so the invitation didn't seem odd to me. At times when Steve was trying to stay away from alcohol and other vices in his life, he appeared to try to lean on his faith to find the strength to do so. I perceived his desire to attend church as an attempt to make positive changes in his life, and I agreed to go with him.

The "service" was being held at a church I was familiar with. I had, in fact, attended Sunday School there during one summer when I was a child. But when we showed up for that evening service I realized immediately that it wasn't being conducted by the members of the church who had historically used the building. This was a different religious group entirely; a group which had simply rented or borrowed the space for their own gathering.

It didn't feel much like a church service at all. It felt more like an infomercial. The message was unlike any I'd ever heard in church.

One of the things I remember most about that particular evening is how the other attendees behaved. There was a giddiness in their facial expressions and voices which was so forced it was almost comical. It was as if a bunch of Disneyland performers had been dumped into a church building. Frankly, it was weird, and very uncomfortable.

The memory which stands out most in my mind from that night though, is that of two "friends" Steve introduced me to; a guy named Todd, whom I believe was nineteen at the time, and his girlfriend; younger even than he was.

My own interaction with them was brief, but strange. Todd acted so overly-friendly toward me that I really wanted to just get away from him. He made my skin crawl.

His girlfriend also acted friendly, although all of her attention was directed at Steve, who reciprocated with nauseating enthusiasm.

I knew Steve well enough by then to recognize how he behaved when in the presence of someone he was having an inappropriate relationship with. This appeared to me to be one of those situations and honestly, I just wanted to get the hell away from all of them as fast as I could. In my mind, Steve wasn't my problem anymore. So, if he wanted to go around sleeping with the girlfriends of his church buddies, my attitude was: _whatever_. I believed his escapades would eventually catch up with him, and all I wanted at that point was to be left entirely out of them.

That was the only time I ever attended a gathering of that religious group with him.

A few weeks later, just before another one of my visits back home, Steve called me a few times to ask for money. He began to pressure me heavily to give him large portions of the money I was receiving in the form of welfare from the state; funding I was only receiving because he would not support his child in any way.

He tried desperately to manipulate me into giving him the money. One time it was for a new microphone. Another time it was for new tires for his truck.

I always refused, explaining to him that I could get into legal trouble for giving him any of the money intended for Cheyenne.

When I actually arrived in town for that visit, he bullied me relentlessly for the money. He said I owed it to him. He called me greedy and selfish. He tried every trick in the book, but fortunately I was able to stand up to him enough to resist giving in. When he finally realized I wasn't going to give him the money, he simply stopped asking to see Cheyenne when I was in town.

It was about this time that Ben became aware I was saving up to rent an apartment near my sister, two and a half hours away. He then presented the idea of my renting the spare bedroom at the house he and his parents were sharing.

It was the perfect solution for Cheyenne and me. It meant I could stay in my hometown. Additionally, it was evident to me that Cheyenne was a much more contented baby when she, Ben, and I were together. I also hadn't wanted to live alone; I was still a teenager and had never lived on my own before. I'd been genuinely nervous about the prospect of being alone in my own apartment at night, even though my sister and her husband wouldn't be very far away. The idea of being in a large home with three other adults instead—with my dad only a few miles away—felt much safer to me. And last but certainly not least, I loved the idea of getting to see Ben every day. It didn't take me long to accept the offer.

I chose not to tell Steve right away about my plans to rent the room from Ben's parents. He was fully aware that Ben and I spent time together. We always had Cheyenne with us and our relationship had never taken a romantic turn, but Steve still suspected it had and often asked me if I was having an affair with Ben. I decided to avoid unnecessary conflict by waiting as long as possible to tell him I was moving myself and Cheyenne into the same house Ben lived in.

I can look back now and see that even though our relationship was platonic, it must have been quite obvious to those who knew us how much Ben and I cared for each other. I imagine Steve could see it, too.

Many of my belongings were still at Steve's house—the last house we'd shared together—because I'd had nowhere else to store them during the months that I was back and forth between his and my sister's houses. Before I'd known I would be renting a room from Ben's family, I had informed Steve that I had plans to move into an apartment of my own near my sister. He was expecting me to come and pack my things.

He hadn't spent much time at the house even when we were living together and he was spending even less time there now that we'd split up. I was free to stay at the house for a few days in order to pack my things. I felt confident he would avoid Cheyenne and me as much as possible.

And that's exactly what he did.

Those days turned out to be a time for me to finish letting him go. I wrote him a long letter which I planned to leave at the house for him to read after I was gone. It was a letter of love, forgiveness, apology, and closure. He didn't realize it, but I spent those last days in his house emotionally closing that chapter in my life.

We barely saw each other during that time. Then one night he came home around one o'clock in the morning and sat on the sofa. I went into the living room and sat in my rocking chair, feeling sentimental about the finality of our situation. I looked over and noticed he had three cigar-shaped marks across his forearm. I couldn't tell what they were, but they looked like burns that were a few days old.

Caught off guard by what appeared to be an injury, I asked what happened to his arm.

His reaction is one I will never forget.

Very slowly, he turned his head and just stared at me. The expression on his face was menacing. I am positive I saw absolute— _resolute_ —hatred in his eyes. He never answered the question; he never spoke at all. He only stared at me.

When he finally looked away, I sat there, frozen. The best way I can describe my reaction is to compare it to a mouse that knows a cat has it within reach. The mouse wonders if the cat will pounce and attack, or if it's possible to scamper away? I didn't know what to do.

Cheyenne was asleep in the next room. I wanted to get away right at that moment but I didn't know how, and I was very afraid. I finally decided to try to bring no more attention to myself.

Without a word—without a _sound_ —I got up and walked into the bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room for a few minutes, wondering if I should grab Cheyenne and try to sneak out and go to my sister-in-law's house. There was a door in Steve's bedroom which led outside.

I thought about all the things that could go wrong. The baby might wake up and cry, and even if she stayed quiet, the only path off of the property led right past the living room window. If he saw me trying to get away, what would he do? I didn't know, and I was too scared to take the risk.

Instead, I crawled into bed silently.

A short time later, Steve walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed near my feet, without looking at me or saying a word.

The day he had thrown the flashlight at Cheyenne and I'd run from the house, Steve had punched walls, thrown a lamp through a window, and broken one of the posts off of our four-poster bed (later telling his friends that _I_ had caused all that damage).

He'd kept that bedpost; he'd left it leaning in a corner between the wall and dresser. I'd assumed he'd held onto it simply because he'd planned to have it fixed. But when I woke up that night, I was flooded with fear as I quickly discovered he may have kept it for another reason entirely.

The house was now dark except for the moonlight filtering in through a window behind Steve. I watched as he sat perfectly still, staring at the broken bedpost which rested mere inches in front of him. It was a terrifying image and I was, accordingly, terrified. I believed he was contemplating the idea of beating me with it.

I was so afraid for Cheyenne. I was too scared to move or speak; afraid he might discover I was awake. I stayed quiet and still, but I kept my eyes open. He never turned to look at me, but he sat there for what felt like hours, just staring at that thick bedpost.

That was the longest night of my life.

It was also the last night Cheyenne and I ever spent in that house.

I woke very early to find Steve sleeping heavily next to me. Before I could finish packing the truck to leave, his mother called and asked if she could speak with me. I agreed to walk across the street to her house.

Our talk was brief. She said she'd heard I was leaving Steve for good and wanted to know if it was true. I said it was. She asked if I was having an affair with Ben, I said no. She ended the conversation by saying it was good I was leaving because Steve needed time to figure out what he wanted. She said she felt we could work things out afterward.

Her last statement was essentially code for: let him finish screwing everything that moves and then when he gets it all out of his system, he'll be ready to take you back.

I respectfully disagreed, and left.

I'd lied to her to some degree, but I didn't care. While Ben and I were not technically having an affair, we knew we'd reached the point when our our relationship needed to be defined.

We'd had the inevitable Relationship Discussion the day before, and had made the decision to become an official couple. I was excited about it, and I kept it to myself when Steve's mom inquired about my relationship with Ben because it was the first time I'd felt happy and hopeful in a really long time, and I decided I wasn't going to let anyone in Steve's family ruin the moment for me.

I'd known that conversation with Ben had been coming for a while. I'd been conflicted about whether or not to move forward in another relationship, but in the end it was thoughts of my daughter that helped me make my decision.

I'd decided my daughter deserved a great dad. Judging from all of the time the three of us had spent together, I believed no matter how things turned out between Ben and me, he would be there for her.

She was only seven months old and already her own father acted as though she didn't exist. My heart grieved so much for her over that.

But here was this man who had been there for her from day one, who had loved her and appreciated her for the amazing little person she was, who was perfectly willing to take the good parenting moments with the bad and, as an added bonus, just happened to be in love with her mom.

To Cheyenne, Ben was already her daddy. And she _deserved_ a daddy. I was not willing to take away the only chance she might ever get at having a really spectacular dad.

When Ben and I became a couple, we knew we were solidifying the little family we had already unintentionally grown to be. We knew we were making a lifelong decision. I'm a little bit amazed when I look back on that now. We were so young, yet fully committed to building a solid life for Cheyenne together.

And that was the day it would officially begin, because it would be the day Cheyenne and I wouldn't leave him anymore to "go home". From that day forward, our home was always wherever the three of us were together.

### SIX

It became obvious immediately that our new living arrangement was benefiting Cheyenne in ways I had never anticipated. The earlier threat of an FTT diagnosis melted away as the days passed. In that first week of our new life as a family, Cheyenne began to thrive. She didn't _merely_ begin to sit up; one day, she sat up and continued sitting for six hours! She didn't _only_ start to babble a new word; she began saying seven new words— _in one week_! And she gained a full pound in those first seven days, which is a very big deal for a child suspected of experiencing FTT.

Just before moving in, I had informed Steve of where we'd be living so he would know where Cheyenne was. In the beginning, he made no attempt to contact us or inquire about Cheyenne. Then, at the end of that first week, he called at ten o'clock one night.

His voice was low and sad, and he asked if he could see me. I told him no at first, using the fact that it was late as an excuse. The truth is, I was afraid. There was a knot in my stomach. With the memory of my last night in his company still fresh in my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't entirely safe to leave the house with him.

He pleaded. He said he missed me and swore we would only sit in his truck and talk in the driveway. Finally, I agreed.

But first I confided in Ben and his parents that I didn't feel safe. They asked me not to talk with him if I didn't feel safe, but for some illogical reason all I could think about was the fact that Steve and I had not had a final "breakup" conversation. Technically, we'd been separated for most of the previous six months, and I'd left him the letter and assumed he'd read it and now understood I had no intentions of ever going back to him. But we hadn't discussed this final, permanent split face to face yet, and I figured I probably owed him that much.

Ben's family and I agreed Cheyenne would stay inside the house with them. We also agreed that if I felt threatened at any point I would honk the horn to alert them.

This is one of those things I look back on and wonder why I did it. I owed him nothing. He had destroyed our marriage and relationship but still I felt I needed to be diplomatic. He could have sped away with me in the car and any number of things could have occurred to leave Cheyenne without a mother. But I didn't think of that. Youth and ignorance are the culprits, I suppose. Still, it makes me shudder to think I made such foolish choices when it came to my safety.

When Steve arrived he parked in the driveway and I went outside and got into his truck. The first thing he said was he loved me. I didn't answer. He asked how I'd been, and I told him I was fine. I also told him about a dream I'd had that he was still fooling around with the girl he'd brought to our house and into our bed. He admitted that yes, he'd slept with her again. I'd only been in his presence for ninety seconds and already I was exasperated with him. It may have been a new record. With a roll of my eyes and an impatient laugh, I asked, "Why are you here?"

"I want you to come home", was his answer.

"Steve, I'm not coming home. _This_ is my home".

"People are saying you and Ben are together. Is it true?"

I turned and looked into his eyes when I answered because I really wanted him to understand it was over between us. My response was direct.

"Yes".

I expected him to yell, or maybe even try to hit me. My hand was on the door handle in case I needed to get away from him quickly. But then he did the very last thing I expected.

He burst into tears. I'm talking deep, heavy sobs with real tears falling fast and dripping off his face. I was stunned and completely puzzled. He'd been so awful in so many ways for so long; I couldn't believe he was surprised. I couldn't stop myself from asking the obvious question.

"Why are you so upset?"

When he heard my question he cried even harder and said, "Because I know you'd never be with anyone that way unless you were in love with them".

I was incensed! All that time— _years_ —he'd implied I was nothing but a whore-waiting-to-happen, but he'd known what I was really made of. He'd known it! Yet, he'd still belittled and insulted me countless times, causing me to constantly question my own integrity since I was fourteen years old. Indignant now, I added salt to the wound.

"Yes, I _am_ in love with him. We're staying together. What do you care? You've obviously got enough women to keep you company". Steve ignored my comment. He began to speak again, choking back sobs and pleading with such intense desperation I could hardly believe it.

"Please, Rachel. Let's get away from here. Let's move. We can move out to the desert near your sister. I'll quit the band and I won't have anything else to do with anyone here anymore. I swear I'll be a good husband, I swear!" When he stopped talking he stared at me, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, his chin quivering.

I won't pretend I wasn't moved by his words and apparent sincerity. In that moment, it actually made me sad to think it was possible he was finally seeing the situation for what it was, only too late. And it _was_ too late. With tears in my own eyes, I told him the only thing there was left to say.

"I'm going to file for divorce". I got out of the car and went back into the house.

### ***

It was another week before I heard from Steve again. He called and asked me to go to breakfast with him. He spoke as though he was trying to navigate how to move forward, which included working time with Cheyenne into his life.

It sounded like a positive thing, even though I didn't want to go. After his mini breakdown during our last conversation, I felt much less threatened by him. His breakfast invitation gave me the impression he'd accepted the circumstances and had a desire to make the best of it. I'd heard of divorced couples making time to do things together with their child, so having breakfast together seemed like a reasonable request. I didn't want to spend time with him but felt I shouldn't reject his efforts if he was trying to be a better father. Reluctantly, I agreed to go. At the time, I couldn't anticipate any harm in having a meal together.

A few minutes after getting into the vehicle, Steve said he wanted to take me to a restaurant down the coast. It would take nearly an hour to get there. In my mind I groaned, having hoped the meal would be a relatively quick outing. But it appeared as though he was simply trying to do something a little extra nice, so I agreed.

As we drove south along the coastline, I remember becoming more than a bit nervous when we reached a particular segment of the route which includes cliffs just on the other side of a very soft shoulder, because Steve sped up and started taking the curves in the road way too fast. More than once, the tires of the truck squealed and crossed the outside barrier line of our lane.

I'd traveled the same route my entire life, and had always loved to look down at the waves and rocks far below. But being trapped in that truck while Steve drove recklessly so close to the edge of the cliff left me afraid of falling off the edge and into the ocean for the first time in my life.

I asked him to slow down, but he laughed. He was enjoying scaring me.

The meal and the drive back up the coast were uneventful, and I was thankful for that.

But a few miles from home, Steve suddenly acted as though he'd just remembered something, and told me he needed to stop by his house quickly before dropping me off at home because he'd gotten me something and needed to run inside to get it.

I didn't want anything from him. All I wanted was to go straight home. But after the weirdness during the drive to the restaurant, I was nervous about setting him off in any way.

I regretted so much that I'd agreed to go anywhere with him that morning. I just needed to get through the last few minutes of our time together without any problems so I could get Cheyenne home safely.

Steve pulled the truck up next to his house and turned off the engine. I intended to sit and wait while he went inside. But when he got out he came around to my side, opened the door and said, "Come in for a second, I have something to show you".

I just wanted to get it over with so I could get away from him. Still trying not to cause any waves, I got out of the truck and carried Cheyenne's car seat into the house. We entered through the kitchen and I stayed there holding the car seat until Steve called from the bedroom.

"Rachel, come on. It's in here".

In a larger house, this may have seemed like a giveaway. However, this house was so tiny that the bedroom was literally only about ten steps away. And, being the largest room in the entire house, it had most of Steve's furniture and belongings in it. Which is why I wasn't alarmed when he asked me to walk the few feet over to where he was.

As I crossed the threshold into the bedroom, I heard a song begin to play on the stereo. In a low voice, Steve said, "Listen to the words".

He walked up to me, took the car seat from my hand and gently set it on the floor a few feet away. Cheyenne was still sleeping.

All at once I realized the direction in which Steve intended things to go. My heart started pounding; I truly had no idea how to navigate the predicament I'd suddenly found myself in.

Steve stepped in front of me, put his arms around me and then positioned himself against me as though he wanted to slow dance.

I was extremely nervous. I needed desperately to diffuse the situation, but how?

Steve put his face against mine. "Listen to the words" he said again. The song was All I Want, by Toad the Wet Sprocket.

And then he tried to kiss me.

Immediately I began to pull away and Steve, in turn, became _very_ angry, very fast.

"You're my wife, I can kiss you!"

Trying to wriggle away from him, I told him I needed to leave. I said I wanted to go home.

He tightened his hold on me and got even closer. His free hand started roaming, making his intentions clear. I continued to try to pull away.

"Come on, Rachel. You know you want to! It's all right, I'm your husband!" He sounded furious, and we were mere inches away from the bed.

"Steve, stop it!"

I remember being surprised at how panicked my voice sounded, and that scared me even more. My voice woke up Cheyenne and she began to squirm in her car seat and then started to cry.

I couldn't get out of his grip. All I could think was that I was going to be assaulted and it was going to happen in front of my infant daughter while she screamed and cried. I was more afraid of what he might do to her to shut her up than of what he was going to do to me.

At that moment he began to try to remove an article of my clothing. Certain now he had no intentions of stopping, I nearly shouted, "You're scaring me!"

Cheyenne started crying louder, that damn song was playing, I was trying to fend off his hands, my heart was pounding in my ears and finally I really began to panic. I started crying and screamed at him, "You're scaring the baby! You have to let us leave!"

At that moment, Steve abruptly let go of me with both hands and held them up, palms out. His eyes were closed, his lips pursed. I was too afraid to move.

Through gritted teeth, in a slow, furious voice he said, "Take the keys. Take the truck. Do it now before I change my mind".

Instantly, I reached down for the handle of Cheyenne's car seat and literally ran out of the house, snatching Steve's keys from the kitchen table on my way out. Afraid he would come out after us, I sped halfway down the block before stopping to take the time to strap the seatbelt around Cheyenne's car seat. My hands were still shaking.

As I drove the short distance home, I resolved to never find myself alone in an enclosed space with Steve ever again.

I parked in front of the house and left the keys in the glove box, knowing Steve would come by sooner or later to get the truck. Nobody was home when I got there, which gave me time to calm down and regroup from the ordeal.

A couple of hours later, I put Cheyenne in her stroller so we could take a walk around the neighborhood. We'd taken daily walks nearly every single day since her birth, and this part of our normal routine felt comforting after the harrowing morning I'd had. I wasn't expecting Ben home for at least another hour.

Unbeknownst to me though, Ben had left work early that day. He and his parents had gone out for a meal together and arrived home just minutes after Cheyenne and I set out for our walk.

And then Steve had shown up at the house, too.

Fortunately, I missed most of what transpired afterward. In fact, I had no idea anything was wrong until about half an hour later when Steve appeared in the street, driving slowly alongside me as I walked.

Still unsettled about that morning's incident, I turned the stroller around when I saw him and began walking in the opposite direction, toward home. Steve put the truck in reverse and followed us. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window and called to me. I told him I didn't want to talk. I warned him Ben would be home soon.

"Ben's already home, Rachel".

My heart sank. I recognized the tone in his voice. There had been a confrontation, I was sure of it.

"What happened?" I was still walking, trying to get home as fast as I could. I was less than a block away.

"There was a...scuffle".

What did that mean? Why had they fought? Did Ben somehow know about the problem I'd had with Steve that morning? How big of a scuffle had it been? So many questions flooded my mind and with answers to none of them, I was riddled with anxiety when I finally made it back home.

Steve had followed me and was now parking his truck in front of the house and getting out.

As I rounded the side of the house from the driveway, Ben was barreling through the screen door, his eyes locked on Steve. He'd seen him parking at the curb without realizing I was nearby. He almost slammed right into me as he made his way toward Steve, angrily demanding that he leave.

Ben's mom came outside and I asked her to take Cheyenne into the house for me while I tried to prevent another round between the two guys. I could hear their voices growing louder as Ben ordered Steve to leave and Steve refused.

As I turned to walk down to the sidewalk, I heard Steve saying, "Let her tell me, then". I was quickly realizing that their altercation had had nothing to do with what had happened at Steve's house earlier.

Ben was clearly enraged; his fists were clenched and he looked like it was taking every bit of restraint he had in him not to pummel Steve into the pavement. When I got closer I realized Steve's lip was swollen and bleeding; clearly a result of their earlier "scuffle".

"Tell you _what_?" I demanded, exasperated now and wanting Steve to leave. "What do you want to know?"

A childish look of victory flashed across Steve's face as he turned toward me. I looked up at Ben. There was so much intensity in his eyes but I couldn't identify the emotion I saw in them. Anger? Fear?

Steve spoke with a tone of absolute arrogance, as though he was certain of what my response would be.

"I want you to admit in front of Ben that you still want to be with me". There was the hint of a grin on his face, as if he truly believed it would be impossible for me to resist him.

"I don't want to be with you, Steve".

His eyes narrowed at me as though he was delivering a subtle threat along with his next question.

"You don't want to be with me? You sure about that?"

I was mentally and emotionally exhausted and more than just a little bit embarrassed that Steve was creating so much drama on the front lawn and sidewalk, where neighbors had seen and heard far more than I'd hoped. I remember I made no attempt to hide my irritation when I answered him.

"Yes, damn it! _I'm sure_!"

Instantly, Steve's demeanor became cold. He turned to step off the curb and walked toward the driver's side of his truck. As he did, he said, "Get the last of your stuff out of my house. I don't want anything else to do with you. Just get your things and stay away from me".

I understood why he was angry. Rejection is a hard pill to swallow under any circumstances. I didn't fault him for feeling like he never wanted to have to interact with me again.

But his tone gave me the impression he wasn't only talking about me, and I wanted to make sure he wasn't forgetting there was another person we needed to consider.

"What about Cheyenne?" I asked. I expected him to say he'd call in the near future to work something out.

He stopped for a second, looked at me and said, "If I can't have you, I don't want any of it".

I took a few steps in his direction as he opened the truck door to get in. It was the most offended I'd ever felt in my life. I was so angry for Cheyenne.

" _It_? Did you just call your daughter an 'it'?"

Steve didn't bother to answer. He simply glowered at me through the windshield as he slammed the truck door, turned the ignition, and sped away. 

### SEVEN

For the next month it appeared Steve was serious about not wanting anything more to do with Cheyenne. He lived only six blocks away from us, but he did not call or come by. Not once.

She, of course, was oblivious to Steve's rejection and was perfectly happy with her surrogate daddy.

But learning to accept that Steve was rejecting her in every way possible was difficult for me, as her mother. I wondered how I would explain it to her later in life, knowing there would almost certainly come a time when she would ask about her biological father. I was angry at him for creating a situation in which she was going to be left knowing he had intentionally walked away from her. I left messages for him regularly, but he returned none of my calls.

Unbeknownst to me though, Steve was still plotting to get me to come home. During that month when I didn't hear from him, a neighbor stopped by one day to tell me that someone from the Department of Social Services had come to their home and asked questions about how well Cheyenne appeared to be being taken care of. Evidently, I'd also been "watched" to some degree, although I'd been completely unaware of it.

Immediately guessing Steve was behind it all, I called and left a message telling him it was urgent that he call me back. After weeks of not returning my calls, I was surprised when he actually responded. I wasted no time in asking him if he had called Social Services on me—and he wasted no time in admitting to me that he had. When, in disbelief, I asked him why he would do such a thing, he told me that he was trying to get me in trouble somehow so I would lose the money I was receiving for Cheyenne because, as _he_ put it, "If you don't have a source of income, you'll have no choice but to come back to me".

I told him he was delusional and that I'd live in a cardboard box before I ever went back to him, but all he did was chuckle as I hung up the phone.

Aside from that unsettling bit of drama, those weeks of no additional contact with Steve were a very contented time for Cheyenne, Ben, and me. The three of us seemed wrapped up in our own little world of bliss. We really were so incredibly happy; I think we all saved each other in ways we didn't even know we needed to be saved.

Little did we know that month would be the last peaceful stretch of time we would have for years to come.

One day, Steve called. I was genuinely surprised to hear from him. Cheyenne was now eight months old and I'd become resigned to the probability that he'd simply written her off completely.

During the conversation he said he would come by to see her. He didn't want to come into the house and I wasn't willing to get into a vehicle with him again, so when he arrived I was waiting outside with Cheyenne in the stroller so we could take a walk together through the neighborhood.

It took about half a block to realize he wasn't there to see Cheyenne. He had only come to try to talk me into reconciling with him. This became the routine for a while; Steve calling to say he wanted to visit the baby only to do nothing upon arrival but try to convince me to come back to him.

At the time, I was entirely confused by his tenacity to get back together. I often wondered why he tried so hard to reconcile when it was clear he didn't even _like_ me. I was the stark opposite of every woman he seemed to gravitate toward or had cheated on me with. In my eyes, he was free now to do what he wanted with the kind of women he enjoyed being with. Why work so hard to jump back into a life with me which, by all appearances, he'd hated?

I came to realize the answer to that question lay with Steve's newfound affiliation with the religious group whose meeting I had attended with him several months earlier. Beyond that one experience, I knew nothing about the organization. What I _did_ know though, was that Steve was beginning to behave in strange and extreme ways, and to say things which genuinely troubled me.

He explained to me one day that he had a sort of mentor, whom he referred to as his "discipler" (I realize that isn't a real word but it was—and evidently still is—the term used within the organization). His "discipler" was to be his authority in all matters, including but not limited to: where he could work, with whom he could live, and with whom he could be romantically involved.

Not quite so surprising was that the organization also had a lot to say about how much money he was required to hand over to them.

It became undeniably clear that this group was behind Steve's relentless attempts to convince me to come back to him. One day after a particularly grueling conversation on the subject, Steve declared to me that if he and I were not together as man and wife, it made Cheyenne "unclean".

I really don't have words to describe how unsettling it was to hear the father of my infant daughter refer to her as "unclean".

We took only one more walk together after that incident. Two days after telling me Cheyenne was unclean, Steve came over—again under the pretense of "visiting with the baby", only to completely ignore her and start in again with his usual diatribe about why I absolutely must come back to him.

Exasperated, I sort of blurted out, "Are you actually ever going to spend any time with Cheyenne?"

Steve chuckled and smiled as though it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard and then answered, "Well, _of_ _course_ I am! How else will she ever become a disciple of Christ?"

That did it for me. I was done spending time with him.

This was not an anti-religion flip-out on my part. I am Christian, and I became Christian long before I ever met Steve. He'd been fully aware of my faith and beliefs since the very beginning of our relationship. We had attended church together numerous times over the years. Alone at home, we'd gotten on our knees and prayed together. I love Jesus and I've never pulled any punches about that.

But whatever Steve was going through with that group was very troubling, and did not line up with anything I'd ever read in the Bible. They were trying to control his every move; his every thought. And it was working.

Steve wasn't trying to emulate Jesus—he was simply becoming a puppet for some guy he called, "Brother Larry".

The next time Steve called and said he would come by to see Cheyenne, I told him he could visit her without me. Accomplishing that would be tricky though, as Cheyenne still essentially had no idea who he was. He never gave her any more than a quick wave and hello when he came over to "visit". Frankly, she was more familiar with the guy who worked at the video store down the street than she was with her own father. Steve had never participated in her daily care and had certainly never managed her on his own.

It was obvious I couldn't leave her with him without someone else present who actually knew how to take care of a baby.

I asked Ben's parents if they would be willing to sit with Cheyenne while Ben and I left the house long enough for Steve to come by and see her. I knew it was an awkward request and expected them to balk at the idea. But to my surprise and relief, they were very nice about it and agreed.

Steve wanted to visit for less than an hour, so Ben and I made plans to run a quick errand during the time he was scheduled to be at the house.

Shortly before he was going to arrive, I gave Cheyenne a bath and dressed her in a clean outfit. The last thing I did, just a few minutes before leaving the house, was put a fresh diaper on her. I wanted to burden Ben's parents as little as possible and I knew if I changed her right before I left, the odds that they would get stuck changing a diaper would be minimal, even if there was a few minutes' gap between Steve leaving and my return. Ben and I headed out to run our errand, and Steve pulled up as we drove away.

When we walked back into the house, nearly exactly one hour later, Ben's mom, Sally, was rocking a sleeping Cheyenne in her arms. After putting the baby in her crib and returning to the living room, I noticed that Sally seemed troubled about something. I asked if the visit had gone all right. She then described what had happened.

The first thing Steve had done upon arriving was ask for a fresh diaper and baby wipes. Sally explained to him that not only had Cheyenne had a bath thirty minutes earlier, but that she also had been changed into a clean diaper less than five minutes before his arrival. She assured him the baby was clean and dry. Steve insisted she give him a new diaper.

Confused by his behavior, she obliged and brought him the items he requested. In the process of changing the diaper, he'd left it off for several minutes, leaving Cheyenne completely uncovered from the waist down. This had seemed strange to Sally—there was no rash to air out or any other reason for the delay—and it left her feeling very uncomfortable.

Finally, in an attempt to get Cheyenne out of what seemed to her to be an awkward situation, Sally requested that Steve finish dressing her to avoid any potty accidents over her carpet. He did so, and then spent less than half an hour trying to interact with a somewhat bewildered Cheyenne before leaving.

I admitted it seemed a bit strange, but reasoned aloud to Sally that perhaps Steve had simply wanted it to appear as though he was trying to be an involved dad, because he had such a solid reputation for being the opposite. We shrugged it off and went on with our evening.

But then it happened again.

About four days later, Steve asked to see Cheyenne and we all made the same arrangement as before. When I arrived home after the visit was over, Sally explained that the exact same scenario had played out.

Again, I tried to dismiss it as Steve wanting everyone to think he was some great, dedicated dad. But after four or five repetitions of this same routine, I finally confronted Steve and told him he needed to stop. I explained he was wasting diapers and reminded him that he was not helping to buy any of Cheyenne's diapers or other supplies, therefore it was silly for him to insist on changing her five minutes after her last change just for the sake of playing house.

When he couldn't continue his strange behavior, he simply stopped coming to see her.

I didn't hear from him again until just before Thanksgiving. Cheyenne was turning nine months old that week and was a happy, clever, playful baby. When Steve called, it was to request that I bring her to his family's home on Thanksgiving Day and leave her there for an hour so his parents and siblings could visit with her.

Naturally, I felt uneasy about leaving her with people she didn't really know, but I remember feeling as though I didn't have a choice. In my mind, I didn't have the option of simply denying the request. Her family wanted to see her, and that was all there was to it. So, I agreed.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that the house was just a few blocks away, the visit would last only an hour, and there would be several adults present who were capable of keeping a baby safe and well. I convinced myself there was no reason to worry; Cheyenne would surely be doted upon every second of the visit by adoring aunts and grandparents.

I dropped her off with the family, praying for the minutes to pass quickly. They did, and I was grateful for it.

I arrived at the house to pick up Cheyenne and found Steve standing outside on the front porch, holding her. Standing next to him was Todd; the strange, overly-friendly teen from the "church" meeting I'd attended with Steve months earlier.

I said hello to them both and then asked Steve if the visit had gone well for Cheyenne. He answered, "Yes. She was very obedient".

Understandably, his choice of words caught me off guard. Obedient? Who uses the word "obedient" to describe a nine-month-old baby? It was so weird and nonsensical; it left me feeling very uneasy. All I wanted to do was collect my daughter and leave. I did so, without saying another word.

Later that evening I began to think about all of the strange things Steve had said in relation to Cheyenne during the previous couple of months. Words and phrases like "unclean", "disciple of Christ", and "obedient" bounced around in my mind, painting an unsettling picture of a man who not only seemed to be entirely emotionally disconnected from his child, but who was also developing a very warped sense of what his role as a father should be.

### EIGHT

Several days later I had a strange encounter with Todd.

I'd been renting a room from Ben's parents for nearly three months, but I had one last box to pick up from Steve's house. Still keen to avoid being alone with him, I asked to stop by at a time when I knew he would be out with friends.

I went to the tiny, rundown house alone. Steve's grandparents were home next door—as were his sister and parents, just across the street. The only person I was afraid of running into while there was Steve and since he wouldn't be home for several hours, I didn't feel unsafe.

It was dusk when I stepped onto the porch. Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Frightened by my natural assumption that Steve had decided to wait for me there, I spun around to face him.

But it wasn't Steve. It was Todd. He had a strange smirk on his face, as though startling me had been entertaining.

It took me a few seconds to put the situation together in my mind before I asked, "What are you doing here? Is Steve with you?"

Only moments before, I'd been afraid to see Steve, but found myself hoping he was nearby simply so I wouldn't be alone with _this_ guy.

When he answered, he spoke as though we were just two old friends chatting.

"No. Steve's at practice. I just wanted to come by and see how you're doing".

At that point, I became scared. Beyond a simple greeting on Thanksgiving and introductions the first time we'd met, this guy and I had never spoken to each other before; there was certainly no reason he should have been wondering how I was doing—or wondering about me at all, for that matter. I decided to leave without getting my box out of the house.

After making a quick excuse about having forgotten something in the car, I got in and drove away. The next day Steve called to ask why I hadn't picked up the box. I explained the creepy encounter with Todd and asked Steve why he'd been there.

He chuckled and then answered as though he thought it was a completely normal thing for Todd to have done, and then implied that I'd acted rude when I'd driven away without explanation.

On the afternoon of the day that Cheyenne turned ten months old, Steve called to ask if he could pick her up for one hour to take her to a nearby miniature golf facility. Still trying to learn how to navigate a joint-parenting arrangement, I remember once again believing I did not have the option to say no.

I was terribly nervous when he picked her up, and I double-checked to make sure she was properly buckled into her car seat. As he drove away, I actually experienced a mild anxiety attack. I didn't know why.

I went back inside the house and used housework as a distraction. Steve brought Cheyenne back later than agreed upon, but I was just happy to have her home so I didn't mention his lateness.

He helped me carry her car seat to the house and then left—saying, as he walked away, that he thought she might need a diaper change.

I took her into her room to change her. As I replaced the used diaper with a new one, I noticed something peculiar. Although my instincts told me something was not right, I forced myself to dismiss what I saw. I told myself I was being paranoid, and that the changes I'd thought I'd seen must simply be attributed to normal development. After all, I was still a very new mother, and the first thought which had gone through my mind upon seeing her was a pretty unsettling one. I put that thought out of my mind and spoke of it to no one.

As Christmas Eve approached, Steve called to say his family wanted to open presents with Cheyenne at his sister's house. His sister still lived next door to his parents, and because Cheyenne was still unfamiliar with Steve and his family, it was once again scheduled to be a short visit. This time, he and his mom picked her up at our house, and we agreed I would come by to get her when the visit was over.

I arrived at the agreed upon time, noticing as I did that all of the lights were off inside the house. I saw lights on next door and naturally assumed they'd all decided to go to his mom's.

As I crossed the driveway into his parents' front yard I heard Cheyenne crying in a way I had never heard her cry before. She sounded extremely distraught.

My first thought was that she simply felt insecure because she was with people she didn't know or recognize very well. I ran up the steps and found the front door open.

It was a very small, one-bedroom house, and it was immediately evident there was nobody in the living room or kitchen. I followed the sounds of Cheyenne's screams—mixed now with the sound of men's laughter—to the bedroom door and flung it open.

She was lying on the floor of the bedroom, absolutely hysterical. It wasn't just her cries; her eyes were wide with fear, her body was rigid and trembling so visibly that it was evident from across the room where I was standing.

As I rushed across the bedroom to scoop her up off of the floor I realized Todd was also in the room, sitting on the floor less than two feet from Cheyenne's feet.

Furious with the scene, I demanded to know what they were doing. Questions began racing through my mind. _Where was the rest of his family? Why wasn't Steve trying to comfort Cheyenne when she was so intensely distressed?_ I couldn't help but wonder if they'd been doing something to torment her for their own entertainment.

Both Steve and Todd just kept laughing. They reminded me of stoned teenagers. There was something very wrong with the atmosphere and scene.

I stormed out of the house, trying to comfort my daughter and calm her down enough to put her into her car seat. She was clutching me and became wildly panicked when I opened the car door. I realized Steve still had the car seat; he and his mom had used it when they'd picked Cheyenne up. I turned around to find him walking toward a small car parked next door in front of his sister's house. He opened the door and a moment later, pulled out Cheyenne's car seat.

Confused, I asked whose car it was. It turned out to be Todd's. The realization that he'd apparently had my daughter riding around in a car with Todd at the wheel without my knowing about it made me furious. I demanded to know where they had taken her. Steve would not answer. He never did answer, and to this day I still have no idea where they took her.

I never got any answers about that night, in fact. I still do not know why Cheyenne was screaming in such a loud and panicked way, or why Steve and Todd acted as though it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

As I drove away, I decided I was not going to leave Cheyenne in Steve's "care" anymore while she was still so young.

### NINE

That turned out not to be a problem, because once I explained to Steve that Cheyenne needed to know him and his family better before any more of those types of visits took place, he again stopped asking to see her. His mom and sister would call and make plans for visits, but with the exception of one visit during which I brought Cheyenne to her grandmother's house and stayed there with her for an hour, they always canceled at the last minute.

Due to such scarce interaction and Cheyenne's young age, she simply forgot who they all were again.

For the next eight months, we saw and heard from Steve very few times. When he did call it was often late and in the form of harassment; the religious group he belonged to required him to meet a certain "quota" each week for inviting more people to their meetings, and as soon as one of us answered the phone he would try to talk us into going to "church" with him. Another bout of phone communication occurred because he knowingly claimed Cheyenne on his taxes illegally, but as with the invitations to "church", he never once asked about her during those calls.

Around Cheyenne's first birthday, he happened to stop by the house unexpectedly once just as a UPS truck arrived to deliver an encyclopedia set Ben had ordered for her. It was an amazing set with educational preschool toys and materials which Cheyenne had thoroughly enjoyed playing with when the salesperson had brought them to our house a few weeks earlier. Suckered by Cheyenne's excitement during the demonstration, Ben couldn't resist obligating himself to a year of monthly payments in order to purchase the overpriced set for her.

We never did find out why Steve showed up that day. Evidently, seeing Cheyenne on the sidewalk, excitedly patting the boxes and squealing "Books, me?" to Ben over and over was more than his pride could bear—he walked off without a word, and we didn't hear from him again for another four months.

Despite Steve's apparent abandonment of her, Cheyenne continued to flourish. Once at risk of an FTT diagnosis, she had gained eight pounds in the time between us moving in with Ben and her first birthday. She'd begun walking at ten months of age. Her vocabulary expanded every single day, it seemed. She had a happy life, and she was a happy baby. Surrounded by people who loved and doted on her, she was as safe and nurtured as a baby could be.

Cheyenne's favorite time of day was when Ben would get home from work. He would sit on the floor and she would tackle him, and then he'd crawl through the house while she repeatedly caught and tackled him again. They would play the same game until dinner every night; everyone in the house soaking up the sound of her uncontrollable laughter all the while. It was a simple, beautiful life.

And then one day, everything changed.

As Cheyenne and I came home from a walk one day when she was sixteen months old, Steve suddenly appeared on the sidewalk in front of our home after eight months of virtually no contact. Unexpected, uninvited, and frankly, unwelcome. I asked why he'd come.

He said simply, "I'm going to take Cheyenne away from you. You're an unfit mother".

I think I laughed. The words coming out of his mouth were so absurd. Here was the guy who'd written his daughter off so many times I'd lost count, yet he was calling _me_ an unfit parent?

But when I realized he was serious, a host of mixed emotions surged through me like hot venom. I really didn't know what to think. Nausea and dizziness slammed into me just like every other time Steve had committed a serious betrayal.

My protective maternal instincts took over then and I carried Cheyenne into the house to wait for Ben to come home. His parents had relocated to Arizona for work only days before, so we waited alone.

Steve simply walked off moments after I shut the door behind me. I imagine he didn't want to be within reach when Ben got home and heard about the threat he'd made.

Ben and I discussed the situation for a couple of days. We also spoke to an attorney over the phone, and when he told us it would be perfectly legal for Steve to come over and simply snatch Cheyenne out of the front yard because there was no standing custody order, we became convinced we had no choice but to pursue a legal route in order to protect her.

Ben and I were nervous, frightened, and completely unaware that our meeting that day was going to launch us into a nightmarish foray through the family court system which would drag out for years.

The attorney, whom we later hired, was a giant, hairy man who reminded me of Bluto from the movie _Popeye_. In short order, he had us terrified that Steve could, legally, do exactly what he'd threatened to do. It took less than five minutes for me to agree to engage in a custody battle.

Legally speaking, it would be a custody battle between Cheyenne's biological parents only. But Ben went through every moment of that battle with me, and he experienced the same emotional upheaval a real parent experiences in that situation.

The truth is, Ben couldn't be a more legitimate dad. Everything he ever did for Cheyenne was solely for her benefit and done out of the purest, most unselfish love a man could have for his child. He was never obligated by biology, but chose to stand up and be the dad she needed and deserved, even when doing so required much more than most fathers are ever asked to give; much more than many fathers would ever be _willing_ to give. And he did it because he loved her so much that his heart couldn't bear to do anything less.

I think those of us who know a dad like that—and those of us who spent our childhoods in dire need of a dad like that—can appreciate most the value of that kind of man.

So, it was really _our_ court battle, even though Ben's name never appeared on any of the documentation.

The attorney advised me to officially file for divorce from Steve and also petition for custody of Cheyenne. It was a relief to finally file for divorce. I had wanted to for many months but the filing fee had been more than I could afford.

When we learned how much the attorney's retainer fee was going to cost, I considered asking my dad if I could borrow the money from him to pay back at a later time when Cheyenne was old enough for me to return to work. But in the end, Ben told me he didn't want us to burden my dad with it, and instead, he took it upon himself to take out a loan against the car he had just finished paying off only weeks earlier in order to pay for the attorney and other legal costs.

It was one of the most generous things anyone had ever done for me, and even though I knew Ben felt it was something he was doing for all three of us, it remains one of the kindest acts I've ever been on the receiving end of.

Our first court date arrived. As most people who have been unfortunate enough to trek through the family court system can understand, I was shocked and disappointed at how impersonal the process was. I wasn't even allowed inside the courtroom.

We were, at one point during the day, required to attend mediation. For readers who are unfamiliar with the practice, let me explain. Mediation is where both parents sit with a mediator to discuss the situation, voice concerns, and make requests. First, each parent is given some time alone with the mediator and then they are brought in together to speak with her in a mini group-session.

It makes sense, in theory. The courts are very busy, and the process gives the mediator an opportunity to gather insight about the parents' conflicts, personalities, parenting styles, etc. However, in practice, it seems to me that mediation is only truly beneficial for the child when a variety of things are handled correctly, which, from my own experience, I can only guess is not always the case.

A big problem, in my unskilled and humble opinion, is that mediation only lasted for about fifteen minutes per person in our case. It hardly seems long enough to ask enough pertinent questions or to truly get an accurate impression of who a person is. While I understand why these meetings are so brief, the potential for a child to be placed in drastically unfavorable conditions seems quite high when those making huge, life-changing decisions for a child have essentially no idea who the parents are.

I'm not talking about divorces where both parents, despite being people whom their soon-to-be ex may find inadequate as a spouse, are still completely adequate as parents. For those people, the fifteen minutes is probably sufficient.

But what about cases where one or both parents might be individuals who pose serious risks, emotionally or physically, to the children involved? In those types of situations, I just can't see how spending fifteen minutes with a person is enough to give a mediator the kind of knowledge they need to make truly beneficial recommendations to the judge on the child's behalf.

I realize—and agree—that it isn't the job of the courts to babysit us as parents. But the reality is that there are situations when one parent is clearly in need of help to maintain a safe and healthy situation for their child despite the opposite parent, and in these circumstances, we, as citizens and taxpayers, need the courts to serve us with professionalism, sincerity, and common sense. It really isn't too much to ask.

Another factor which seems to me to render mediation ineffective, is that it doesn't include children who are not deemed old enough to attend. In our county at the time, children under six years old were routinely omitted from participating in the mediation process with their parents.

Now, I understand that at sixteen months of age, Cheyenne, even though she was considered an extremely verbal child for her age, was not going to be able to offer much in the way of conversation with the mediator. But it would have probably provided quite a lot of insight to that mediator to watch how Cheyenne reacted to Steve, and how he spoke to her (for instance, if she had witnessed even once the way he spoke _at_ her as though she were a dog instead of a child).

But then, such logic would require a mediator to actually possess an ounce of genuine concern for the children and families they see. While there are undoubtedly some stellar mediators sprinkled throughout our country's family court system (we eventually came across a very conscientious one ourselves), judging from the many stories of deplorable custody situations which children have had forced upon them by the courts, it would seem there are far too many mediators who, unfortunately, care little about the job they do beyond the paycheck it provides them.

I don't remember many details from that mediation session. The one thing which stands out in my mind is that the mediator became visibly irritated with Steve when he repeatedly stated he wanted Cheyenne with him "half" of the time, that she was "half" his, and he wanted me to be ordered to hand over "half" of her toys and clothes for him to keep at his house.

Keep in mind, this was an individual who, living just blocks away, had only made an attempt to see Cheyenne a mere handful of times during the previous eight months. Eight months equaled half of her life at that point, and he hadn't spent enough time with her for her to even know who he was. Yet, there he sat, demanding to have her handed over to him for, literally, more hours in a single week than he had bothered to spend with her in her entire life.

The mediator finally interrupted him. Loudly. Apparently exasperated with Steve's demands for "half" of everything concerning Cheyenne's life, she blurted out, "Your daughter is not a pie!" She went on to express that all she was hearing Steve talk about was himself and what he should be entitled to, why he was a superior parent, etc.

I was glad that he had shown some of his true colors in front of the mediator.

Not that it helped much. Minutes later, I sat on a bench outside the courtroom with Cheyenne on my lap, as we waited for complete strangers to decide what kind of life-altering changes would be forced upon her. When it was all said and done, we were handed a cookie-cutter custody and visitation order. Steve and I were each awarded joint custody, with myself being deemed the primary parent.

Though it would be months before I would realize it, what that order essentially meant was that I was being ordered to do all of the work—which would be closely watched and scrutinized—and Steve was free to do whatever the hell he felt like doing, while being held accountable for nothing.

He was given visitation three times per week. In the beginning, the judge followed the mediator's recommendation for supervised visits, being that Cheyenne was still extremely young and didn't know her father. The visits were ordered to be held in public places for two hours' duration each, and I was given permission from the court to stay present at each visit.

### TEN

When these visits first began, Steve and I would meet at a small park close to where we both lived. I walked to and from this park with Cheyenne in her stroller for these visitation sessions.

After the second visit, the plan was for Ben to pick Cheyenne and me up afterward; he and I had joined a softball team together and our first game was scheduled for that evening. We intended to leave directly from the visit and then go to another park across town where our game was to take place.

The one thing we had forgotten to talk about before Ben had left for work that morning was how we were going to work dinner into our schedule that evening. Realizing this fact, Ben stopped by the first park during Steve's visit with Cheyenne to ask me what I wanted him to pick up for her for dinner.

He purposely avoided the playground because he didn't want Cheyenne to see him. She looked forward all day to Ben coming home from work and he knew if she saw him she'd be extremely upset if he didn't pick her up and take her with him, so he was making his best attempt to avoid disrupting the visit while still figuring out a way to make sure she had dinner before our game.

Ben waved at me from the edge of the park—about twenty-five feet away—until I saw him. Steve saw him, too. I motioned to Steve silently that I'd be right back. I knew I'd be able to see Cheyenne the entire time, and Steve was playing a game of chase with her so I really didn't think she would even notice I was gone.

Despite our best attempt to keep our hurried dinner-planning hidden from her, Cheyenne realized Ben was there and she started to run toward him, excitedly yelling "Daddy!"

### ***

For the benefit of those who may be wondering, I'm going to sidetrack a bit to explain here that nobody ever influenced Cheyenne to call Ben "Daddy". When I referred to Ben while talking to Cheyenne, I called him "Ben", always. I never called him Daddy. But one day when the two of them were playing their after-work game of _Chase Ben around the House_ , she loudly called out to him, "Daddy!"

I, and everyone else in the house—Ben's parents, his sister, and especially Ben—froze in silence. Ben's face went completely ashen. Nobody really knew what to do.

The question of whether or not I should correct her raced through my mind a few times, and I have little doubt Ben was wondering the same thing. Cheyenne, oblivious to our reactions, wanted him to keep moving and playing and called out again, "Daddy, go!"

In the end, none of us said anything. Within seconds, Cheyenne had him crawling on hands and knees through the house again, playing her favorite game.

In the days that followed, despite the fact that nobody in her life was referring to Ben as anything but "Ben", Cheyenne continued to call him "Daddy". In fact, she wouldn't call him anything _but_ "Daddy". I don't know if it's because she often heard me call _my_ dad "Daddy", or because every day she heard Ben's little sister calling _their_ dad "Daddy", but somehow she had made the connection that a daddy is a certain person in life, and she had come to the conclusion that Ben was _her_ daddy.

After about a week of wondering what I should do, if anything, about the situation, an intense undersanding washed over me. I realized Cheyenne had a need to call someone "Daddy" who really _acted_ like her daddy. She deserved the kind of daddy Ben was; he had been with her since day one, he had changed his entire life to create the best environment he could for her, he was fully devoted to her, willing to sacrifice for her, not to mention entirely wrapped around her little finger. And he loved her— _really_ loved her, the way a true parent loves their child. He loved her the way I loved her.

Steve had already chosen to be so absent in her life up until then (this "Daddy" event occurred during a time when he had stated he was permanently abandoning her and in fact, appeared to have done exactly that), nobody could really blame the kid for giving the title to somebody else.

The conflict about whether or not to correct Cheyenne when she started calling Ben "Daddy" touched back on my original decision to begin a relationship with him in the first place. A huge part of that earlier decision had been based on the fact that Ben was the acting father in Cheyenne's life, and she deserved to have a phenomenal dad.

At the time, I'd never stopped to think she mightt have a need to be able to _call_ him "Daddy" at some point. I certainly never expected it when it happened, simply because she was so young at the time. But something else we didn't know was that we had a very precocious child on our hands—she began reading just eighteen months later—and she was obviously making social connections which would have been difficult for anyone to predict would happen so young. As this understanding enveloped me, this realization that Cheyenne needed to be able to call Ben "Daddy", my decision was made.

Because in the end, it really wasn't _my_ decision at all; it was hers. And I felt l really had no right to take that away from her.

So, while we were out for a walk after Ben came home from work one day—as he carried Cheyenne and she suddenly jabbed her little baby pointer finger into his cheek and declared "Daddy" once again, looking at me afterward with an expression on her face that said, _I'm telling you,_ this is my daddy _—_ I simply said, "Okay, that's your daddy".

She got the tiniest little grin on her face and then kept jabbing him with her finger, saying "Daddy" over and over. Ben never said a word and didn't even look at me, but I noticed his eyes were a little glossy when I glanced at him.

And that's the story of how Cheyenne began calling her daddy, "Daddy".

When Steve suddenly showed up after several months of no contact and it became clear that Cheyenne would be spending time with him, I simply referred to him as "Steve" when I spoke to her about him. She was only a toddler, and there was no way for me to explain the complicated dynamics of our situation. She had no idea who Steve was, or why he was suddenly someone she had to spend time with.

Additionally, I had no idea how long he might actually stick around as he'd clearly proven time and time again that he was inclined to simply dismiss his daughter altogether and intentionally disappear for long periods of time.

As a result, she referred to him by his name, although she pronounced it "Teev", because at that age she was still unable to annunciate the sound of the letter "S" at the beginning of words.

I had full intentions of explaining her paternity to her when she was old enough to understand the concept, and then let _her_ decide how she wanted to handle titles for Ben and Steve. Until then, I believed it was unnecessary and a little bit ridiculous to confuse Cheyenne further by forcing her to call a stranger "Daddy", especially when there were legitimate reasons to believe Steve would eventually just abandon her again, anyway.

### ***

Back now to the day at the little park and the visitation taking place there. Cheyenne had noticed Ben and had begun running toward him, no doubt expecting him to scoop her up so they could begin their daily routine of after-work playtime. Happy and excited, she squealed "Daddy!" at the top of her lungs.

Ben quickly turned to leave and go pick up dinner so Steve would not have any reason to complain that he was interfering with visitation. I turned to walk back toward the small playground where Steve and Cheyenne had been playing.

Before she'd had a chance to run more than a few feet, Steve yanked her up off the ground and began shaking her.

I couldn't believe my eyes. In the midst of the park, surrounded by at least half a dozen other parents and their children, Steve was shaking Cheyenne violently and roaring at her, "NO! That's Ben! He is NOT your daddy! I am Daddy, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? You call ME Daddy!"

I'd begun running fast toward Cheyenne the moment I realized what was happening. She was screaming; undeniably terrified by what was happening to her. I saw her head snapping violently back and forth—it was the most sickening vision I'd ever seen.

It only took me a few seconds to reach her. Once she was within reach I immediately tried to wrench her out of Steve's arms but he was holding on tight and still shaking her. I began to panic, and, still trying to wrestle her away from him, began shouting, "Stop it! Stop shaking her! You're _hurting_ her!"

All at once, he stopped. He let me take her. Immediately, his rage appeared to dissipate. He became eerily calm and then, he _smiled_. He looked straight at me as a smile spread slowly across his face and with a low and steady voice he said, "No, Rachel. It hurts _you_ , doesn't it? I'm hurting _you_ ".

Cheyenne was still crying loudly, obviously very distraught because of the abuse she had just sustained. I can remember seeing some of the other parents at the park giving sideways glances toward us; disdainful looks on their faces.

I was stunned for a few seconds. Between the sound of Cheyenne's cries and the disapproving looks from the other parents in the park—not to mention the crazy words coming out of Steve's mouth—I just stood there at first, not knowing how to react. Anger, fear, worry, embarrassment, confusion; they all enveloped me at once and I remember not being able to move for a few moments.

Thank God for maternal instinct though, because it finally kicked in. Quickly grabbing hold of the stroller handle, I held Cheyenne close in my arms as I made my way out of the park dragging the stroller behind me. I hurried toward the sidewalk to wait for Ben. I wanted to get Cheyenne to a location much more out in the open and in view of people walking and driving by. The only thing I could think to do was get her to the safest place I had access to at that moment.

Steve must have been somewhat concerned about what Ben would do if he arrived and found out what had happened. I imagine the memory of their previous "scuffle" wasn't very far from his mind. He quickly left the park.

By the time Ben did arrive I had managed to calm Cheyenne down with a lot of cuddling and soothing words. I don't remember much else about that day. I can't remember telling Ben about Cheyenne being shaken.

I do, though, have a vague memory of Ben driving around trying to find Steve because he wanted to get his hands on him. I recall being afraid of the impact such a confrontation might have on my custody case.

I also remember the only thing that stopped Ben was my reminding him we had Cheyenne in the car with us and she had already been through an awful ordeal. I didn't want her to experience, or witness, any more violence.

There are two things we didn't do that day which we wished many times during the following months and years we had. Those two things were: taking Cheyenne to the hospital, and calling the police. It wasn't that we considered them and then consciously decided _not_ to do them; the truth is we never even thought to do either one. I don't know why. Inexperience and youth both played a part, I suppose. I didn't know I _could_ go to the police for something like that. And as far as taking Cheyenne to the hospital, I can only surmise that because she was moving, talking, and acting normally once she calmed down, I must have come to the conclusion that she was physically uninjured.

Days later, Ben and I moved out of the house we'd shared with his parents before their relocation to Arizona. We moved into a condominium a few miles away.

Right about the same time, Steve moved away from his family and into a home with several other members of the religious group he belonged to. He explained to me that those in authority in his "church" felt it unacceptable for him to live with his relatives because they refused to become members of the organization themselves.

His visitations were still ordered supervised at that point, so we agreed to meet at a different park closer to our respective new residences.

Steve began completely skipping many of his visits after the shaking incident. He never bothered to notify me ahead of time, however. Instead, Cheyenne and I would simply wait at the park for the entire duration of the scheduled visit. When he did show up, he was usually nearly an hour late and he always left more than half an hour early, which meant some of these "visits" were nothing more than a fifteen minute episode of Steve pretending to play Dad of the Year to a bewildered Cheyenne.

For the very last of those supervised visits, we once again met at the new park. Cheyenne was then nineteen months old.

The new park was directly across the street from the condominium complex where Ben, Cheyenne, and I now lived, and we visited it several times per week with her. As a result, she had become very familiar with the play structure there.

It included a short, wide, flat slide which many very small children seemed to love climbing up before sliding back down. Cheyenne had recently discovered that as long as she was barefoot, she too could climb up the slide the way the other children could, and it became her favorite thing to do at that park.

Because climbing was a relatively new skill for her, Ben and I always made sure one of us was beside her when she played on that slide, in case she started to fall. That way, we could catch her before she toppled down to the sand below.

The last supervised visit was the first visit to occur since Cheyenne had developed this new slide-climbing ability. Steve was late again, although not as late as usual. The moment he arrived, he sat down next to me and excitedly began to tell me how he had just been appointed as the Sunday School leader for the three and four-year-old girls in his "church"—girls who were the children of people attending meetings of the religious group he was affiliated with. I didn't think much of it at the time.

Because he was supposed to be visiting with Cheyenne—not me—and she had climbed down from my lap and was heading toward her favorite slide, I explained to Steve that one of us needed to stay next to her while she climbed. I asked him if he wanted me to go, or did he want to? He stood up and followed Cheyenne.

The bench I was sitting on did not allow me a full view of the slide. While I could see Cheyenne once she reached the platform each time, I could not see her while she was actually climbing on the surface of the slide. But the slide was not far from me, and Steve was climbing on it with her. She was just a few feet away and only out of my line of sight for a few seconds at a time. I felt she was safe and adequately supervised.

It may be difficult for a reader to understand how on earth I could have ever felt my daughter was, as I stated, 'safe and adequately supervised' while within reach of her biological father, considering the fact that he had already seriously endangered her physical safety twice before.

The only answer I have is to say that despite the two occasions Steve had been violent toward Cheyenne, at the time I did not understand that he was developing a _pattern_ of violence and mistreatment toward her.

As an older adult and much more experienced mother, I can look back now and see it clearly. But at the time I was very young and I just couldn't see the larger picture. I perceived the earlier acts of violence as disconnected events; the flashlight incident happened because Steve was angry I had dared to say no to him, and the shaking incident was because he was angry Cheyenne had called Ben "Daddy".

I feel terribly guilty about not recognizing the pattern that was developing. I have to remind myself, even still, that I was young, inexperienced, and completely intimidated by the courts. I had been court-ordered not to interfere with Steve's visits, and I feared what my repercussions might be if I did anything which caused the courts to believe I was doing anything they deemed to _be_ interference.

Would they go ahead and give Cheyenne to Steve half the time as he had originally demanded? Would they make _him_ the primary parent and leave me with nothing but a few measly hours with my daughter each week?

I was scared to death of either scenario, and was determined not to do anything to cause the courts to hurt Cheyenne simply to prove a point to me about who was in control.

It is terrifying to be under the thumb of the family court system when the well-being of a small child you love hangs in the balance. And sometimes, what most of us would consider entirely unacceptable is, sadly, the best a family can get. Under the circumstances at the time, I was doing the best with what I knew, and within the restrictions imposed upon me by the court.

Everything seemed to be going fine as they played. But then all at once I heard a loud thud against the slide and then Cheyenne screamed.

It wasn't a regular "I'm hurt" kind of cry. It was a scream; a mixture of pain and fear, and I hadn't heard that sound come out of her since the day Steve had shaken her at the other park. I jumped up and ran toward them. By the time I reached Cheyenne, Steve was standing and holding her—with a _grin_ on his face.

Immediately, I began feeling her head for a lump and checking her for injury, asking Steve, "What happened? Where did she hurt herself?" She sounded so distraught I naturally assumed she had hit her head pretty hard on the slide.

Steve would not answer me. At that point, Cheyenne was literally trying to claw her way out of his arms, so I took her from him. I kept checking her head for a bump and repeatedly asked him, "What happened?" Surely he'd seen where on her body she had been hurt—he'd been right next to her.

But he refused to answer me. And then, he started laughing. Actually, _laughing_ —as if he was genuinely amused.

It was bizarre and unnerving, and I became furious with him.

Just then, Steve reached his hand up toward Cheyenne as though he were going to touch her on her head and she screamed at the top of her lungs and began literally trying to climb over my shoulder to get away from him.

Something was definitely wrong and several questions raced through my mind. Where was she hurt? Why was he laughing? Why won't he tell me what happened? Why is Cheyenne so frantic to get away from him and not let him touch her? The entire scene was so strange and stressful that I snapped into auto-pilot.

Quickly, I returned to the bench, threw Cheyenne's shoes into the diaper bag, and started carrying her toward home. I needed to remove her from the situation and try to figure out if she was injured, or just frightened, or what?

Within a few moments I was at the edge of the park near the curb. Home was just across the street and I wanted to get Cheyenne there as quickly as possible. Steve had followed us, and Cheyenne was still bellowing and also wiggling wildly to make sure she was always on the side of me furthest away from him. He was still laughing like an idiot.

As we reached the curb, Steve waved and said goodbye, smiling and giggling as though they'd just shared some wonderful afternoon in the park. As I crossed the street, I looked at Cheyenne and discovered that a very large bruise was forming on her cheek.

Startled, I yelled out to Steve and demanded to know what had happened to her face. I was growing angrier by the second as I realized that he not only knew very well what had happened to her, but also appeared to be drawing some kind of sick satisfaction; not just from her injury—but also from my concern and ignorance as to what had actually happened.

He didn't answer, of course. He simply smiled his best toothpaste-commercial smile, gave a giant wave as though we were all the best of friends, and then turned away and kept walking.

It was in those moments that I began to understand he was reveling in the control of the situation. He had spent years controlling me without me even realizing it was happening.

When I left him, it was the absence of that control he was so upset about. It wasn't that he missed me, or needed me. It was the fact that I would no longer allow him to control me which made him so angry. He viewed me as a possession, not as a person. And he was enraged he could no longer control that which he believed to be his property.

It seemed he had discovered the best way to control me in the wake of our divorce was to control what was happening to my child.

I had known for a long time that Steve found something very enjoyable—irresistible, even—about hiding information. He loved being sneaky. It was quickly becoming very clear to me that he intended to hide information about my child from me, even in situations which involved harm or injury, simply because he could.

He was enjoying this new game he was playing. And it was all being played at Cheyenne's expense.

### ELEVEN

A few days after the slide incident which left Cheyenne with a half-dollar-sized bruise on her cheek, we were scheduled to transition into the unsupervised version of the visitation order.

There's no point in lying; I didn't want to let her go. I was concerned for her safety and well-being. I was also powerless to do anything about it.

The arrangement was for Steve to pick Cheyenne up at our condo at six o'clock on visitation nights. We were then supposed to pick her up at nine o'clock at his house.

Life changed drastically as soon as unsupervised visits began.

Before continuing, I want to state that there are certain details I am not willing to share. There are some things about Cheyenne's experience which I strongly believe should not become public knowledge.

While it's true that I am the one telling this story, the fact is, there are parts of that story which belong to her, and _only_ her. She is an extraordinary girl, and I don't ever want to do anything which leaves her feeling as the though the abuse somehow defines her. _Because it does not_. The crimes committed against her are not _who_ she is; they are simply bad things which happened to her.

Therefore, most details of my daughter's sexual abuse will not appear in this book, or _any_ book, for that matter. Of the behavioral and physical changes witnessed at the time, I will only include those which can be shared in an appropriate and dignified manner.

That said, in the days following the commencement of unsupervised visits between Steve and Cheyenne, it became undeniable that she was not coping well.

When she came home from the first visit, I noticed several small bruises on her legs. I reasoned with myself that she could have merely bumped into some things while playing at Steve's house. After all, she'd never been there before and was not familiar with the layout of the furniture in the home.

I asked her about the "owies", but she didn't communicate any words which helped me decipher how she may have obtained them. It troubled me—she was not a child prone to falls or injuries, and the bruise from the slide incident had, in fact, been the first bruise she'd ever had in her entire life—but I didn't know what to do about it. More to the point, I didn't believe there was anything I _could_ do about it. I knew asking Steve about the new bruises would be futile.

Around two o'clock that morning, Ben and I were wrenched out of sleep by the sound of Cheyenne's shrill screams. Nothing like it had ever happened before.

Panicked and half asleep, Ben and I fumbled out of bed and propelled ourselves clumsily down the hall toward her voice. When we made it to her room she was standing in her crib, just _screaming_. Ben turned on the light while I picked her up. We naturally assumed she must have had a nightmare, so Ben headed into the kitchen to make a bottle, and I followed him a few seconds later.

Cheyenne couldn't calm down. Her arms were stiff and she was holding them down at her sides, fists clenched. In fact, her whole body was rigid. And she was making sounds I don't quite know how to describe. They were like a mixture of growls and screams, and she was doing it over and over.

She had never done any of these things before.

When her bottle was ready, Ben handed it to me and I sat down on the sofa with her. She was so rigid that I couldn't really hold her while I was seated, so I lay her on the sofa and then I sat down next to her. Ben was putting her favorite movie, _The Little Mermaid_ , into the VCR, hoping it would catch her attention and help her to calm down.

Cheyenne's bottle was a comfort item to her. She had been breastfed as a new baby, but at eight months old had spontaneously weaned herself, and had loved her bottle ever since. I was certain a warm bottle would help her to regroup.

But when I tried to hand it to her, she actually cried louder and even slapped the bottle away. She had _definitely_ never done that before.

She didn't want to be held and she didn't want her bottle. When I tried to talk soothingly to her, she only screamed louder. I was at a loss as to how to comfort her.

I realized that whatever her nightmare had been about must have been truly terrifying to her. I wondered if I could get her to talk about it a bit, hoping I could somehow explain to her that it wasn't real.

I caressed her little face and asked if she'd gotten scared when she was sleeping. She nodded her head up and down, still wailing. I began to explain, in the simplest terms possible, that sometimes when we're sleeping we see pictures, but the pictures aren't real.

She began to quiet down a bit, and seemed to actually be trying to understand what I was saying. A few moments later, she accepted her bottle.

I continued to talk to her and try to explain about dreams. Finally, when I asked what had scared her, Cheyenne took her bottle out of her mouth and whispered one word.

"Teev".

Understandably, I found her answer unnerving. Thoughts of her newly acquired bruises immediately crossed my mind.

In the end, I convinced myself the nightmare could have been about anything. I know dreams can be very bizarre and often do not have much to do with anything we are dealing with during wakeful hours. I took into account the fact that the unsupervised visitation arrangement was new to Cheyenne and likely overwhelming, particularly because she was too young for me to explain why she was being forced to take part in it. Surely that could provoke a bad dream in a toddler, I reasoned.

About forty-five minutes later, Cheyenne fell back to sleep and I put her back in her crib.

The day of the second unsupervised visit arrived. Steve showed up right on time. Cheyenne began crying as he carried her off.

It's the most terrible feeling in the world to hear your child crying in confusion and distress, and not be able to go to them; to not be _allowed_ to comfort them. The most I could do was pray and hope that Steve would be kind and nurturing during their time together.

When we arrived at Steve's residence to pick Cheyenne up at the end of the visit, he didn't have her ready to leave when I knocked. It took him an unusually long time to get to the door and when he finally opened it, he seemed agitated and disheveled. He immediately directed me to come in and get her.

The memory of the last time I'd been in a house alone with him left me hesitant to go inside. I had expected to simply collect her at the door. But realizing Cheyenne was not in sight of either of us concerned me.

Nervously, I stepped inside (this was a house he shared with several other men, including Todd) and Steve escorted me through the house into a den area, where Cheyenne had been left alone.

When I picked her up to take her out of the house, I realized her clothes were wet with urine. Her diaper was swollen and leaking.

Naturally, I was aggravated with Steve for letting her stay in a diaper so wet it had leaked. I needed to clean her up and change her into fresh, dry clothes before putting her into her car seat, so I rifled through her diaper bag for the items I needed, put her changing mat on the floor, and proceeded to change her. As I did, I complained to Steve for leaving her in such a gross diaper and urine-soaked clothes. He simply ignored me.

When I opened her diaper, I was startled.

There was blood in the diaper. Not a lot, but enough to notice. She also had a rash. At first—in my haste to get her cleaned up and out of there—I assumed the blood was from the rash, even though I did not see any place on her skin where the blood could be coming from. Additionally, the location of the blood in the diaper didn't seem to correlate with any area of skin which was covered in rash.

Frankly though, it never occurred to me to wonder if something sinister had happened to her. I simply assumed Steve had neglected to change her. I also assumed he had done it purposely, and since I knew he was aware that she developed rashes quickly when left too long in a diaper that needed to be changed, I believed he'd done it solely out of spite. But that's all I thought it was. I didn't suspect anything worse.

Quite furious at that point, I informed him she was bleeding, and demanded to know why he had left her sitting in a soaked diaper long enough to get a rash.

And then he did the same thing he'd done at the park the day Cheyenne had ended up with a large bruise on her cheek—he laughed.

I was intensely angry at the fact that he was laughing while my baby was suffering with a rash severe enough to bleed (or so I thought at the time). He was acting like such an idiot, and I couldn't stand to be near him for another second.

Wanting nothing more than to just get away from him, I stuck the clean diaper on Cheyenne and left without even putting new clothes on her.

When we got to the car, I crawled into the back seat and slipped a shirt onto the baby. Confused, Ben asked what had taken so long and why I'd brought Cheyenne out of the house in nothing more than a diaper and socks. I explained the situation.

By this time Steve had come out of the house, climbed into his vehicle, and driven away. He seemed to be becoming an expert at leaving the scene before Ben had a chance to confront him about his treatment of Cheyenne.

A few minutes later we were home, and I gave her a bath to make sure all of the urine was rinsed off of her skin. As I dressed her for bed and applied diaper rash ointment, I still did not see any spot on her skin that was broken, or which looked like it could be a source of the blood I had found in the diaper at Steve's house.

I did, however, discover she had a few new bruises on her legs. They were small, each about the size of a small coin. It was clear they were new because the bruises from the previous visit had already begun to turn yellow.

My best guess at that point was that Steve was simply not supervising her very well and she was falling a lot or bumping into things. I wondered if perhaps she was repeatedly bumping into the _same_ thing, because the bruises really were all very similar in size to each other, and appeared in somewhat linear-looking clusters—the cluster on one leg was immediately opposite the cluster on the other leg.

That night, Ben and I were again torn out of sleep by the sounds of Cheyenne's screams. Again we raced clumsily and half-asleep—trying to keep from knocking each other down as we did—to get to her as quickly as possible.

It was obvious, once more, that this was not a normal cry. She was crying with those same growl-screams as the night before. Once again, her body was rigid, with her arms held stiffly at her sides, fists clenched. Again she did not want to be held, and again she slapped her bottle away when it was offered.

About an hour after finally getting her back to sleep that night, she woke up screaming again, and we all went through the same ordeal one more time.

During her life, Ben and I had spent many nights up with Cheyenne; taking turns walking the floors with her due to teething, or a cold. But this was different than anything the three of us had ever experienced.

The day of the third unsupervised visit arrived.

We had to wake Cheyenne from her afternoon nap to get her ready to go. She was in a very silly mood; playful and happy. Ben had just bought her a plastic slide for her bedroom and she loved it so much that as soon as she woke up from the nap she immediately wanted to play on her "side", as she called it.

I remember it so well because we happened to have taken a lot of video footage that day. In the months and years since then, the segments of home video taken that day have become, and remain, very painful to watch.

We fed Cheyenne dinner, and then I poured her a bath. Normally, I wouldn't have bathed her so early in the day, but the visits were ending late and I planned to simply change her into pajamas after picking her up from Steve's so she could go right to bed once we arrived home.

During that bath, Cheyenne clearly was experiencing some physical discomfort. I won't go into details.

I will say though, that I didn't think anything of it then. We had introduced her to a potty chair a few weeks earlier and while she didn't care to use it yet, I thought the "owie" she was experiencing during the bath had something to do with potty issues. I had been videotaping as she poured water from cups and threw toys around in the bath when she experienced this discomfort. She tried to tell me about it, but I thought she was simply becoming aware of her body and how it worked. I think we actually chuckled, thinking it was comical that she seemed so unhappy about bodily functions.

Knowing now that she was likely experiencing pain due to abuse we were unaware had been inflicted upon her—and the reality that we laughed it off because we assumed it was something else entirely—is tremendously painful; we feel guilty for not recognizing sooner what was happening to her.

I finished getting Cheyenne dressed for her visit about ten minutes before Steve was scheduled to pick her up. The rash from her last visit with him was entirely gone when I dressed her. I can say with certainty, that aside from the fading bruises on her legs, there were no unusual marks on her body; no other signs of any injury, anywhere.

Steve arrived right on time to pick Cheyenne up for their visit. I couldn't help but feel annoyed that he could manage to be so punctual for these unsupervised visits after months of leaving Cheyenne and I waiting around for him at parks before sauntering up nearly an hour late most of the time. When he'd shown up at all, that is.

This is the sort of thing I meant when I mentioned in a previous chapter that the order for joint-custody with myself deemed as the primary caretaker essentially meant that Steve could do whatever he wanted with no repercussions; he could be extremely late, fail to show up at all, cut visits short, leave Cheyenne in urine-soaked clothing—basically anything he wanted to do, and the court would do nothing about it. At the same time, though, if I had failed to make her available on time, or not allowed him to visit her at all, or tried to pick her up early, I would have been in violation of the court order, and would face court-implemented consequences. Furthermore, when I discussed these issues with my attorney, I was warned that if I complained about any of them, I would be seen by the court as the unreasonable parent, and would risk further changes to the court order which might restrict my access to my own daughter!

Ben and I decided to run errands while Cheyenne was at her visitation. Anxiety levels were high and we couldn't just sit in the house wondering if she was handling the visit okay. We stayed busy in hopes it would make the time pass quicker, and to keep our minds occupied.

Ben had a friend from work whose wife had just come home from the hospital after having a new baby, so we decided to pass the time shopping for a baby gift. When the visit was over, we picked Cheyenne up from Steve's and drove home.

And then our lives changed forever.

A few minutes after arriving home, Ben stepped back out to take the baby gift to his friends, who lived nearby. Alone at the house with Cheyenne and knowing Ben would be back shortly, I wanted to get her ready for bed right away so she'd have a few minutes of play time when Ben returned (by then, their after-work game of Cheyenne chasing Ben as he crawled through the house, had become a before-bedtime game during which Cheyenne would _run_ through the house after him until he reached the end of the hallway, at which point he'd slow down just enough for her to tap his leg and then he would jump from our bedroom doorway onto the bed; convincing Cheyenne she'd _thrown_ him across the room. She would laugh hysterically and it was a game she simply could not get enough of—they did this over and over until Cheyenne was so exhausted from laughing and running she was more than happy to settle down for her bedtime story and bottle before falling asleep). So, I set her down on the sofa to get her dressed into her pajamas.

When I un-taped her diaper to change her, it was immediately evident that something was wrong. This was no rash. I was frozen in stunned silence. I just stared at Cheyenne's face, and she stared back at me.

Suddenly, she said, "No, Teev", and started trying to push my hands away (I was still holding onto the diaper). "No", she repeated. And then, in a voice so small and so fragile, she whispered, "Peas, no". (Her word for please, was "peas").

I immediately taped her diaper back up. I had no idea what to do. Leaving Cheyenne on the sofa, I stood and walked across the room, picked up the phone, and called my sister. She had three children of her own, the oldest of whom was a three-year-old daughter. She had been my strongest mother-figure throughout my life and every mothering skill I had acquired had come from watching her with my niece and nephews. I trusted her judgment and believed she would know what to do.

That's a lot of pressure to put on another young mother. I called her and described exactly, down to every last detail, what had just happened. She asked a few questions. Finally, she admitted she had never experienced anything similar with her own daughter and felt we needed to reach out for guidance. She suggested I find the number of an abuse hotline in the phone book and describe the situation to a hotline counselor. We would see what they said and then proceed from there.

I was quickly able to find a number for a sexual abuse hotline in the emergency section of the phone book. A counselor answered, and I began to describe what had just happened.

Before I'd even had time to take a breath after explaining the situation, the counselor quickly advised me to take Cheyenne to the nearest hospital emergency room. Her directions seemed so drastic, and I immediately wondered if I may have not explained the situation thoroughly enough. Perhaps I had given her the wrong impression? I asked her to wait, and I began to try to explain myself more clearly.

"Wait, please. Ma'am, there's no blood, and—" I began. But before I could say anything more she interrupted me and, with authority in her voice, said, "Hang up this phone and take your baby to the hospital. _Now_."

Ben walked back into the house at that moment. I had completely forgotten about him. I began to tell him what was happening before I even hung up the phone; all the while the lady on the other end is telling me to hang up and get to the emergency room.

He was in disbelief. I mean, we knew Steve had some character flaws—but a child molester? We had both known him for a very long time, and although memories of things he had said and done in our presence over the years, together and separately, began to flood our minds—and in the context of this sickening theory begin to make a lot more sense—it was still not possible for us at that time to digest that he was really capable of sexually abusing a baby. It is such an awful thing to learn about a person. You don't want to believe it even when the perpetrator is a stranger, but it's even more difficult to accept when the person committing the abuse is someone you thought you knew very well.

Regardless, there was no denying Cheyenne had been physically injured.

The counselor from the abuse hotline had insisted I take her to a hospital. I called my sister back to tell her what I had been told and she said if it was her, and if this was her daughter we were talking about, she would do what the counselor had instructed.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Sounds seemed muffled, and it felt like I was dragging my feet through thick mud when I walked across the room to grab Cheyenne's diaper bag. I was frightened and nauseated, my head started to pound. Cheyenne was still and quiet. I think Ben thought I was overreacting at first. But he hadn't seen what I'd seen, or heard what I'd heard.

We took her to the hospital.

### TWELVE

When we arrived at the hospital emergency room, we went to the front desk and I explained why we were there. As is typical of emergency room visits, I was handed some paperwork to fill out and we were told to sit down and wait to be called.

We waited for over three hours. Finally, around one o'clock in the morning, I asked the receptionist if there was any way of knowing how much longer we might have to wait, explaining that I needed to let my toddler go home and get some sleep. I was told there was in fact, no way to know how much longer the wait might be. So I asked if I could take her home and bring her back first thing in the morning. The receptionist walked away and spoke to someone else, and then returned to tell me yes, that would be acceptable. Exhausted and frustrated, we went home.

By the time we got into bed, we only had a few hours to sleep. Up again early, I fed Cheyenne breakfast, gave her a quick bath, dressed her, and then we were out the door and on our way back to the hospital.

We again arrived at the emergency room, and I explained to the receptionist (a different one than we'd spoken to the night before) why we were there. She immediately appeared unhappy that we'd left to go home the night before in a case of suspected child abuse. I respectfully explained the circumstances. I made sure she understood that I had essentially asked permission to take the baby home to let her get some sleep, and had been told by the previous receptionist that it was okay to do so.

Still, the new receptionist seemed very displeased with the situation. She left the desk for several minutes before returning to explain that my daughter would be seen immediately by a physician at the hospital who held the title of Sexual Abuse Nurse Examiner. I had never heard of such a title before, and the reality of why we were at the hospital was becoming overwhelming.

I think Ben and I would have liked nothing more at that moment than to take Cheyenne back home, hold her close, and pretend it was all just a bad dream. But we had no choice. The only thing we could do was move forward.

The doctor who examined Cheyenne was very kind. She explained that I would be the only one allowed in the room during the examination, and we obviously understood why.

Cheyenne cried for Ben when they were separated, though. She didn't seem to want me. She'd been clinging to him all morning. Years later, it was explained to me by a child psychologist that the reason for Cheyenne's behavior toward me that day was likely because I had been the one to hand her over to Steve each time he came to pick her up for visitation. Being so young, the psychologist explained, Cheyenne likely didn't know if she could trust me because I was technically the one giving her to her abuser each time. Those were intensely difficult and painful words for me to hear and accept. They still are.

I didn't know any of that at the time of the examination, though.

With Cheyenne on my hip, I followed the doctor into the exam room. The physician asked me some questions and expressed her regret at the fact that I had bathed Cheyenne that morning. I was entirely ignorant to the process of determining a case of sexual abuse, and I had not realized that bathing Cheyenne could have washed away significant physical evidence. I apologized to the physician.

What I _didn't_ tell her was that as a result of Steve's accusations of being an unfit mother, I had become afraid to allow my daughter to leave the house without having been freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes each and every time; her outfits perfectly matched and her hair perfectly brushed, for fear that someone— _anyone_ —might think I wasn't taking care of her properly. I found it upsetting and ironic that my diligent efforts to be the best mom I was capable of being had possibly hindered the doctor's ability to gather important evidence.

There were two doors into the room; the one we had entered through, and another one on the opposite side of the room. The latter door opened back into the emergency room waiting area, and that is where Ben waited.

He could hear Cheyenne crying and calling for him. He sat on the floor outside the door, crying himself. It's a horrible memory for him; that memory of having to stay where he was while Cheyenne sobbed and called for him, confused as to why her daddy would ignore her when he had never ignored her before and she was so clearly begging him to come get her.

Cheyenne loved to play with his keys, so he slid them under the door so I could give them to her and in some small way, let her know he was there. Aside from praying, it was all he could do for her.

I can only imagine, now that I am older, that any exam intended to confirm, or rule out, sexual abuse is awkward at best. But when we walked into that hospital—very young and extraordinarily naïve—we were completely oblivious to the type of exam Cheyenne might be subjected to; I thought the doctor would simply want me to remove her diaper and show them what I was seeing. While I don't believe the exam caused Cheyenne any actual pain, and I realize how necessary it was that a professional who was specifically trained to be an expert at recognizing the physical signs of sexual abuse had an opportunity to examine her, I can't deny that it was, nevertheless, a disturbing experience.

The examiner was incredibly gentle and tried to explain to Cheyenne that she was safe, and I had tried to explain to her myself before we'd gone to the hospital that she had an "owie" and the doctor was going to help us make the "owie" go away (it's nearly impossible to help a nineteen-month-old baby understand the process of receiving medical care for an injury). But Cheyenne was just too young to understand, and she was in a panic. She was crying and frantically trying to get up from the exam table, and I couldn't try to soothe her because the doctor had instructed me not to speak during the process because she didn't want Cheyenne to associate my voice with the exam. She also instructed me to try to hold her still (which I imagine didn't help Cheyenne's distrust of me at that point). Fortunately, the ordeal was relatively quick and only minimally invasive.

When it was over, I redressed Cheyenne as quickly as possible while the doctor opened the door Ben was waiting outside of, ushered him in, and then had us follow her to another area of the hospital.

After having us stop at what appeared to be an administrative counter, she began to explain to us that she was filling out something known as a MedicoLegal Exam form. There was a police officer standing nearby, and the doctor explained that he would be asking us some questions.

Things were moving very fast, and Ben and I were quickly becoming lost in the mental chaos of the situation.

Trying to catch up, I said to the doctor, "Wait. Are you saying my daughter has been molested?"

The doctor looked me square in the eyes and said, "That is my opinion. Yes".

Obviously, they were crushing words to hear. My whole body began to shake. I remember Ben saying something about finding Steve and killing him. I remember the officer explaining to us that he would be going to Steve's house himself to question him.

I don't remember much else about that day.

In fact, I can remember only flashes of the following _three_ days. Like walking into Cheyenne's bedroom to find my dad standing at her window staring outside, and realizing he was crying. It was the only time I ever saw my dad cry.

I can remember the way Cheyenne wouldn't let Ben out of her sight. Every time he had to leave the house for something, he had to take her with him because she wouldn't let go of him.

I also remember being alone in the condo late one afternoon—my dad had gone home and Ben had gone to the attorney's office, Cheyenne in tow—and I thought very seriously about going to Steve's house and shooting him. I really did. It was momentary, but I thought about it. Ben had a rifle high on a shelf in the closet which he used to take to a firing range with a friend to shoot at targets for fun. But I had no idea how to use it, or even load it. Steve should probably be counting his blessings for that.

There are other things I remember which I won't describe. Things Cheyenne did and said which drove home even more clearly the reality that she'd been the victim of criminal behavior. Each time, it was shocking to see or hear. It didn't feel like it could be real, but it was.

In light of what the Sexual Abuse Nurse Examiner had said after Cheyenne's examination, a court date had been scheduled—the purpose of which was to seek modification of the current visitation order. Until that time, Steve was not allowed to see Cheyenne.

We decided to stay with Ben's parents in Arizona for a few days. We were drowning in the stress and emotion of the situation, and we needed support.

My dad said he would come along. He had never traveled with us before, and I later learned he told relatives he went because he wanted to stay near me, as he felt I was "not coping very well".

It was a strange time, that visit to Arizona. I don't remember much about actually being there. But when watching home movies, it appears as though Ben and I were trying really hard to just escape reality and act like everything was okay. I do remember a lot of worried looks between Ben's parents. His mom left the room a lot to try to hide the fact that she was crying, and I remember my dad stayed very close to Cheyenne the entire time.

My best guess is that Ben and I were in some form of shock, and therefore simply coping the best we could. My other guess is that our parents recognized it, but didn't really know how to help us. All of _their_ hearts were broken, too.

We went home after a few days, and shortly afterward we were back in court. During that hearing it was ordered that, pending an investigation from Child Protective Services, all of Steve's visits with Cheyenne were to be supervised until the results of the investigation were in. Not _revoked_ until those results were in, but merely supervised—and not by a professional third party, either. In fact, I was strongly encouraged, unsuccessfully, to agree to Steve's mother being the supervisor!

We were absolutely floored. We were so naïve, but we had no idea a judge would force Cheyenne to still have to spend time with Steve after what the doctor at the hospital had told us.

It was explained to us by our attorney that the exam had merely established that abuse had, in fact, occurred, but an investigation would help to determine _who_ had perpetrated that abuse. Until that time, the court would not be willing to deny Steve access to her.

Now that I am older, I can look back and see why a court would handle the situation this way. After all, they didn't know me, and they have no choice in certain situations but to rely on the reports of agencies like Child Protective Services. But at the time, I was only concerned for Cheyenne's mental well-being and I was distressed that she was going to still have to be exposed to the person I knew was responsible for harming her.

How can I be so certain that Steve was responsible for her abuse? The most obvious reason is because she was never alone with anyone else. She was a toddler and I was with her all the time except when she was with Steve on those unsupervised visits, and the few times Ben's parents had watched her (the most recent of which had occurred nearly a year earlier). Truly, I would be willing to accept the truth no matter what it was—even if it turned out that someone I loved dearly, like Ben or my dad, had been responsible for her abuse. My top priority was Cheyenne's safety; I didn't care what that meant for me.

But the simple truth is, I ruled everyone out so quickly because I knew she hadn't been alone with anyone else. I also knew I was the only one besides Steve who had any reason to have her undressed. Ben did not change her diapers or undress her for baths, and when I say I didn't leave her with anyone beyond a few times with Ben's parents, I mean it—I didn't leave her with my dad, I didn't leave her with my sister, I didn't leave her with my best friend, and I didn't leave her with Ben, either. The first time he'd ever taken her anywhere alone was _after_ the abuse was discovered.

While some of her abuse appeared, according to subsequent things she said and did, to have included actions she was forced to perform on a body other than her own, the reality is that the injury for which I had to take her to the emergency room could not have happened unless she'd been with someone who had removed her diaper. To inflict the type of abuse which had evidently occurred, a person would had to have been both alone with her long enough to force her to do things that I could not see, and alone with her long enough to remove her diaper. The _only_ person that could have been, save the remote possibility that he may have left her in the care of someone I am entirely unaware of during his scheduled visitation, was Steve. He was the only person who'd had that kind of access to her.

Despite having desperately explained all of that to my attorney, the order for supervised visitation had been granted. And, as anyone who has been through the family court system knows, arguing with the court is an exercise in futility.

The order also stated that we had to agree on a supervisor.

I was adamantly opposed to Steve's mom acting as supervisor, because I knew she wouldn't make even the slightest effort to keep him from being alone with Cheyenne, and would also be willing to lie about it on his behalf. At some point, Ben's former roommate—a longtime friend of both Ben _and_ Steve—agreed to supervise.

It was terribly awkward. We all met at the home of yet another mutual friend. The supervising friend was trying to do his best, but it was obvious he was concerned about offending Steve. I was concerned he wasn't watching closely enough, as Steve kept winding up in other rooms of the house alone with Cheyenne. It was somewhat of a nightmare for everyone involved.

As with most things, Steve just couldn't resist the urge to push the rules to the limits and beyond. He refused to give Cheyenne any personal space, constantly staying within a few inches of her. As a result, she kept trying to get away from him. Over and over she walked away, waving her arm behind her in an attempt to motion to him to back off. She wasn't familiar with the home and would walk into any other room she could get to, which he, of course, cornered her inside of before she managed to squirm out of his presence again, repeating the same scenario again and again.

Steve was stressing out Cheyenne, which was making Ben and me angry, and in turn we were stressing out the supervising friend. Adding to the mayhem was the fact that the mutual friend who owned the home had invited several other people over, most of whom we knew, for some kind of get-together separate from this visitation, so the entire ordeal just turned into a circus. It was extremely unsuccessful.

I can't remember now if we tried another supervisor during that period of time. I would have to search through old court documents to find out. I do remember though, that during that time period, I contacted both the police and Child Protective Services myself, to ask for information about the status of the investigation.

The police informed me they were _not_ investigating. Understandably, I was confused. The officer at the hospital had told me he was going to question Steve himself, and I had perceived that to mean they were "investigating" him, at least to some degree. I didn't understand how it could be that the police were not going to do anything beyond ask him a few questions. It was explained by the officer on the phone that because Cheyenne was not old enough to testify in court, there was nothing further they could do for her.

It was devastating, and gave me my first inkling that securing adequate protection for Cheyenne may not be as straightforward as I had originally believed it would be.

I then called Child Protective Services. I remember coming away from that conversation with the distinct impression they also had not begun any kind of investigation either, and actually didn't open one until that very phone call when I requested they do so. I spoke with a caseworker who said she was going to speak with Steve in person at his home, and then would come and speak with me in my home. I implored her to do so.

She also asked if I would be open to the possibility of her questioning other family members of mine. I explained to her that nobody else was ever alone with Cheyenne, so it would have been impossible for anyone to have abused her while she was in my care, but that I was absolutely in agreement that she question anyone she felt worth questioning. I went on to tell her I was willing to comply in any way possible, and I remember saying, "Investigate everyone. Investigate me, investigate my fiancé, my dad, my friends—I don't care. I just want to find out what happened to my daughter so I'll know how to help her".

During that time, the atmosphere at our home was saturated with fear, anger, sadness, and anxiety. Cheyenne was clingy, and she wasn't sleeping or eating well. Ben and I were heartbroken; sickened that she had been hurt and used in such an inexcusable way. We were also becoming increasingly uncertain about our own future. We'd had so many plans for our life together but after Cheyenne's abuse was discovered, everything about _everything_ was on hold. All we could think about was keeping Cheyenne from future harm and trying to figure out how we were going to help her heal from the harm she'd already sustained.

In those earliest weeks of our ordeal, I attempted to speak with Steve about what was happening. I wanted to ask him directly if he had sexually abused Cheyenne. In my heart, I wanted desperately to hear him insist that he had not; to be convinced by him that he surely was not capable of such disgusting and shameful things.

He never once denied molesting her.

In fact, the only response I ever got from him when I asked him what had happened to her, was laughter. Not the kind of laughter you hear from someone who genuinely thinks a claim is preposterous; his laughter sounded _devious_. Steve didn't seem embarrassed, or angry—he sounded, satisfied.

To this day, he has never denied to me that he was responsible for her sexual abuse.

It was also during these weeks that I began to feel obligated to mention the situation to those in positions of authority in the religious group Steve was affiliated with. I knew he had been appointed as the caregiver of very tiny little girls and had unsupervised access to them at times. I felt it would be tremendously wrong for me to not, at the very least, make the group aware that a very small child had been sexually abused while in his care.

So, one afternoon—entirely ignorant of the fact that I was doing something which could actually have gotten _me_ into legal trouble—I went to the building the group was renting, and spoke to someone who appeared to hold an administrative position within the organization. I quietly explained that I felt it my obligation to make them aware that a small girl had been sexually abused while in Steve's care. I did not say it was _my_ child; I did not give them any details at all. I just wanted them to know, so that they could then make their own decisions as to how to best protect the children of the members of their group.

I was stunned by the response I received. The woman I was speaking with actually waved other people over and they _escorted_ me out of the building. It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had. My guess—especially since that group actually provided an attorney (hand-plucked from their ranks) for Steve shortly afterward—is that they completely rejected what I'd told them and, based on firsthand accounts, never made any attempt to remove Steve from his position of looking after tiny girls. Even now, it baffles me. Why chance the safety of tiny children just for the sake of proving a point? I hope very much that none of those little girls became additional victims.

Convinced there was nothing I could do for any other child unfortunate enough to be in Steve's path, I focused solely on doing what I could for Cheyenne. The judge had ordered me to take her for an evaluation by a child psychologist; a psychologist chosen by the court. The appointed therapist was located an hour from where we lived, and we made the drive to the office late one afternoon.

I remember there were two therapists at that office who actually spoke with Cheyenne, both of whom seemed to be very caring and professional. They were tremendously kind and sensitive toward her.

When it was over, one of them asked me some additional questions and then explained to me that Cheyenne was, "displaying textbook signs of sexual abuse". It was my understanding that the psychologist would be submitting a report to the court based on their session together.

As we waited for that to happen, we tried to maintain any amount of normalcy possible in our lives. A few days after Cheyenne saw the child psychologist, we took her to a kiddie portrait studio to have some photos taken. I had scheduled the appointment weeks earlier, hoping to have some autumn portraits done. She'd had her portraits taken at least half a dozen times before, all without any upsets or problems. I considered canceling the appointment due to all that was going on in our lives, but she grew and changed so fast I didn't want to let much more time go by without having some photos done. It had already been more than six months since her last set.

We arrived at the studio and were called to get Cheyenne set up for her session. It became apparent _instantly_ that keeping the appointment had been a bad idea.

Those who have taken very small children to have their portraits done are familiar with the platforms in studios; the kind intended for kids to sit on while having their picture taken. The very moment I tried to set Cheyenne down on the platform, she became hysterical. She clung to me and frantically tried to stop me from setting her down. Ben and I realized quickly that it was possible she was remembering the exam table at the hospital.

We immediately began to leave the studio. I can remember the photographer reacting as though we were being ridiculous while aggressively trying to talk us into bringing Cheyenne back to the platform. Ben became so emotional he answered her through gritted teeth, saying "I'm not making her sit on that table".

I imagine the poor photographer thought we were out of our minds. But of course, she had no idea why we were reacting the way we were.

A day or two later, we were out running errands. As we were driving in the car, it became evident that Cheyenne needed a quick diaper change. We were on a frontage road trying to avoid some freeway traffic at the time, which meant we weren't near any public restrooms likely to have baby changing tables in them. So, as we had done many times in the past, Ben pulled over to the side of the road so I could change Cheyenne in the car.

I got into the back seat, pulled her out of her car seat, and tried to lay her down on the backseat so I could change her. She instantly became panicked and wrestled to not have to lie down. She was literally fighting me off. Shocked by her reaction, I immediately took my hands off of her and gently said, "Okay, we won't change you here. That's all right". And although it meant she had to endure a soiled diaper for a bit longer, we drove to a store with a baby changing station inside.

Both Ben and I were confused by her behavior. She had never once acted bothered by hurried diaper changes in the car before. She had sensitive skin, so I'd always been diligent to change her quickly when it became evident she needed a clean diaper. As a result, she was very accustomed to frequent diaper changes, even when it meant they occurred in a stroller, or on the seat of a car, or some other less conventional location. She had never become upset by it before.

I reasoned that this new behavior must be nothing more than another installment of the almighty Phase; every baby care book I'd ever read seemed to talk endlessly about it. From food preferences, to phobias, to tantrums—according to the experts, anything and everything a toddler did could be chalked up that ungodly entity, the Phase. So, when Cheyenne suddenly seemed freaked out by being changed in the backseat of a car, I followed their lead, decided it was just another rung on the Phase ladder, and changed our practices accordingly.

But then the day arrived when it was our turn to meet with the caseworker from CPS.

Although cordial, the caseworker who visited us came across as someone who intended to quickly get down to business. Despite the fact that she was not overly-friendly, she nevertheless struck me as someone who was, in fact, genuinely concerned for the well-being of children. She took a small tour of the condo, viewed Cheyenne's bedroom, and watched Ben, Cheyenne, and me interact with each other for a while.

The caseworker then sat us down and explained that she had met with Steve personally, in his home, to discuss the visitation which occurred the night we had to take Cheyenne to the hospital. She communicated to us that as a result of her investigation, she was assigning a determination of "Code Yellow" to Cheyenne's case. She explained further that she believed Cheyenne had, indeed, been sexually abused while in Steve's care, and that a distinction of "Code Yellow" meant she believed Cheyenne was "at least at medium risk" of being abused again if he were allowed to visit with her unsupervised.

And then she dropped a bombshell.

She told me that the Child Protective Services agency of our county would almost certainly not pursue any action against Steve, nor do anything at all to keep him away from Cheyenne.

I was shocked, and terrified. What did that mean, I asked? Was she saying that although they knew he was hurting her, they would do nothing to stop him?

Sadly yes, she told me. Essentially, that's _exactly_ what it meant. She then told me that in order for CPS to intervene in any significant way, the abuse would have to be quite devastating in nature. She explained that Cheyenne would have to endure repeated instances of sexual abuse until the physical damage was considered "severe enough" to warrant intervention.

In so many words, she was telling me we would have to wait for Cheyenne to actually endure a rape before we could get any help.

Child _Protective_ Services. Indeed.

I'm sure all the color drained from my face. I was speechless.

You know, you spend your life developing these ideological perceptions of what an agency called Child Protective Services actually does. Naturally, you assume they step in when a child is being abused and help to stop that abuse.

This was the moment in my life when I realized the world is not what I thought it was. I used to think the world was a place of remarkable order with a few simple glitches here and there; a place where perhaps, _sometimes_ , a police officer or judge turned out to be a bad person, or a social worker was discovered to have been repeatedly negligent, but for the most part, we were all secure and insulated by the entities in place to protect us.

Sure, it happens—there _are_ great cops, and excellent CPS caseworkers, and judges who actually care. But I am convinced now that they are the exception; not the rule.

I think most of us have an experience, a moment in life, when reality smacks us in the head and we begin to truly understand that we cannot simply assume we can rely on the people whose job descriptions and titles imply they exist to protect. We _can't_ expect to depend on them to actually come and save the ones who need saving, to right the wrongs, to get the bad guys, or even _try_ to get the bad guys.

This was that moment for me. And I'll never forget it.

The caseworker was apologetic. She knew I was devastated and scared for my daughter. She appeared genuinely sad about the situation, albeit toughened by what I can only assume were other cases she'd witnessed with similar dynamics.

I asked what I should do. I pleaded for _any_ information, _any_ suggestions, as to whom I might be able to contact to help us.

She told me the best I could hope for at that point was that the judge would read her report and extend the order for supervised visits. She said beyond that, there was nobody left to contact.

Ben and I sat in stunned silence; unable to move, or speak, or think clearly as we tried to absorb what we had been told.

The caseworker rose to leave. As she did, she mentioned—seemingly as an afterthought—that the only thing she hadn't determined was where the abuse had actually taken place. She went on to explain that Steve insisted there had been other people present at the house while Cheyenne had been there on the day in question.

And then she sort of just casually added, as she clutched her file folders to her chest and walked toward the front door, "Yeah, you know, he said the only time he was ever alone with her was in the car".

Instantly, the memory of Cheyenne's distressed reaction to having her diaper changed in the car slammed into me. I looked at Ben and I could see by his expression that the same exact memory was washing over him, as well.

Obviously intrigued by our reaction, the caseworker asked if we had anything we wanted to add. I described the event to her in detail.

As her hand reached for the doorknob, I knew she could sense the desperation in my voice when I asked, "What do I do if the judge won't keep her safe?"

Her hand stopped in midair, but she continued to stare ahead at the door. She seemed to be carefully contemplating her answer.

Finally, she dropped her hand away from the doorknob and with her gaze now set on the floor, responded, "If it were me..."

She paused at first, and then started to speak again before drifting off into silence a second time. "If it were my child...."

Then she turned to me, lifted her eyes to meet mine, and began to speak again.

"I could lose my job for saying this." She paused yet again and truly appeared to be struggling with some kind of internal battle of bureaucratic rules vs. personal ethics before making a silent decision and continuing on, her voice having taken on a tone of resolution.

"If it were _my_ child" she said firmly "I would do _whatever_ I had to do to make sure he never got another opportunity to hurt her. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

She stared at me intently for a few seconds; searching my eyes for signs that I had, indeed, grasped the implication of her statement. When she was satisfied, she gave a short, nearly imperceptible nod and then quickly opened the door and hurried out.

And that was it—I never saw her again. 

### THIRTEEN

I had almost no time to contemplate my next move before we were due in court again. It may have been a day or two.

During that time, I realized my heart and mind were not going to allow me to knowingly place my now twenty-month-old daughter into the hands of an individual who had violated her and who, undoubtedly, intended to do it again.

I had once heard a statement about sexual abusers; about how they commonly "work their way up to a rape". It was impossible not to wonder if that's exactly what Steve was doing. Logically, I knew such an assault had the potential to actually kill a child of Cheyenne's age and size. I genuinely feared for her life. If I allowed him access to her alone I would be, in effect, choosing to abandon her both emotionally _and_ physically. I would be taking part in the destruction of her body, mind, and soul.

I could not do it.

I discussed the issue with the people closest to me: my sister, my best friend, my dad. Everyone, except Ben. The choices which lay ahead of us felt so impossible, we seemed unable to talk about them.

But the night before court, I knew I had to have The Conversation with him. I had to give him a way out. This was his home, and he had worked hard to build a life for himself that he felt good about. He had been at his job for several years and that accomplishment meant so much to him. He would be able to buy a house soon, and that was something he was particularly excited for. All of his friends lived in our hometown.

I could not ask him to leave it all behind.

I loved him, and I wanted to marry him. I knew Cheyenne loved him, too, and that being separated from him would be very hard on her. I also knew it would break his heart to lose this little family that meant the world to him.

But I had no easy options in front of me. Since I wasn't actually willing to kill Steve, the only thing I could do was choose the least terrible of the only two choices I had left.

That night, as we stood in the living room looking at the fish in Cheyenne's aquarium and avoiding conversation, the words suddenly began to spill from my mouth in one long, nervous string.

I said I loved him. I told him what a wonderful daddy he was. I told him I was so sorry he had ended up in the middle of such a horrible situation and how I wished I could make it all go away.

And then I told him that if, the next day, the judge ordered me to hand Cheyenne back over to Steve for unsupervised visits, I could not do it. I told him I would run. I said I was so very sorry to do that to him, but I simply had no other choices.

I told him he was not obligated to leave behind everything he had worked so hard for, and that I was not asking him to come with us. I said I would always love him and I would never hold it against him for staying behind. I told him I understood. I tried to make him see that it was okay for him to let go and not step into this highly uncertain future with me.

I'll never forget his response. Without even the slightest hint of hesitation, Ben looked at me, tears in his eyes, and with more emotion than I had ever heard in any man's voice, he said, "That's my baby, too. You're not taking her anywhere without me. How will you be able to keep her safe if I don't help you?"

That was the moment my best friend also became my hero.

It wasn't about me and him. It was about a daddy who couldn't bear to do anything less than everything his child needed him to do at the most critical moment of her life. In the face of all that he would be required to give up and walk away from; in the face of all he would have to risk—and despite the fact that he had no biological obligation and I had given him the out— _he never even hesitated_.

I would venture to guess there aren't many men in this world who would do the same. He is extraordinary, and I owe him much more than I will ever be capable of giving back.

### ***

We arrived at the courthouse the next morning. Once again, my attorney told me I was not allowed inside the courtroom (to this day I have no idea if that was even true).

When he emerged—acting a little too chummy with Steve's attorney as he did —life as we knew it, spun completely out of control.

He got about five feet from me and told me the judge had reversed to the original order. It meant that Steve was again free to have unsupervised visits with Cheyenne three times per week.

In disbelief, I asked how that could be, after the reports from CPS and the child psychologist? His response was so unbelievable that even as I write it all these years later, I still have trouble believing he actually said it.

Still standing a few feet away from me, in a voice loud enough for anyone in the general vicinity of the courtroom to hear, my attorney bellowed, "That's okay Rachel, because the next time he does it, we've got him!"

The next time.

The next time?

He had proclaimed it as though it were a victory. Here was an officer of the United States legal system, telling me that very system, despite being fully aware that my tiny daughter was being sexually abused by her father, was ordering me to stand back and give him full reign to do it again. _They knew he would do it_. And they were now giving him permission and ample opportunity to do so.

In those moments, the whole world seemed mad to me. I simply could not digest what I was being told.

My attorney then proceeded to walk past me and catch up with Steve's attorney as they headed toward another room where they were required to file their paperwork. I guess he was done talking to me?

I followed them. When they stopped in the filing room, I asked, "So who's going to take responsibility when Steve does finally rape her? What good is it going to do her then if we've 'got him'? She will already be destroyed!"

I was furious. The court was telling me—ordering me, in fact—to break the law; to assist in the sexual abuse of a child, to knowingly allow it to happen and do nothing to stop it.

My attorney didn't bother to answer me. He and Steve's attorney exchanged arrogant glances as though I was nothing more than a crazed, irrational client they were simply tolerating until they could leave the room and get away from me. I made it easy on them and walked out.

Ben was standing outside the room, holding Cheyenne. One glance between us said all there was to say.

We were going to run.

### ***

We lived little more than a block from the courthouse, and we were back at our condo within minutes. We hurriedly packed what we could as quickly as we could. Mostly just clothes and photographs.

I couldn't call my sister. I couldn't tell my best friend we were leaving. I couldn't hug my dad goodbye.

Ben would still be able to safely contact his friends and family for a while, as we knew it would be some time before authorities would realize he was with us. But he was leaving his job, and that was extremely difficult for him.

Our loose plan—if you could even call it a plan at that point—was to head to Arizona to spend a few days with Ben's parents. We needed some distance from the situation to digest what had happened and to try to figure out what to do next.

As we drove through our hometown that day toward the freeway onramp, I remember as we passed each corner and building, my heart was breaking. This was my _home_. It's where I was born. It seemed I had a memory for every square inch of the city. I loved my hometown. And even though we had plans to return in a few days to come up with a more structured plan for the future, something inside of me knew I was leaving for good that day.

I was correct. It was the last day I ever lived there. As much as Ben and I would like to move back home, we still haven't been able to.

We drove the several hours to Arizona and stayed up late with Ben's parents discussing what had happened in court earlier that day. The next morning the conversation resumed and eventually morphed into a discussion about renting a moving truck to retrieve our belongings from the condo.

Ben's parents felt confident that once we left our home county, the authorities would likely just leave us alone. Steve had no money to hire investigators and we all theorized that the county would not waste resources on what, to them, wasn't much more than a domestic disagreement between two economically disadvantaged parties.

While it sickens me that the poor receive much less consideration in most circumstances than do those who have money—in this case, we believed it would serve to our advantage. In short, we weren't anyone the county was going to waste money looking for.

It was agreed. Ben and his dad would rush back to California, move our things out of the condo, and head back before anyone really had a chance to know we were even gone.

I remember the night they were gone and Cheyenne and I were still in Arizona with Ben's mom. She asked me if I wanted to get out of the house for a little while, and drove us to Kmart.

Kingman was a small, dusty, sparsely-populated desert town back then; comprised mostly of aging mobile homes. Kmart was essentially the only shopping option after seven o'clock. I remember we pulled into a spot in the parking lot and when the car turned off, I was suddenly affected by how very dark and isolated the town was. I sat quietly in the car for a moment.

I felt swallowed up by the darkness and vastness of the desert night. I was freezing, adrift, and scared. I also felt acutely alone. I was surrounded by people, but I knew that none of them had quite as much to lose as I did.

We all loved Cheyenne, but I was her _mother_. I had carried her in my body, and nursed her, and my heart and soul were intricately and painfully linked to hers in a way so powerful I simply cannot find words to sufficiently describe it (though I know most mothers understand exactly what I mean, despite my inability to articulate it).

If I couldn't save her from a childhood of exposure to a monster who wanted to use her tiny body for his sick sexual compulsions, I doubted I could survive myself. I would have gladly given my own life at that moment if doing so could have somehow guaranteed her safety. But if I had to face every day knowing she was being tortured and destroyed, how could I go on? How would I be able to even _breathe_?

Cheyenne's life was at stake—I absolutely believed that. But in that instant, I realized mine was, too.

That was the demon I faced that night. I stared into the blackness broken only by the occasional dim, yellow glow of aged parking-lot lamp-posts, and I wondered what would become of us.

In that moment, I felt smaller than I had ever felt before in my life.

It's funny how sometimes the most unpretentious of settings end up becoming the backdrop for intensely defining moments in our lives. Fireworks and blaring trumpets don't often accompany life-changing— _soul-changing_ —awareness. Sometimes, we stumble upon the most profound truths of life in the midst of surroundings no more elaborate than the dusty Kmart parking lot in Kingman, Arizona.

### FOURTEEN

Ben and his dad returned with our belongings, and life moved forward.

It seemed our theory had been correct, at least initially—nobody we knew had been contacted by the authorities.

Ben got a job working for a liquor-delivery company. Cheyenne and I spent our days playing in the backyard, hanging out at the library, or at home with Ben's mom.

Cheyenne loved her Grandma and Grandpa, and they treated her as though she was as precious as gold. Ben's mom would happily read to her for long periods of time as Cheyenne brought her book after book, and when they were done she'd get up and go do things like bake cookies for her. Often, she'd disappear into her bedroom and emerge with yet another interesting trinket she knew Cheyenne would enjoy playing with. When Ben's dad came home from work he would also read to her, and then talk to her all about her day. They were very attentive and extremely loving. They added so much good to her life and I will always be grateful to them for loving her so abundantly. Her life has been enriched immeasurably by their presence and selflessness.

There were still residual effects from the abuse which became apparent from time to time during those first weeks after we left California. For instance, on a few occasions, Cheyenne angrily said "No, Teev! No!" as she hit a doll. But most of the time she seemed happy and secure in every way.

Her vocabulary was simply exploding, and one morning she walked into our bedroom with a giant grin on her face and announced to Ben and me, "Mommy, Daddy—I need to tell you something!"

It was such a huge sentence for such a tiny child, and she was clearly very proud of herself. She didn't actually _have_ anything to tell us—made clear by the fact that she simply toddled back out of the room without another word after her proclamation, smiling as though she thought she had really pulled a fast one on us—but, boy was she impressed that she could string all those words together.

The holiday season came. We met my dad, along with my siblings and their families, in Vegas just before Christmas for my oldest brother's wedding. It felt so good to see my family. Cheyenne was particularly thrilled to see my sister, her husband, and their children. Las Vegas was a place I'd traveled to several times with my sister and her husband when I'd lived with them as a teenager, and this was Cheyenne's second time visiting with them there. She couldn't remember their house anymore, so Vegas sort of became a point of reference for her in the years to come, pertaining to her aunt and uncle.

We stayed in Vegas for a few days. And then, on Christmas Eve, I had to say goodbye to my family, not knowing when or how I might be able to see any of them again. Each of our little families left at the same time, departing from the parking garage of our hotel in separate vehicles, headed to vastly different destinations.

It's still a very emotional memory, because it turned out to be the very last time my siblings and I were with my dad together at the same time.

Back in Arizona, Cheyenne woke up Christmas morning to a toddler-sized big wheel toy, decorated in _The Little Mermaid_ colors and decals. She spent days afterward diligently learning to pedal it.

She was eating and sleeping well. She was generally in good spirits and was learning so many new things every week. She loved to scribble and finger paint.

Earlier that fall we had entered one of her paintings in the local county fair, for which she won a ribbon and a dollar. She'd carried that ribbon and dollar bill around for weeks.

About a week after Christmas though, things changed. An investigator from a department known as the Child Recovery Unit in our home county had contacted my sister. The investigator had given my sister a phone number. I hoped, naively, that this was someone who could possibly help us.

I called the number and tried to explain the situation to the investigator. She came across as cold, and entirely unwilling to try to help us attain an arrangement for Cheyenne which included being protected from sexual abuse. Frankly, she seemed far more interested in exerting her authority and showing me who was boss.

We knew then that we would have to truly go into hiding. While we had maintained a high level of normalcy since going to Arizona, with Ben being able to work under his real name, we understood things would have to change drastically if we wanted to become extremely difficult to find.

I won't lie; we were unpleasantly surprised to discover that county authorities were putting forth effort to find us (at the time, they were still only looking for me and Cheyenne; not Ben). And while that "effort" remained limited to phone calls at that point, we had no way of knowing if, or when, that might change. We agreed we would have to err on the side of caution and stop using our real identities.

Over the next couple of days, we obtained contact information for two people known to help parents protect their children from abuse. I don't remember now how it was that we learned the names of these individuals or organizations, or how it was that we managed to find their phone numbers. One individual was, at the time, president of a well-known organization of mothers advocating for the sexual safety of children, and the other individual was known to be highly instrumental in the Underground—a network of individuals across the country who once assisted those in hiding. We spoke to both of them. I say "we", because I spoke to one, and Ben actually spoke to the other.

Both individuals came across as kind and understanding. Both also appeared very willing to help us to obtain new identities and disappear into a life of obscurity in order to protect Cheyenne.

In the end though, we decided it was not the path for us. We were nervous about putting Cheyenne's safety in the hands of strangers (how could we possibly know if the homes we would be sent to would be safe for any of us?), and truthfully, something about it just felt "off" to Ben and me.

Fortunately for us, we had the luxury of options; people we knew who were willing to help. So we decided that at least for the time being, we would stick with trusting people who were not complete strangers.

A few days later, in the middle of a freezing winter's night, we officially went into hiding. We waited until two o'clock in the morning to avoid being seen by neighbors. We endured a very sad and difficult goodbye with Ben's parents, who didn't know when they might ever see their son again. Everyone cried, and Ben's mom didn't seem to be able to let go of Cheyenne. It was a miserable scene.

We'd had an impromptu birthday party for Cheyenne the night before, so Ben's parents could celebrate with her. Her second birthday was still more than a month away but they knew they would not be able to spend it with her. Cheyenne was clutching a large, purple, stuffed animal she'd received at her "birthday" party as I took her from Ben's mom and buckled her into her car seat. Ben and I then got into the car ourselves, backed out of the driveway, and the three of us literally escaped into the night.

We couldn't risk traveling in a vehicle registered to Ben, so his dad had given us a different car to use; a tiny little Toyota hatchback which was registered in his own name.

There hadn't been room for us to take much with us and the car was packed in such a way that when we stood outside of it we couldn't see Cheyenne or her car seat through the windows. The back window was blocked with luggage, and the side window didn't offer a view of the backseat. We hoped it would keep highway patrol officers from realizing we had a child in the car.

It was a long day, but Cheyenne was a great little traveler. We'd brought food to eat for breakfast in the car with us, and I think we stopped in Tucson for lunch. Inundated all day long with billboard after billboard enticing us to visit The Thing in Dragoon, Arizona, we did. Now every time we watch the movie _Radio Flyer_ —the part where the boys go see the roadside attraction with the buffalo—I think of that day we took Cheyenne to see The Thing.

We were headed to East Texas. Ben had relatives there who were willing to help us protect Cheyenne. They lived just shy of the Louisiana border though, so we knew we would only make it about halfway there before we'd need to stop for the night and sleep.

We ended up staying at an inexpensive motel just off the interstate in El Paso, Texas. After making our way to a fast food drive-thru, we ate in the motel room. Cheyenne fell asleep shortly after her bath, and Ben and I lay awake watching _Unsolved Mysteries_.

The newness of being on the run, coupled with sitting in a crappy hotel room on what appeared to be the rough side of an unfamiliar city, was frightening. Traffic roared by on I-10, and people passed our motel window talking loudly late into the night. At one point we thought we heard gunshots in the distance.

The nights we spent in roadside motels during our time on the run had a lasting impact on me. To this day, I still hate sleeping in hotels next to freeways. In fact, I hate to even look at hotels when we're driving past them on the freeway.

The following morning we were more than happy to get out of El Paso as quickly as possible. Cheyenne was holding up really well, and didn't seem to mind the travel. She had toys and books to play with, and we talked and played music. We stopped as frequently as we could to get a bite to eat and stretch our legs.

I remember how the landscape began to change. As we headed deeper into Texas, desert features gave way to expansive plains which eventually also disappeared as we neared the Louisiana border, at which point the interstate transformed into a route lined with miles and miles of dark, soggy woods on both sides. I'd never been anywhere like it before. Thousands of tall, thin trees sat in the mushy, wet ground, blocking most of the light from the already-gray winter sky.

All I could think of were the dozens of documentaries and scary movies I'd seen over the years about serial killers and the places where they dump bodies. I thought to myself that somebody could dump a body alongside this road and nobody would ever find it. The thought gave me chills. I can only imagine the episode of _Unsolved Mysteries_ I'd watched the night before hadn't helped.

I hoped we'd be long past these seemingly endless wooded areas before we reached our destination city. But it turned out our exit was right through the middle of some of the very woods I was hoping to leave behind.

Just off the interstate, Ben's relatives met us at a Waffle House. This was the first time I'd ever seen a Waffle House and if you don't know what they are, they are a chain of restaurants typically found in the South. More like coffee shops, really.

Everything I ever really needed to know about East Texas, I think I learned in my first five minutes inside that Waffle House.

Ben's relatives guided us toward a separate dining room in the back of the building. Above the entrance to this designated seating area there was a large blue sign which declared it to be the Rush Limbaugh Room. I had no idea who Rush Limbaugh was back then, but I can remember being thoroughly annoyed after about two minutes of listening to his voice, which was being piped into the dining area from speakers just above us. Signs around the room announced, "All Rush. All the time". They meant it, too.

Another thing about East Texas I found impossible to ignore was the undeniable fascination with guns. We were sitting in the Rush Limbaugh Room less than two minutes before Ben's cousins started bombarding him with a verbal list of the arsenal they proudly owned and enthusiastically promised to show off to him as soon as we made it back to their house. There was a gun publication lying on the table next to us, and paintings—actual _paintings_ —of guns on the wall of this restaurant. Being the child of hippie pacifists myself, I was pretty shocked by the apparent focus on weaponry.

As a California native, life on the Lone Star side of the Texas-Louisiana border quickly began to seem as foreign to me as it could be.

Guns, Rush, and waffles. Yeah—that pretty much summed up Texas for me. 

### FIFTEEN

We followed Ben's relatives to their home; a ranch style brick house on fifteen acres of cleared land surrounded by tall pine trees and home to about half a dozen cows, and a bull named Baby. This house was home to Ben's aunt and uncle, their two sons, two daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren. While there, we would be sleeping on a futon sofa in the living room. Modest accommodations to say the least, but I was very grateful for the family's willingness to help Cheyenne.

That first evening was so awkward, as we all sat around the living room. I tried to be conversational and friendly, but I remember feeling that the two wives seemed particularly displeased to have us there. I'd been hoping for friends, but during those first few hours I began to sense we were not entirely welcome.

To make matters worse, Ben would have to leave and go back to Arizona almost immediately. He still had a job in Kingman, and he planned to work a bit longer because we needed the money. He wouldn't be back for two long weeks.

I felt so incredibly alone when he left. My daughter and I were among strangers, some of whom seemed to be quite resentful of our presence, and I was essentially at their mercy for the next two weeks.

The morning after Ben left, I took Cheyenne out for a walk around the property. I figured maybe we could spend most of our time outdoors except for mealtimes and naps. I didn't really know how I was going to deflect what seemed to me to be outright disdain from the wives of Ben's two cousins. All I could think of to do was try to stay out of their way as much as possible.

As the days passed, things settled into a routine. I spent a lot of time outside with Cheyenne. She was enjoying learning about cows and all of the other animals we encountered on the property.

There were two other two-year-olds at the house along with a four-year-old. Cheyenne didn't really jump in and play with them, although she enjoyed watching _them_ play.

She didn't understand why we were there, but I tried to keep her days busy with exploring and learning new things. She asked for Ben a lot, and each time I would explain he was "at work", and would be back soon.

The parents of the three other children began to utilize me as a last-minute babysitter quite a bit, and between that and helping with some of the housework, I felt I was at least doing what I could to earn my keep.

Cheyenne seemed to like Ben's aunt. She was a home-nurse, and always treated Cheyenne with a lot of love and kindness. She and her husband both welcomed Cheyenne into their home and treated her as though she were another one of their grandchildren. I'll always be grateful to them for being so sweet to her.

But it was a strained situation, at best. The wives of Ben's cousins never really did warm up to me, and they seemed indifferent to Cheyenne most of the time. I can't blame them; we all have enough on our own plates without having to take on somebody else's problems, too.

About a week after Ben left, it suddenly dawned on me one day that I hadn't had a period in a long time. Things had been so chaotic in fact, that I couldn't, with any certainty, remember when the last one had been. I realized all at once that I was pregnant.

Understandably, I was stunned. We had always been responsible about birth control. Despite the fact that we wanted another baby at some point, we had planned to at least wait until after we were married. And of course, when we learned Cheyenne had been hurt and then eventually discovered we would have to run to keep her safe, all plans for things like additional children had most definitely been shelved. The thought of toting a brand new baby around while in hiding was incredibly upsetting.

I confided in Ben's aunt one night. She tried to calm my fears and suggested we stay in Texas permanently. She felt confident nobody would ever discover our true identities as long as we were at their home.

I tried to be comforted by her words, but I was terrified. The only thing I could think about was that now, not only could I lose one child, I could lose two. Abortion has never been an option for me, and I knew neither Ben nor I could ever give a child up for adoption. But what kind of life could we give this baby? It seemed an impossible situation had become unbelievably more impossible.

A couple of days later, I turned twenty-one. Ben wasn't back from Arizona yet. Cheyenne and I spent most of the day outdoors, walking the property so she could explore. It happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, and it took some extra effort to stay out of everyone's way in the house. The family was very kind, though; they bought a cake and gave me a sweatshirt which proudly donned the logo of the Dallas Cowboys.

Intruding into the space of others is an uncomfortable experience, to say the least. However, as stressful as some of those days were, Cheyenne was benefiting very much from spending so much time outdoors and having such a huge area to explore. She enjoyed it immensely.

There were a million new things to see, and try, and learn about, and it was as though she had the world at her fingertips to utilize as her own personal classroom. There was a very shallow creek where she could watch the water flow and she loved to drop in tiny sticks and watch them float downstream. There were hills to climb, trees with crispy bark perfect for peeling, hay bales to jump off of, and a seemingly endless meadow behind the barn to run through. There were horses at the property next door with whom she could stand at the fence line and visit, and a very small, wooded area where we would pretend we were Hansel & Gretel. There was also an abundance of insects to discover and observe which—aside from one nasty run-in with some fire ants—Cheyenne never lost interest in.

She especially loved to watch the cows. Baby the bull was quite friendly and would walk right up to people for attention and petting. Cheyenne loved it when she felt like Baby was "looking" at her. She thought it was _so_ funny, and she would laugh and laugh.

Since discovering the pregnancy, I had begun to experience quite a bit of nausea. I thought nothing of it, as I had experienced five full months of morning sickness during my pregnancy with Cheyenne. The degree of illness with the new pregnancy seemed a bit more severe, as I hadn't been able to actually keep any food down since realizing I was pregnant. But still, I wasn't concerned.

I had, however, grown much more frightened about being located by the authorities, and I wondered if at least part of the nausea wasn't morning sickness at all, but due to nervousness instead. I reasoned to myself that either way, I would eventually get past it. I didn't give it much thought beyond that.

Ben came back. He arrived extremely late one night, much later than expected because he'd been held up by an ice storm somewhere in the middle of Texas. He'd driven straight through on his return trip, and was exhausted and still kind of frazzled from the driving conditions he'd encountered along the way. Despite that, it was obvious he was thrilled and relieved that the three of us were back together again.

When Cheyenne was asleep and we lay in the darkness talking quietly about what our lives had been like for the past two weeks, I told Ben about the pregnancy. I don't remember much about his reaction. I know he was moved by the thought of another child in our lives, but the circumstances we were drowning in made it difficult to do anything but worry. It was obvious he instantly felt love for the new baby, but we had no idea how we were going to navigate the future.

The days passed, and Cheyenne was so happy to have her daddy back. When the children of Ben's cousins were left at the house with us, they enjoyed joining in on our walks and talks. Cheyenne still didn't interact with them very much but she never lost interest in watching them and listening to them.

Cheyenne's second birthday arrived. I made chocolate cupcakes and had a small party for her and the other children. Since we were spending so much time exploring the outdoors, I'd picked out a child's canteen, a flashlight, a butterfly net, and a child-safe magnifying glass as birthday gifts for her.

A week after her birthday, Cheyenne began reading. It was a pretty wild thing to see in such a small child. In true Cheyenne fashion, she didn't really seem too impressed with her new skill. When Ben and I marveled at the fact that she could read, she simply gave us a look which seemed to say: So? Doesn _'t everybody?_

I grew sicker and sicker. I was extremely nervous and constantly fearful, despite the fact that it seemed we were, as Ben's aunt had assured me, well-hidden. The only nearby road weaved around two sides of the property, but most of that portion was obscured by trees. It was not a heavily-traveled road, either; only one or two cars passed by the property each hour. And as far as anyone knew, the only people outside the household who knew we were in Texas were Ben's parents, and they certainly weren't going to tell anyone. I didn't have any specific reason to believe we were on the verge of being discovered.

Still, I couldn't control my fear and I was genuinely frightened every time I heard a car. Once, a utility employee drove onto the property and I hid in the bathroom with Cheyenne, utterly panicked. I fought anxiety attacks every time the phone rang.

I tried my best to hide my fear from Cheyenne and although I knew there were moments when she sensed the tension, she didn't seem to be suffering any outward adverse effects. I'm sure it left her feeling insecure, though.

After several weeks of holding down no food and losing a considerable amount of weight, Ben's aunt asked me to visit a doctor. I agreed to go; using a fake name on the paperwork required by the office.

Upon ultrasound, the doctor informed us that it appeared as though the pregnancy may have had as many as three fetuses at one point; three amniotic sacs were visible. One was empty. The remaining two sacs each still contained a fetus, however.

We could hardly believe what we were seeing and hearing. _Twins_.

Trying to manage our situation with one new baby would have been complicated enough, but two? It seemed impossible, of course. How could we ever do all we needed to do for Cheyenne, while caring for _two_ newborns?

God knows I loved those babies. Ben and I both did. But the situation was so insane that I was lost in it. How could we support two additional children when it wasn't even certain how we would work and earn money under false identities to support the one we were trying to save? What would happen to these babies if we were caught and Ben and I went to jail? We had no answers.

Later, when we had time to really talk about it, we decided we believed there _was_ a way. We just had to figure out what that way was. We were both willing to do all we had to do. We are both intelligent and dedicated individuals, surely we could figure out a way to keep our family together. In our hearts, those babies were _already_ part of our family. We couldn't have brought ourselves to abandon them, through abortion or adoption, any more than we could have brought ourselves to abandon Cheyenne.

We reasoned that if we could establish false identities, we could work. If we could work, we could build a simple, but safe, life for ourselves. It would take time, but Ben's aunt was willing to let us stay with her while we tried to accomplish those things.

And try, we did. I attempted various ways of establishing a valid-looking birth certificate. I came extremely close to doing it, too.

Being that we were in a very small and rural area, I may have actually been able to establish an identity there with the documents I had. Back then—particularly in small and sparsely populated towns with mobile, or otherwise informal government offices—it was sometimes still possible to bypass the stricter document guidelines for establishing identity common in larger cities with better-developed facilities and procedures. I didn't fully realize that at the time though, and I was convinced I needed more substantial documentation.

Then I had another idea: I wondered if I could somehow convince Steve that _Ben_ was Cheyenne's biological father. Believe it or not, there was actually a legitimate reason to consider that I might have been able to do so.

By some humorous twist of fate, Cheyenne actually resembled Ben in various ways; most notably, her hair. Ben has very curly brown hair which falls down in beautiful tendrils if he lets it grow long enough. I'd always had straight, blonde hair. Steve had very straight hair as well, and it was red. About the time Steve had first announced he was going to "take" Cheyenne away from me, her hair had inexplicably grown to look nearly exactly like Ben's. It was the same exact shade of brown, and it hung down in pretty curls just like his did. Every time we were out in public it seemed somebody would inevitably make the comment, "that baby's hair is just exactly like her daddy's!"

In fact, it became kind of an inside joke around our house and Cheyenne herself was even known to quip, "Daddy's curls!" if you mentioned her hair.

She and Ben also had the same skin tone, easily tanned and clear of blemishes—quite different from Steve and I who are both fair, and freckled. Their mouths looked very similar, too. Even the shape of their faces looked the same. Furthermore, Steve and I both had dark-colored eyes, while Cheyenne's were light. Not the same color as Ben's but even so, she truly did not look like she was the product of Steve and me when she was a toddler.

It had been brought to my attention shortly before we went into hiding that Steve's family already had their suspicions that Steve was not her father. Apparently, even _they_ couldn't ignore what deceivingly appeared to be a strong resemblance between Cheyenne and Ben. One day, Steve's dad had actually confronted me and asked if Ben _was_ her father! Naturally, I later wished a thousand times over that I'd had the sense to lie that day and say he was. But at the time, I was offended by the question and I answered it truthfully.

Now that I think about it, the first time we'd met our attorney, even _he_ had asked Ben and me if we were positive Cheyenne wasn't actually Ben's biological daughter. That's how much they looked alike.

Knowing that Steve's family, and likely Steve himself, already had doubts as to Cheyenne's paternity, I seriously entertained the thought of trying to convince them somehow that Ben was, in fact, her biological father. I didn't care anymore if anyone believed I'd had an affair. After all, in light of what Cheyenne faced if she were forced to spend time with Steve alone, allowing people to believe I'd slept around a little seemed pretty insignificant.

I spent time designing a document from an imaginary lab which stated that biologically, Cheyenne was Ben's daughter. I knew what these documents looked like because I had a close friend who had shown me the results from a paternity test she'd had performed on her own child the year before. I tried to copy the document from memory and the results were impressive.

In the end though, I knew the fake paternity test results could never truly be verified. I knew somebody involved in the case, whether it was Steve or his attorney or an investigator, would almost certainly discover eventually that the document was a fake. We couldn't rest any of our security on it, so the idea was abandoned.

We realized we would have to create new identities from scratch. It had to go further than simply using fake names, though. We needed legitimate identification so we could work, pay taxes, and eventually enroll Cheyenne in school. We knew we would have to begin with birth certificates.

One of the few possessions I'd brought to Texas with me was Cheyenne's baby book. Her original birth certificate from the hospital was inside of it. At that time, the social security office in the county we were hiding in was willing to accept hospital birth certificates in lieu of registered copies from the county of birth. These days, this would likely never be the case. But before identity theft became a problem of epidemic proportions in our country, the guidelines for establishing identity in some locations were relatively relaxed. And, as I mentioned, we found that to be particularly true in rural counties.

The alteration of the hospital birth certificate went well, so I had some copies made at a local print shop. The problem we faced was in transferring the original hospital seal to the fake birth certificate. In the end, the seal was destroyed and the attempt with Cheyenne's original birth certificate had to be scrapped. I was so saddened that I had ruined the document without being able to get any closer to securing Cheyenne's safety with it.

Today, I could simply go online and order supplies to create a new seal. But in rural Texas at the time, I couldn't find the materials I needed.

Seemingly at a dead end, my fears and stress levels rose considerably. I was still unable to hold down any food, and I had stopped trying to eat. All I could do was sip cold liquids to keep from becoming dehydrated. For weeks, I survived on nothing but Gatorade and sweet tea.

Neither Ben nor I were sleeping much at night. Instead, we would lay awake in the darkness staring at the ceiling in silence, Cheyenne tucked between us. I was becoming progressively weaker and more paranoid.

And then one day, I woke up with abdominal cramps.

Later that morning, I crawled into a warm bath to get relief from the discomfort. Suddenly, I discovered there was a tiny fetus in the bath water. I remember I recognized what it was immediately, because of in-utero photographs I had practically memorized from a book my sister had loaned me during my pregnancy with Cheyenne. I realized I had lost one of the babies.

I remember stepping out of the bath and holding the lifeless little form in my hands. Tears streaming down my face, I said to it, "Mommy loves you. I'm so sorry this will be the only time I ever get to hold you".

Back to the doctor I went, and after another ultrasound the doctor once again announced it was still a viable pregnancy—one little heartbeat remained. He prescribed a liquid medication to help with nausea, and sent us on our way.

The attempt to use the nausea medication was completely unsuccessful; I choked violently on it the first time I tried to take it. I honestly thought I was going to suffocate and die right there in the kitchen of Ben's aunt's house. Eventually, my breathing regulated and I recovered, but I was terrified to try to swallow the medication again.

I continued to waste away. My hair had been falling out for a couple of weeks, and I remember when I sat in the bath I didn't recognize my body anymore because it looked so skeletal to me.

During this time, I was able to speak to my dad on the phone. Talking to him was wonderful and at the same time, painful. The familiarity was so comforting, but my deepest thoughts surfaced the moment I heard his voice.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to not have to be afraid anymore.

I wanted Cheyenne to be safe.

I didn't say any of that to him, though. The circumstances were painful for him, too, and I didn't want to make him feel worse than he already did. Mostly, the conversation consisted of him asking me specific questions about my health. Was I eating? Was I sleeping? I was honest with my answers and I told him about the miscarriage and the remaining baby.

He said it sounded like I was suffering from depression. He had worked for many years in a mental health facility, and I trusted his assessment. I didn't know what to do about it, though. Neither did he; we couldn't reach out to anyone for help. It was a conversation riddled with pain and a sense of hopelessness.

A few days later, I began experiencing severe abdominal pain. Within less than an hour, it was obvious I had lost the remaining baby and, due to excessive blood loss, I was rushed to the hospital. Upon examination, the doctor explained that I was hemorrhaging and would need emergency surgery to stop the bleeding.

Things happened very quickly then, but they allowed Ben to come back for a few seconds just as the anesthesiologist was about to put me under.

I told him I was scared. I'll never forget the look of heartbreak and misery etched in his face. Tears falling down his cheeks, his voice cracked as he said, "I wish I could take this one for you". I lost consciousness as he finished his sentence.

I had never had surgery before. I obviously don't remember much about it, although I did wake up a couple of times during the procedure. I felt no pain, but I'll never forget the sound of the machine being used to empty my uterus. I was relieved the babies had already escaped beforehand. Alive or not, I don't think I could live with the memory of them being vacuumed out of me. I've never expressed these thoughts to anyone before now. I spent a lot of years trying to forget them.

Ben stayed at the hospital. Around one o'clock in the morning, hospital staff assured him I was fine and would be sleeping heavily due to medications for several more hours, and they encouraged him to take Cheyenne home so she could sleep. On his way there, he had what would be the first of many scares during our time in hiding.

He drove back to his aunt's house on what he thought was a deserted road. A winding, two lane road which seemed to meander forever through the pitch-black mass of pine trees lining it. Without warning, he noticed the unmistakable sight of flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirror.

Knowing the only identification he had with him displayed his legal name, Ben was legitimately frightened. He wondered if I was going to wake up from my miscarriage to the news that he'd been arrested and worse, Cheyenne taken away. He did the only thing he could do. He pulled over.

It turned out Ben had not committed any traffic violation. The officer asked him if he _did_ know why he had pulled him over, though. When Ben said no, the officer informed him (in his very best, _you-can-kiss-my-ass-if-you-don't-like-it-because-in-these-parts-I-Am-The-Law,_ Texas drawl) that he had stopped him simply because he didn't recognize his car.

The officer demanded an explanation for Ben's late night drive. Ben explained that his wife had just suffered a miscarriage, and was still recovering from surgery in the hospital. He told the officer he was now taking his daughter to his aunt's house so she could get some sleep. Seemingly satisfied with his answer, the officer did not run a check on the car or Ben's license.

Truth was on our side that night; if Ben had needed to nervously make up a story out of thin air at a moment's notice with a cop staring at him, he may not have been able to do it convincingly enough to avoid further suspicion.

I was released from the hospital the following day. Until then, I honestly hadn't been overly emotional about the loss of our twins. The truth is I was relieved for those babies; glad they didn't have to join what had become a very uncertain life for us. I'd had no idea what kind of mother I could have been to them while consumed with Cheyenne's situation. But when we arrived back at the house, something changed.

Ben's aunt had offered her room and bed to me for the day. I was very grateful to be out of the sight of peering eyes after what I'd been through. As soon as I was alone, the gravity of the circumstances hit me. Mere seconds after lying my head down on the pillow, a wave of grief and loss washed over me so heavily that the only thing I can compare it to is the reaction I had many years later when I got the call that my dad had died. The babies were gone. Just, _gone_.

My physical recovery was much more painful than I had expected. But after a few days, the intense pain faded into dull discomfort and I felt physically normal soon afterward.

Just in time for the next crisis to hit.

We realized very soon after the miscarriage that we would need to leave Texas. The family there had their own set of challenges to deal with and it became clear that we needed to remove ourselves from the situation.

We needed gas money to travel. The money we'd been stretching since Ben had left his job in Arizona had recently run out.

I took a chance and snuck a quick call to my dad. I told him everything and he agreed to send us some money for gas and a hotel room so we could head to California. We could stay at my sister's house for a week, after which time we had a standing offer with another relative in Northern California to hide out at her place for a while.

When the money arrived a few days later, it came in a card I will never forget. The front of the card showed a cartoon drawing of a cat clawing a wall, clearly frazzled. The card opened to the words, "I'm just more comfortable tense!" I remember being so comforted by my dad's ever-cynical sense of humor that I laughed and laughed at that stupid card.

The Friday before Easter we left East Texas and headed west. 

### SIXTEEN

The only thing I remember about that drive from Texas is stopping at Carl's Jr. in Phoenix the next day. After eating nearly nothing for more than two months, I suddenly discovered as we were driving along that I was ravenously hungry. I quickly told Ben I needed to eat— _immediately_. He was so surprised to hear me asking for food that he exited the interstate in a matter of seconds.

I ordered a kid-sized cheeseburger, and ate the whole thing. Very few things in life have ever tasted as good to me as that one cheeseburger.

It was the first meal I'd eaten with Cheyenne and Ben in a long time, and they seemed happy to have that bit of normalcy back. My problems with nausea were over. I was able to eat regularly and hold food down from that day on.

We were going to stop in Kingman that night so we could spend the following day, Easter Sunday, with Ben's parents. We made it to Kingman in the early evening on that Saturday, and met them at the home of yet another relative.

It was so good for them to get to hug their son. They were overwhelmed with emotion when reunited with Cheyenne as well, and she was absolutely thrilled to see them. Ben's mom burst into tears when she saw me, upset by my weight loss. I told her my problems with nausea appeared to be behind me and assured her I would be okay.

After the sun had completely set and we could move under the cover of darkness, we followed his parents to their house.

We reasoned—ignorantly, perhaps—that even if the authorities had been watching Ben's parents' house (we had no idea if they had or not), it would be extremely unlikely they would be watching on Easter Sunday. As a result, we felt relatively safe visiting there that day.

Ben's mom gave Cheyenne an Easter basket and hid plastic eggs for her to hunt in the yard. We all had a nice meal together. Not knowing when we might see each other again, we crammed every bit of visiting into that one day that we could. It was such a nice day and we were all sad to see it come to an end.

My sister and her family lived less than half a day's drive away, and we made our way to their house the following morning. They were not home, as they commuted for work and stayed in the city during the week.

Our time there was pretty uneventful. I remember Cheyenne had a lot of fun playing with her cousin's toys, as she'd been limited to the same small selection of playthings during the previous few months. She stayed so absorbed playing with the large amount of new toys that it made the days feel strangely calm and quiet; a stark difference from our months in Texas where we'd spent our days having busy, outdoor adventures.

One day while there, I was rifling through a side pocket of a duffle bag and found my old wedding ring. I realized it must have been there since I'd moved my things out of Steve's house. I wanted to be rid of it, so I asked Ben if he would be willing to look for a pawn shop in the area. The pawn shop paid fifteen dollars for it. I thought it fitting that the ring fetched such a pitifully low price because in the past, Steve had made it a point to boast to me how much money he had spent on it.

About midway through the week, someone knocked on the door one afternoon and I panicked. I was convinced the authorities must have guessed we'd be with relatives and had found us. I assumed it was the police at the door.

I grabbed Cheyenne and frantically ran into a bedroom and made her hide in the closet with me. I was crying and terrified, and poor Cheyenne was scared silent.

It wasn't the police at the door, but only the manager of the apartments who had come to drop off some paperwork for my sister. When they had gone, Ben came into the bedroom and pulled Cheyenne out of the closet. I could tell he was unhappy that I had frightened her. He acted understanding about it, but I know he worried for Cheyenne's overall mental well-being if I couldn't get a handle on my fear. That was the only time we ever hid in a closet. I often _thought_ about hiding in closets, but I never actually did it again.

My sister and her family returned late Friday night to stay for the weekend. Her daughter, with whom I had always been very close, would be turning five years old the following week. My sister threw a small party over the weekend which meant we could all celebrate with her.

It meant a lot to me to get to do that. From the time my niece was a baby, I'd had big plans for her fifth birthday. And now, of course, I could do none of what I had hoped to. But I was so grateful to get to see her and hug her, and take part in her celebration.

I cared deeply for all of my sister's children. My niece had two younger brothers, who were two and three years old at the time. My sister and her husband had raised me for part of my own childhood, and I'd lived with them when their oldest two children were born, and then again of course when Steve and I had initially separated. The kids and I were accustomed to seeing each other quite regularly and it was very hard to be away from them for long periods of time. I was afraid they would forget who I was. I worried my niece would think I simply didn't care to see her as often as before. I certainly couldn't be the auntie to them I wanted to be while I was on the run. It was just one more very painful aspect of our situation.

After difficult goodbyes, we started on the long drive north to our next destination. My cousin lived in California's Gold Country and had invited us to stay with her for a while. It's a unique area, and she thought we might be able to find a group or organization to help us resolve our situation legally while ensuring Cheyenne's safety. That turned out not to be the case after all, but still we found ourselves in the area for the following five weeks.

It was a rainy spring, and the soggy earth and gray skies added to the gloominess of our circumstances.

It wasn't all bad, though. My brother and his wife lived nearby and they usually invited us to come and spend a night at their house on the weekends. We would have meals together, take Cheyenne and her cousins to the nearby park to play, and sit up talking late into the night.

Beyond that, we passed the time by taking Cheyenne to parks, the library, museums, or on short hikes. One of those hikes yielded her a pet salamander. She called it "Matt" and although we set it free a short time later, her time with "Matt" was a highlight of her stay in Northern California.

Another favorite activity of ours was to head to Bridgeport and spend the day at the south fork of the Yuba River. We played in the water with Cheyenne, took her for walks through the covered bridge, and even panned for gold there.

Ben had secured a side job via a handwritten offer on an index card he found tacked to a community message board outside a local grocery store. The task was to build a deck and garden wall at the home of a local resident.

The job was a blessing for two reasons. One, it meant we had enough money for groceries and gas. And two, Cheyenne and I could go with him on the days I was too nervous to stay at my cousin's house. I had few relatives, and Steve knew of them all. I believed if he had been asked to supply a list for the investigators, my cousin's name and city of residence would be on it. So sometimes, I was just too afraid to stay at the house during the day. Cheyenne loved to go to work with Ben because the neighbors of the man he was working for had a turkey that was quite entertaining. While Ben worked, Cheyenne and I would take walks down the gravelly lane and stop at the fence to visit with the turkey.

Between going to work with Ben, our day trips to Bridgeport, and visiting quite often with my brother and his wife, we were actually seldom at my cousin's home. But one day while we were there, I grabbed the local phone book and made a call I had been seriously thinking about for some time.

I called the president of the local chapter of La Leche League. Nervously, I explained my situation and I asked her if she could think of any person or organization I could call who might be willing and able to help us legally secure protection for Cheyenne.

She was very kind, and very sympathetic, but said she couldn't think of anyone to call or reach out to for help. She asked me to give her some time to ask around and told me to call back a few days later to find out if she'd learned anything.

When I did call her back, she told me something quite extraordinary. She said it turned out a close friend of hers actually knew someone who worked on the Oprah Winfrey show. She told me she thought it was our best chance at getting the kind of publicity we needed to help Cheyenne. She asked me to call her back in a couple of days, as she would set up a way for me to talk to the Oprah employee directly.

In the end, I chickened out. Something in my gut told me it was too good to be true. And while it seemed outwardly that this woman had nothing but the sincerest of intentions and had gone through some degree of trouble on my account, I just couldn't bring myself to trust her enough to follow through. I never called her again.

By this time, I had managed to design another fake birth certificate. We were still hoping to establish new identities for the time being so we could work at regular jobs. We longed to be able to once again have our own private residence, and we knew the money Ben was making from anonymous side jobs was not going to cover rent.

We drove to a local social security office and I began the process of applying for a social security card. Before asking to see any documentation or having me fill out an application, the girl behind the desk began asking me some routine questions.

For my new identity, I had memorized made-up information which is generally found on a birth certificate. I answered each question as it was asked with the fabricated details, and watched the girl behind the window type the information into her computer.

Against what I can only imagine are astronomical odds, the fictitious information I supplied actually matched that of a real person. The girl at the desk told me it appeared as though I'd already been issued a social security number and I likely only needed to apply for a replacement card. Completely caught off-guard, I explained I was quite certain I'd never had a social security number. She double-checked all of my information and said the only thing that didn't match was the name I was giving for my mother.

Nervous, and thinking I needed to explain myself, I told her I had spent much of my life away from my mother (which was true) and suggested it was quite possible I did not know her correct full legal or maiden name. The girl helping me casually waved it off, saying it was probably my number and I just didn't realize it. Unbelievably, the full name, birthdate, county of birth, and father's full name and birthdate I'd made up matched a real person's information exactly.

She said she would be right back and walked away for a few minutes before returning with an older co-worker. The older lady listened and looked at the computer screen, then looked at me, and then motioned for the girl to follow her to another area—all without saying a word.

Suddenly I felt extremely nervous. I wondered what the penalty might be for using a false document to secure a social security card. I quickly walked out of the office, climbed back into the car where Ben and Cheyenne were waiting, and asked him to leave immediately.

We made it back to my cousin's house about forty minutes later. I was terribly nervous. I worried there might have been cameras outside the social security office which could have taken footage of our car in the parking lot, or cameras inside the office that may have captured my image.

Before we could even walk into the house, my cousin met us at the car and abruptly told us we could no longer stay at her house. No explanation was given aside from a quick statement about having done all she could do. It wasn't that I didn't understand, but having no warning was stressful.

Our only immediate option was to go to a neighboring county. Two weeks earlier, we had driven there to visit with more of Ben's relatives (his mom is one of thirteen children; a fact which has left him with an abundance of aunts, uncles, and cousins). During the daylong visit, they had assured us we were welcome at their home if we ever needed a place to go.

We drove to a payphone and called them, confirming it would still be all right for us to come. Then we went back to my cousin's house, packed up our car, and drove to my brother's house to explain the situation and say goodbye.

By bedtime that night, we were settling into what would be our safe house for the next two months. The house sat on a large piece of rural property and had recently had an addition built onto it which was eventually intended to be a playroom for the children who lived there. Ben's relatives offered us the room to use while we were in their home. It was a much more comfortable space than we'd had at my cousin's house, and there was enough room to set up a small area for Cheyenne. We made a little bed with folded sleeping bags and comforters, and put up a tiny TV tray to hold her toys. I know moving around so often must have become unsettling for her to some degree, but she was happy about her new little space.

As in the other places we had stayed, we soon settled into a routine. It quickly became quite commonplace for the lady of the house to leave for most of the day while I watched her children. It was summertime, and it became routine for me to be the one caring for them from the time they woke up each morning until dinnertime, when their father returned from work to take over. But, as in Texas, I didn't mind because it gave me an opportunity to give something back to the man and his wife for helping us. The children were aged four, six, and eight. They were sweet kids, and well-behaved.

On days when we weren't babysitting, we would take Cheyenne into town and walk around shops or parks, or visit the fish hatchery. Ben had an aunt and uncle nearby—his mom's brother and sister—and sometimes we would drive to one or the other's home to visit them.

During this time, our best opportunity yet for securing new identities presented itself.

Ben's aunt lived across town from where we were staying. More than twenty years earlier, she'd lost a young son in a tragic house fire. One day, unexpectedly, she offered to let Ben try to assume her son's identity. Since her little boy had perished before a social security number had ever been established in his name, it seemed possible the plan might actually work. Ben and his aunt provided multiple pieces of documentation to the social security office, and then we all waited to find out if the application would go through.

It was a tense time. We were on pins and needles as we waited for the answer.

During those nervous weeks of waiting, I had a remarkable dream. I dreamt of a large, dark room. There appeared to be an open doorway at one end and light was spilling out of it, illuminating the far end of the room. A small, blonde boy appeared from the doorway and approached me. I couldn't later remember details about his face except that there had been something unusual about his teeth. And, although a seemingly disconnected fact at the time, there was a random reference in the dream to spaghetti. What I remember most though, is that the little boy had the happiest, most infectious laugh I'd ever heard and he was giggling so uncontrollably that, in the dream, I couldn't help but giggle myself as I asked him, "What's so funny? Why are you laughing?"

I was very happy in the dream; very much enjoying this little boy's laughter and the feeling of laughing myself—something I'd rarely experienced during the previous year. Then, the boy said something to me. I never could remember the actual words, but I remembered the message: everything was going to turn out okay, and Cheyenne would be all right. I was filled with such an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. It's one of the only times in my life I can honestly say I felt exuberant.

At that moment, we were woken up by the telephone ringing. It was the social security office calling to say Ben's application for a new number had been approved and his new social security card was already in the mail.

To say we were relieved would be such a gross understatement. It was the moment we realized we actually had a chance to keep Cheyenne safely hidden, while still providing her with a relatively normal life. It was one of the most significant and powerful moments of our entire time in hiding.

Later that same day, we drove to see Ben's aunt. When we walked into the house, my attention was immediately drawn to a photo which, although I'd been to the same house a few times before, I'd never paid any attention to. It was a portrait of a small blonde boy; Ben's cousin who had died the year before I was born. My mind instantly recalled the memory of the boy I'd dreamt about only hours earlier.

I didn't share the dream with Ben's aunt at the time because I worried it would upset her. But years later, when I described it to yet another of his aunts, I learned the little boy had lost several of his teeth in an accident, had indeed had an infectious giggle, and had loved spaghetti.

### ***

Once he had valid identification, Ben immediately secured a job which was going to pay enough for us to move into our own rental. We began looking for a house within our budget. We looked at several, but the only one I can remember was a tiny place you could cross the length of in about five strides. I remember Ben and I laughing, asking each other, "How can they actually call this a house?"

In the end though, we never had time to move into our own place there.

Days after Ben started his new job, the woman we were staying with, Peggy, asked me to go shopping with her. Let me sidetrack here for a moment to convey that it seemed to me she shopped a _lot_. Nearly every day, in fact. She and her husband were not wealthy people, but most days she would be gone nearly all day and when she came home she would often spill out the spoils from her "shopping" expedition onto the living room floor. She would frequently say to me, "Come here and see what I got!"

I couldn't help but notice that the contents usually included many duplicates of the same item. For example, the clearest of those memories involved about a dozen toddler-sized suitcases decorated with a children's TV character popular at the time. I did wonder why she seemed inclined to purchase multiple copies of the same item. But hey, it wasn't my money so what business was it of mine what she spent it on?

So, she asked me to go shopping with her one day. The new school year had just begun the day before, and she dropped all of her children off at their classes that morning as Cheyenne and I waited in the car. Then she drove to a nearby house, picked up a friend, and drove us all to a department store in another city.

I remember growing nervous about half an hour into our drive because she'd never mentioned she'd be taking us so far away. Ben had left for work before the shopping trip had been mentioned, and I couldn't call him to tell him about it. He had no idea where Cheyenne and I were.

Peggy and her friend split up shortly after we walked into the store, and I decided to look at kid's clothes. After a few minutes, Peggy came over to me and absolutely insisted I go to the women's intimates department. The way she was acting was very strange, and instantly made me uncomfortable. I told her I wasn't shopping for bras that day and explained I wanted to stay where I was because I needed to find a few T-shirts for Cheyenne. She _demanded_ that I come with her.

I'll explain here that this woman can be described as having an aggressive, forceful personality. She did not take no for an answer, and while I had not been the target of this aspect of her personality before, it was clear that I most definitely was at that moment. She was being so difficult that I finally decided I would just buy a bra if that's what I had to do to shut her up. She followed me and as soon as we entered the department, she began shoving items into my arms, saying, "This looks like it would fit you". Confused and entirely annoyed, I began to protest.

And then she did something which immediately made it clear to me why it was she always came home with so many duplicates of one item.

She reached over to a bin filled with ladies panties, grabbed several, and then bent down and stuffed them into the waistband of Cheyenne's shorts before pulling her shirt down over them.

I was stunned, and furious. She was trying to use my kid to steal! _Now_ I knew why she was so keen to invite me to go shopping with her.

I immediately took the items back out of Cheyenne's clothing, and told Peggy she could not use my daughter to steal things. We argued in low voices for a few seconds, and she actually threatened physical violence if I did not do what she wanted.

I was very afraid of her. I wondered if she would actually hit me if I didn't use my child to steal for her. Would she hit me until I _did_? She was talking to me through gritted teeth; her body shaking. I was convinced she would resort to physically forcing me to steal the items for her.

I tried to reason with her. Didn't she understand what would happen to me if I was caught using Cheyenne to steal, I asked? I was already running from the authorities!

She didn't care. She knew I couldn't ask anyone for help. She knew that _I_ knew she was privy to secrets which could lose me my child and send me to prison. It was clear she was holding that very fact over me as she stared me down in that store, her face red with anger. She cared only about getting what she wanted.

Truth be told, I was afraid of her enough at that point that if it had just been me with her, I would have given in just to be able to get out of there. But there was no way I was going to use Cheyenne that way. Shaky with fear, I grabbed my daughter and began to walk out of the store.

Unbelievably, Peggy did not press the issue further. She and her friend abandoned their little shopping spree for the day and although she'd made a comment inside the store about leaving Cheyenne and me there if I did not comply, they let us into the vehicle.

Had we not been so far from the house, I actually would have simply stayed there and tried to get a message to Ben via his aunt to come and pick us up when he punched out at work. But we were in an entirely different town and frankly, I was afraid to wait there all day. The department store seemed to be somewhat out in the middle of nowhere. I didn't even see a place I could walk to in order to buy Cheyenne lunch, and all she had in her diaper bag to eat were banana cookies and some applesauce.

The drive back was extremely unnerving. For most of it, Peggy angrily complained to her friend about how I had screwed up their plans for the day. I didn't know whether to expect her to actually drive me back to her house, or to pull the car over and beat me up.

I did know however, that it would be the last time I would ever _be_ in a car with her. I also knew it was the last day I would ever subject my daughter to this woman who was clearly willing to turn on us without warning, and who obviously had a propensity for engaging in behaviors which could attract the police. I knew we were leaving her house, _that day_ , and I felt awful for Ben because he had absolutely no idea what had just occurred or the changes awaiting him as soon as he arrived home from work. He'd worked so hard to secure his job, and now we would have to completely change our lives again.

I began packing as soon as we were back at the house. Peggy had dropped me off and sped away angrily with her friend, so at least I was able to get our stuff organized in relative peace. In fear of retaliation—in the form of a phone call from Ben's thieving relative to the authorities—Ben and I did not say anything to her husband about why we were leaving. We simply thanked him for everything and drove away.

We couldn't leave the vicinity altogether just yet, though, because Ben hadn't even received his first paycheck from his new job. He apologized to his employer for needing to give notice so soon after being hired, and cited a family emergency as the reason.

We stayed in the area until payday, and then we packed up once again for another long drive. We stopped briefly along the way to visit my brother and his family. I didn't know when I'd see them again and I wanted to say goodbye.

After visiting for about an hour, we climbed back into the car and headed east toward Reno. We drove all night and made it to Arizona the next morning.

Cheyenne was so happy to be back with her grandma and grandpa. We all liked being in Kingman, but Ben and I felt we would have to move along again before too long. His parents had received a few calls from the same female investigator with the Child Recovery Unit, and we knew for certain that the authorities now assumed Ben was on the run with us. We were concerned someone from law enforcement would actually come to the house at some point.

A relative of one of Ben's close friends had agreed to let us stay with her for a while in Washington State. Our plan was to go there, find work, rent an apartment, and stay as long as we could.

After staying in Kingman for about six weeks, we set out for Washington. The first leg of our trip was from Kingman to our hometown, where we had a friend who offered to let us stay for the night. The house was a scant two miles from where Steve's parents lived. Needless to say, I was very nervous about spending any length of time in their neighborhood. We were anxious to get back on the road early the next day.

However, by morning we learned that the person in Washington had suddenly changed their mind about having us come to their home. It was understandable. However, the timing of the decision had left us stranded dangerously close to the very people who were actively looking for us. It was incredibly stressful.

Another friend who lived in a neighboring city graciously offered to let us spend that day at her house while we tried to figure out our next move. She lived just steps away from the beach, so Ben and I—mentally overwhelmed by our immediate predicament—decided to spend a little time trying to regroup. We walked down to the shore with Cheyenne and she played in the ocean for the first time in her life.

As children growing up, both Ben and I had found the ocean comforting. In times of great stress or emotional upheaval, we'd always felt that the repetition of the crashing waves seemed to have a way of calming our minds. We were glad to be there.

As we walked away from the beach that day we still had no answers, but both of us felt a renewed sense of strength.

Back at our friend's apartment, I remembered some close family friends who lived about half an hour away. After a quick phone call to explain the situation, we were on our way to their house where we stayed for the next few days.

It was during this time that the answers for how to create new identities for Cheyenne and me began to take shape. On our second night there, in the middle of the night, Ben bolted straight up in bed and said excitedly "I know how to do it!"

"Do what?" I asked, startled and still half-asleep.

"I know how to do the birth certificates".

And it turned out, he was correct. Within a few short weeks we had new identities established for Cheyenne and me; identities which would prove legitimate for tax purposes, enrolling Cheyenne in school, or if pulled over in our car for a simple traffic stop.

Fortunately, nobody ever researched our new identities beyond the surface; if they had, they'd have realized that, _on paper,_ Ben and I were actually first cousins.

### SEVENTEEN

We spent the rest of that fall with Ben's parents in Arizona.

With our new identification, we entertained the thought of simply finding work and renting a place nearby. Ben found a job rather quickly and we began to look for rentals in the area. As before, the only place I can remember looking at to potentially rent was the tiniest of tiny homes. It was a fifties-era mobile home encompassing about five hundred square feet. Ben hated it but I thought we could make it work, and it was within our budget.

But then the phone calls started again and it seemed the investigators were becoming more aggressive in their search. We delayed moving into a rental and I opted instead to go spend some time with a friend in another state. I'd been close to her family when we were kids and they had moved to Michigan several years earlier. The friend said it was fine for Cheyenne and me to come and visit for a couple of weeks.

I'd been to Michigan once before. Shortly after my friends had moved there my parents had allowed me to take the train across country by myself to spend Christmas with them. Ben and I couldn't afford the train, though. So one afternoon he drove us to the Kingman bus station.

It seemed that despite having explained it to her, Cheyenne didn't understand until _after_ we boarded the bus that Ben wasn't coming with us. As the bus pulled out onto the street, she caught sight of Ben's car in the lane next to us and began to scream and yell for him at the top of her lungs. She was frantic. She was crying, and begging for her daddy, and although I tried to calm her and tell her we would see him very soon, she was inconsolable. After Ben's car turned off onto a side road and the bus continued straight along the highway, Cheyenne's cries gradually diminished to quiet sobs.

I'd had no idea she would react so strongly to leaving him behind and I felt horribly guilty over it. Poor little thing! She didn't deserve separation from loved ones and uncertainty in her life.

It's a terrible position to be in as a parent; to have to be responsible for inflicting emotional upheaval onto your child for the sake of saving them from a much worse fate. Cheyenne was two months shy of her third birthday at the time, so there was no way to explain any of what was happening to her, or why. I have no doubt she experienced extreme confusion at times. But I had to choose between confusion, or sexual violation. There were no pleasant options to choose from. I had to pick the option which was the least damaging.

When making decisions on Cheyenne's behalf, I tried desperately to seek out choices that if, as an adult, she were to look back and ponder which choices she might have made for herself, she could feel satisfied with the ones I'd made for her. I always tried my best to honor her as an individual; not just as a child, but as the adult she would eventually grow to be. The adult I would have to answer to someday. The adult who would have to look back on this time in her life and decide whether or not she could feel secure in knowing her mother had truly made those choices with unselfish intentions and the most sincere desire for her well-being.

The journey to Michigan was quite an adventure. We woke up in Nebraska the next morning and as we passed through Ben's dad's hometown, I explained to Cheyenne as she looked through the bus window that it was where Grandpa had lived when he was a little boy. Our luggage was lost in Denver, later to be recovered in Chicago. And we spent one very uncomfortable night awake to the sounds of a group of rowdy older drunk men who, thankfully, got off the bus somewhere in Illinois. Along the way I pointed out to Cheyenne the Mississippi River and the Sears Tower. She was decidedly unimpressed.

When I arrived at my friend's house outside Grand Rapids, Michigan, she explained that her babysitter had just quit without notice to take another job. She wondered if I'd be willing to watch her children during the day while she and her husband worked. I agreed. The kids were aged four and two at the time, and although the youngest one had some medical and developmental challenges, I caught on quickly and our days passed easily. Cheyenne enjoyed playing with them and the constant social interaction helped to distract her from Ben's absence and the fact that she had again been uprooted.

I quickly discovered that housing in Michigan was extremely affordable. I mentioned this fact to Ben, who had taken a job at a gas station in Kingman several weeks earlier. We could rent an apartment for less than $400 per month! Jobs in the area were also abundant, and wages were better than they were in Arizona. We soon decided that instead of Cheyenne and me returning to Arizona, Ben would actually come to Michigan.

It seemed to be the perfect solution for our immediate predicament. We had new identities; names which nobody who was looking for us could possibly think to search for us under. Additionally, Michigan was an unexpected destination void of any family relations and we believed nobody would guess to look for us there. Housing and jobs would be relatively easy to obtain. If we had to remain in hiding, Michigan appeared at the time to be the perfect place to do so.

Ben had plans to make it to Grand Rapids by Christmas. He didn't want Cheyenne to have to spend the holiday without her entire little family all together. There'd been a bus scheduled to leave Kingman which would have gotten him to Michigan on Christmas Eve. However, due to a cranky boss who, without explanation, decided to hold onto his employees' paychecks until nine o'clock one night instead of handing them out in the morning as he had always done before, Ben missed his bus. If he waited for the next bus he wouldn't arrive in Grand Rapids until the day after Christmas, and he was absolutely determined that Cheyenne wake up with her _whole_ family on Christmas morning.

To that end, the love of my life did possibly the dumbest thing he's ever done. He hitched a ride with a trucker.

Ben made the three-day, twenty-five-hundred-mile journey with less than three dollars on him. He'd sent all of his money to me in order to place a deposit on an apartment I'd found, and he made it through that entire excursion sleeping in the cab of a long-haul truck and eating one cheeseburger. He arrived in Grand Rapids with approximately seventy-five cents.

But he did arrive, and he made it _before_ Christmas—granted, just a few hours before Christmas, but that was good enough. He and Cheyenne were so thrilled to see each other it seemed they would never stop smiling.

I'd secured our new apartment the day before, but I'd waited for Ben to arrive so we could, technically, move in together. Aside from the three of us though, there was nothing to actually move into the house save our luggage, the fake white Christmas tree donated to us through a charity, and three small gifts I had managed to buy for Cheyenne, plus one for her to open on Christmas Eve.

Once we were inside, everyone had hot baths and got dressed for bed. Cheyenne opened her Christmas Eve gift, which was the Little Golden Book edition of _'Twas the Night Before Christmas_. Ben read it to her in front of the tree, and then we all went to sleep on the living room floor in front of the only heat source in the entire house; a furnace designed to look like a fireplace. We had pillows, but no padding to put under us. We slept on the carpet with a single blanket to cover up with.

Those first weeks together in Grand Rapids were happy, but financially bare. Ben landed a job very quickly through one of the many temp agencies in the area but after paying the deposit for the apartment, we'd barely had enough money left over to buy groceries to last until his first payday from the glass shop he'd been working at. We'd been able to afford one, one-dollar frozen meal per day for Ben and me (not one _each_ , just one to share), and enough food to prepare three meals plus two snacks for Cheyenne each day.

We remember with laughter now how the boxes of those frozen meals would say things like "Teriyaki Chicken Dinner", but after heating them up in the microwave we'd discover what we really had before us was about half a cup of rice with some teriyaki sauce mixed into it. No chicken, just sauce. We'd look at Cheyenne happily munching away on her sandwiches and fruit and other food items throughout the day, waiting until it was late enough to be considered dinner time so we could prepare our meager portions of rice and sauce.

We really do joke about it now, but at the time it was challenging. It was especially difficult for Ben because he had to make it through an entire day of work which was quite physical in nature, without any food. He was willing to make the sacrifice, though. What mattered the most to both of us was that Cheyenne did not go without—and she never did.

### ***

We didn't have a car when we first moved to Michigan. Ben usually caught a ride to and from work each day with a young guy who lived a block from us in a big house he shared with a bunch of other young guys. They were partiers and generally considered riff-raff in the neighborhood. He was a really nice kid though, and there were times when he called in because he was sick, but still offered his car so Ben wouldn't have to miss work. We owe a lot to that guy. Thanks, kid from Spencer Street—wherever you are.

Once Ben started getting paid regularly from his job, things became much easier for us. We hooked up our phone and started saving for a car.

My friend's mother mentioned to her church that she knew a family in need, and members of the Catholic church of Grand Rapids donated two beds, dressers, a loveseat, and a dining room table to us. Cheyenne's bed had been ordered brand new especially for her, and the first night she slept in it was her very first night in a "big girl bed". It was also the first time she'd had a real bed in more than a year. To say we were grateful is, obviously, an understatement, and we've never forgotten the generosity and thoughtfulness of that church. It was an extraordinarily kind thing for them to do for strangers and we benefited so much from that kindness.

Without a car, we had to become resourceful when we needed groceries. There was a small market about half a mile away, and sometimes we would walk there to shop. But the selection was limited and the prices were high.

There is a large grocery store called Meijer in Grand Rapids. In fact, it was the largest grocery store Ben and I had ever seen. It was the first time either of us had ever been exposed to the kind of shopping experience which includes groceries, department store items, and an array of other types of businesses inside the same building. Among other things, this one had a fast-food restaurant, a hair salon, a bank, an automotive center, an optometrist, a portrait studio, and a jewelry store. I know that today most people can walk into their local Wal-Mart and have the same experience, but this was the first time Ben and I had ever seen anything like it. With the terrible winter weather and road conditions, it was extraordinarily convenient to be able to shop for everything we needed all in one building. We just needed a way to get there and a car to haul groceries back home in.

My friend's uncle loaned us his car a couple of times for this purpose. Another time, we took a cab. We tried to make that particular outing a fun thing for Cheyenne, because she had never ridden in a taxi before. We explained how the process worked, called the cab company, and then bundled her up in her new purple snowsuit (which I found on sale during our previous trip to Meijer for the amazing low price of twenty bucks), and we waited outside on the steps for our cab to arrive.

It was beyond cold outside. It was one of the only days during our time in Michigan when the temperature dipped below zero with the wind chill factor. Poor Cheyenne—I had her so bundled for fear she might get too cold. Underneath her snowsuit she was wearing thermals, sweatpants and sweatshirt, and a sweater. Plus a knitted cap beneath her snowsuit hood, knit gloves, _and_ snow gloves. And two pairs of socks inside of her insulated snow boots.

The taxi pulled up and we all climbed into the backseat. The first thing I noticed was that there were no seatbelts. I didn't have much time to focus on that fact, though, because almost immediately after the cab began to pull away from the curb, the car started to slide uncontrollably down the street due to ice. It took out a couple of trash cans along the way.

Frazzled but nonetheless intact, we made it to Meijer about fifteen minutes later. Once inside, I began to remove the outer layers of Cheyenne's snow gear. As I did, I realized she was drenched in sweat.

That was the day I learned how _not_ to dress a kid for cold weather.

After two hours of shopping, we climbed into another cab to go home. Fortunately, we avoided sliding down ice-covered streets on our return trip. It had been quite an excursion, but an exhausting one, and we knew we needed to find a car soon. The next day we started looking in the paper to find a used car for sale that we could afford.

My friend's uncle loaned his car to us one more time so we could drive around looking at cars we'd found listed in the newspaper. After looking at several, we thought we'd found the perfect deal in a rural township about half an hour away.

It was still winter and the sun had gone down early. It was dark as we made our way on narrow, two-lane roads that criss-crossed fields of cold-weather vegetable crops. We had called ahead and were expected, so we were not surprised when the family selling the vehicle turned on the porch light and stepped outside as we parked in the driveway.

We entered the house; a small, cluttered place which felt like a maze with pieces of furniture, boxes, and other miscellaneous things stacked throughout. I remember thinking it looked as though each successive room had been built as an afterthought, simply added on when the room before it had become too full.

We stepped out the back door and Ben began talking car-speak with the owner of the vehicle. He promised us the truck ran great and he was only selling it because they had a new vehicle and no longer needed it.

The man made me nervous. He seemed edgy and I suddenly felt tremendously vulnerable way out there in the middle of that very unfamiliar area at night.

It was freezing outside and extremely dark, given the farming landscape of the community. Ben handed the man $300 in cash—all the money we had in the world—and he climbed into the truck as Cheyenne and I got into the car we'd borrowed. The plan was for me to follow Ben back to Grand Rapids.

We were driving less than two full minutes before the truck actually started sputtering and lurching, and then died right there in the middle of the road.

Ben was beside himself when he got out of the truck. Naturally, he was angry. But more than anything I think he was frightened. He'd just given that man all of our money, and he knew he had to get it back.

As I drove him the few hundred feet back to the man's house, I could see he was shaking. The man had made a comment about the sale being final, but it was clear Ben was willing to do whatever he had to do to get our money back from him. It was an incredibly scary experience; I was afraid Ben would resort to physical violence if he had to.

We pulled back into the driveway we'd left only minutes before. Ben went to the door and someone let him into the house.

Waiting out in the car with Cheyenne was tremendously unnerving. It was so cold and dark outside, and the silence was deafening. I wondered frantically what was happening inside.

A few minutes later Ben emerged from the house, appearing pale and shaken. He opened the car door and got in. I'd never seen him look so rattled. I was afraid to ask the obvious question, but I did.

"Did he give you the money back?"

"Damn right he gave me the money back". Ben's eyes looked wild and his voice was trembling. The intensity of his fear and anger left him nearly unrecognizable to me. He was really struggling to regain composure as he continued to explain to me what had happened inside the house.

"He wasn't going to at first but I told him I was leaving that house with my money, one way or the other. His wife got scared and told him to give it back to us. He stopped arguing after that and handed it over. I was going to hit him, Rachel. I was going to beat him and take the money if he wouldn't give it back".

Ben sounded like he was on the verge of tears and I felt terrible for him. It was as though all of the insanity and terror of the past fifteen months of our lives was catching up to him now, triggered by this frightening confrontation. Every ounce of strength he'd mustered to keep his wits about him when everything around us was constantly spiraling out of control seemed to have melted away in the face of this one incident and now all we could do was deal with this meltdown he appeared to have very little control over. It was a traumatic experience, and I can tell he is still uncomfortable talking about it.

### ***

We did eventually buy a car that made it all the way home; a metallic-blue Honda Accord with rust damage and no fifth gear. But it ran great and we loved it.

We now had our own apartment, a car, and a reliable source of income. The temp agency required employees to work a certain number of hours before they were deemed eligible for a permanent position. Ben's boss at the glass shop was eager to hire him on permanently, so Ben had worked all the overtime he could get in order to meet the requirement in only half the expected time.

Our lives were stabilizing, and our time in Michigan really did contain the most normalcy of all our time in hiding.

Our apartment was actually the entire top floor of a large house on Page Street in Grand Rapids. It had two bedrooms plus a third room probably meant to be used as a den, but we used it as a dining room because it was warmer than the kitchen. The apartment had a tiny bathroom with a small claw-footed tub that was painted blue. The floor plan was odd, due to the fact that the entire structure had once been one large house.

It was the first time in my life I ever lived in a house with an attic. I never did get to go into it, though; it was filled with items belonging to the owner. But I fantasized about going up there to see what it looked like. My whole life I'd wanted to go into a real attic!

Despite the circumstances which had brought us to Michigan in the first place, we have many good memories of our time there. I think it would even be fair to say that we were really quite happy most of the time.

It was the first time Cheyenne or I ever lived in the snow. I thought it was exciting, and Cheyenne loved to play in it. Ben was less excited about it since he had to drive in it daily. But he was a good sport when it came to playing in the snow with Cheyenne.

The house on Page Street had what we thought of as two backyards. It was really one large piece of property of course, but it had a fence which divided the area immediately behind the house from a larger, longer piece of property beyond it. There was an open gate in the middle of the fence, and one day, we had what we thought was a great idea.

We were playing in the back yard with Cheyenne after a heavy snowfall. Since the ground sloped down from the back of the house, a section of the driveway had been built up in order to make the whole thing level. This caused that portion of the driveway to sit about three feet higher than the grassy area which lay immediately behind the house. Cheyenne was having great fun jumping off the driveway into the foot-high snow. Ben began to push more snow into her landing area so she could jump into an ever-deepening mound, but before long he was packing down the mound so she could slide down one side of it with her sled. And then the idea seemed to announce itself: we should build a slide out of snow!

For the next two hours Ben toiled happily with a snow shovel, forming a slide which began at the top of the driveway, dropped down to the lawn below, and banked high about six feet later before turning ninety degrees through the open gate and down into the lower yard. It was a kid's dream come true! Since the snow had just fallen, the slide was a little sticky. But with a good shove from Ben at the top, Cheyenne could make it all the way through the gate. She had so much fun that day.

The next morning after she woke up, Cheyenne was immediately asking to go outside and play on her snow-slide again. We were more than happy to oblige her; I think we were having as much fun watching her as she was having sliding.

The sky had cleared and the sun was out. It wasn't warm enough for the snow to melt away, but what we didn't realize—because we weren't familiar enough with life in the snow—was that the sunshine had caused the top layer of the snow-slide to melt a bit before re-freezing. The end result was that the surface—now comprised more of _ice_ than snow—was far slicker than it had been the day before. Unfortunately for Cheyenne, we were oblivious to that fact.

As they had done dozens of times the day before, Cheyenne sat on her sled at the top of the snow-slide waiting for Ben to give her a shove. He did, and we immediately realized she was sliding much faster than before.

There was no time to stop her—she hit the banked curve but instead of turning, Cheyenne and the sled flew right over the top and went soaring through the air. It was like something straight out of a National Lampoon _'s_ movie.

She and the sled crashed into the chain link fence; the padding from her snowsuit thankfully softening her fall. She wasn't at all injured, but she was _angry_. She stood up and glowered at Ben and then yelled, "Now look what you made me do!"

I don't think it helped matters at all that Ben and I were laughing uncontrollably, tears freezing on our faces. Eventually, she laughed too, and we fixed her slide with more snow so it wouldn't happen again. Once that snow-slide melted though, she never asked for another one.

As west coast natives, we found many things about living in a large eastern city during winter to be strange, but interesting. I can remember how we traveled into downtown Grand Rapids where Cheyenne's doctor and dentist were located, and we were startled to see steam rising out of the gutters. It was something we'd only seen in movies. We were intrigued to learn that the steam is pumped purposefully, as a means to heat city buildings.

As winter began to draw to a close, Cheyenne's third birthday approached. When we'd established new identities, part of that process had been to choose new birthdates. Her new birthday fell about six weeks later than her true birthday. On her real birthday, I made her a small cake at home without explanation, and asked her if she wanted to blow out some candles "for fun". I stood across the room from her and, knowing she couldn't hear me, I quietly sang the Happy Birthday Song and used her _real_ name in it.

While we'd changed nearly every aspect of our lives to stay hidden, there were a few things pertaining to our real identities—times when _real_ names truly mattered—which Ben and I refused to give up. This was one of those things.

When her new "birthday" rolled around, we had a little party at home with presents and an _Aladdin_ birthday cake. Cheyenne received a paperback copy of _James and the Giant Peach_ and the video cassette of _Rikki Tikki Tavvi_. We spent the afternoon at the Grand Rapids Public Museum where she rode the carousel. It was a fun day but her quiet, _real_ birthday, is the one I remember best.

It was about this time that the friend I had come to visit initially in Grand Rapids, told me about a little dance studio where her daughter was taking a children's class. She suggested Cheyenne might really enjoy the class as well. I enrolled her and although she was the youngest in the class, she loved it.

One of my most vivid memories from our time in hiding is of helping Cheyenne practice her new tap-dance steps on the orange linoleum in the kitchen of our apartment, and both of us stopping at one point to look through the window to watch the snow falling.

During the winter, most excursions Cheyenne and I took were in the form of walking to our local branch of the library. I _loved_ that library. It was housed in what appeared to be an historical brick building on Plainfield Avenue. It was just the right-sized library to visit with a preschooler. Cheyenne and I spent many days there, and we would come home with piles of books to read until our next visit. We eventually visited some of the larger branches, but that little brick library remained our favorite.

Spring arrived, and it was about that time that we were able to afford to rent a television and a VCR from a local Rent-To-Own store. It changed the entire atmosphere of our apartment. Before that, we'd had only books, a handheld poker video game, and a clock radio for entertainment. As such, our apartment was often very quiet except for the sound of Cheyenne chatting away in play. After we rented the TV, she enjoyed watching videos. Her favorites were _Free Willy_ and _The Lion King_. She also loved to watch _Reading Rainbow_ and other PBS programs.

One day after _Reading Rainbow_ ended, a documentary about neurology and neurosurgery came on. Cheyenne sat mesmerized by the program, especially during segments which showed actual footage of real brain operations. I'd had plans for us to walk to the park that day, but I could not get her to budge during the program. I thought it might last, at most, an hour, so I simply delayed our walk to the park.

It turned out though, that the documentary lasted for _three_ hours, and during that time I could not tear Cheyenne away from the television for lunch, or bathroom breaks, or _anything_.

When it finally ended, I had sandwiches packed and insisted we were going to the park. She was grumpy and said she didn't want to go for a walk but I forced her to go anyway, explaining that after so much time sitting in front of the television she was in serious need of some fresh air and exercise.

After eating a bit and playing for a while at the park, her grumpiness subsided. At one point, she approached a small group of children playing in the sand. I was surprised, but happy to see her making an attempt to interact with other children because she didn't generally seem interested in playing with kids her age.

She sat down in the sand among them and immediately launched into a discussion about what the brain is, and how it works. Actually, I guess I can't call it a discussion because she was the only one talking. It was more of a lecture, really. I was amazed at how much information she had understood and retained from the program, but my excitement dwindled fast when I saw how the other moms were looking at her.

There were three women sitting on the next bench over, just a few feet away from where the children were sitting in the sand. I remember being confused by their expressions, which appeared to be ones of annoyance and disdain.

I looked down at the children. The other kids had stopped playing and were also staring at Cheyenne. They had looks of confusion on their faces, and while I understood that maybe the material being discussed wasn't quite preschool fodder, it nevertheless seemed strange to me that none of them piped in with their own thoughts or interests. I certainly didn't expect them to erupt into a discussion about the hypothalamus, but it surprised me when none of them said _anything_. They just stared at her.

That was the first moment I ever worried that Cheyenne might have social challenges ahead of her. From the time it had become obvious that she caught onto ideas and concepts earlier than many of her peers, I had been happy and excited for her. I had done everything in my power to satisfy her intense curiosity, and all along I'd thought it had been a good thing. While I've grown to dislike the term "gifted child"—because I believe _all_ children, all _people_ , have gifts and talents—this aspect of Cheyenne's personality was something which definitely impacted her life in a big way. And while the passing years have proved my initial fears that she faced a life of social solitude were unwarranted, there were times when our life in hiding was made even more complicated by Cheyenne's unusual perceptions, her aptitude for critical thinking, and her remarkable memory.

One of those times was on the day of the Oklahoma City bombing. I remember watching the news of the tragedy as I sat in the living room of our apartment.

I'd heard a car door outside and it was the norm for me to hurry to the nearest window any time this happened. I would peek through the blinds to make sure it wasn't the authorities coming to get us.

Obviously, I had never explained my behavior to Cheyenne, and most of the time I believed she didn't even notice it. But as the horrible realities of that day in Oklahoma played out on the television screen, I had walked over to one of our tall living room windows to peek through the blinds. Satisfied that the car door I'd heard belonged to the neighbor on the corner, I'd sat back down and become fixated on the news again.

Cheyenne had come out of her room where she'd been playing with a new Lion King toy she'd been allowed to pick out during her first trip to the Disney Store. I turned off the television because I didn't want her to see the carnage on the screen. She walked over to the window I'd peeked out of and peeked through the blinds herself; mimicking my habit perfectly.

Suddenly concerned that I'd inadvertently taught her to feel she needed to peek through blinds at some unknown threat outside, I casually asked what she was doing.

"Looking for the bad man", she answered.

I stopped breathing. My heart was pounding. Ben and I had always been extraordinarily diligent to never discuss our situation in front of her, simply because we didn't want her to feel afraid. I couldn't imagine what it would do to a three-year-old to know the police were trying to find her. She had enough on her plate; she didn't need that kind of stress added to it. We had been very careful.

"What bad man?" I asked with feigned nonchalance.

Cheyenne came away from the window then and walked over to me. I was sitting on the sofa and she was standing directly in front of me, her face just a few inches from mine.

"The bad man with the yellow car. He has red hair like grandma and his skin is white and there are spots on his arms. His face has spots, too."

Completely stunned, I was speechless. And then, this barely-turned three-year-old child put her little baby hands on either side of my face, looked directly into my eyes and asked, "What's the bad man's name, Mama?"

I couldn't answer. I didn't know _how_ to answer. I didn't move. _She_ didn't move.

And then, as if to communicate to me that it wasn't a matter of merely wanting an answer—but of needing an answer—in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "I know you know his name. Tell it to me."

And she _did_ know that I knew. I could see it in her eyes. That was an incredibly crucial and decisive moment in my life. I had to choose whether to be honest with her, or pretend there was no bad man and no truth to what she was saying to me.

I wondered what it would do to her for her mommy to shut her down that way. Was she better off with the truth, or with a brush off? Looking into her eyes though, I knew she already knew the truth. If I told her what she was saying wasn't real, I wouldn't be protecting her. I'd simply be proving to her that she couldn't depend on me when she needed me most.

In that moment—and not to my own credit, but instead to the credit of the undeniable truth I saw in the eyes of my daughter—I decided I would be the kind of mother she could know, _without question_ , would tell her the truth when she asked for it.

"Steve", I said finally.

Her hands came off of my face and she looked away, staring at nothing as if searching her own memories. Her gaze finally landed on the floor.

"Yes" she said, her voice sounding distant and aged. Then she repeated his name, to no one but herself. "Steve".

Her days of being unable to pronounce S's at the beginning of words long gone, it was the first time I ever heard her say his name properly.

Despite the dramatic tone of that conversation, it did not lead to a string of questions from Cheyenne. I was thankful for that. And although there was a palpable, but unspoken, new understanding between us, she did not ask about Steve again. Our lives continued to move forward.

I got a job shortly after that. We needed the extra income and our lives were stable enough that I knew Cheyenne could tolerate the change.

I was hired on to work the jewelry counter at a local discount superstore. Not a glamorous job by any means, but easy to obtain with my lack of references. Obviously, I couldn't list any of my real work experience on the application. It isn't a job I would have ever sought out otherwise, but I ended up working with a neat group of people and I'm grateful to have known them.

I worked second shift. Ben punched out at half-past three in the afternoon, and we would literally pass each other at the front door as he arrived home and I left for work, where I had to punch in by four o'clock.

Ben and Cheyenne's afternoons were frequently filled with walks to the local card shop. He was helping her collect Disney cards, specifically those themed for _The Lion King_ and _Pocahontas_ movies. Some of the packs had special hologram cards and Cheyenne and Ben would spend inordinate amounts of time picking through the packets to find the ones with the rare cards inside. She still has every single card they collected together.

Within a few weeks of starting my new job, it also became common for them to take the bus across town and walk through the store I worked in as they waited for me to get off work. Eventually, it became routine for them to drop me off at work and then take the car to hang out at different places in the area until I could clock out.

Our apartment had no air-conditioning and, once summer was in full swing, it could grow miserably warm during the late afternoon. Ben and Cheyenne resorted to spending a lot of time at a pleasantly-cool Chuck E. Cheese near the store I worked at.

We didn't have much extra money for pizza and video games, but if I fed her an early dinner before Ben got home from work or packed a sack dinner for her to take with her, Cheyenne would play for hours in the climbing-tubes, slides, and ball-pits.

They'd also wander around nearby bookstores and toy stores, or the mall. All of these things kept Cheyenne busy and entertained, and allowed both of them to stay comfortable in free air-conditioning.

On the days Cheyenne had dance class, she and I would get up early and drop Ben off at work so we could have the car for the day. After class she and I would have lunch together, and then usually browse a local teacher-supply store. I purchased any learning materials for Cheyenne that I could afford, or borrowed ideas from items out of my price range. It was during these days that Cheyenne would frequently bring up the issue of getting her ears pierced.

She'd actually been asking to have her ears pierced for a year. I kept putting it off, because I felt there was no way for me to effectively convey to her how much it was going to hurt. I was fine with letting her have pierced ears if that's what she wanted, but I wanted her to be old enough to know what she was getting herself into. Despite my explanations, she just would not drop the subject. Finally, I agreed.

I would pinch her ear and say, "It's going to feel like a pinch, but really hard. And a lot of kids feel like it hurts enough to cry when they get their ears pierced, even though it stops hurting after a couple of minutes".

She didn't care. She wanted me to just be quiet and take her to do it already. So I made an appointment at a Claire's in the mall. I intentionally made an appointment at a time when there would be two employees working who could pierce both of her ears simultaneously. It's the same arrangement my dad had made when he'd taken me to have my ears pierced as a little girl, and it seemed like the best approach.

However, when we arrived, it turned out that one of the employees who was supposed to be there had called in sick. I explained the situation to Cheyenne, and told her we would come back on another day.

We walked across the mall to a clothing store. Cheyenne was really carrying on about not getting to have her ears pierced at the agreed-upon time. I tried to help her understand why it made more sense to wait; that she might feel too scared to get the second ear pierced after the first one was done. She insisted she wouldn't. I finally agreed to walk back to Claire's.

Cheyenne chose earrings with red stones in them and sat on the high stool as the store clerk wiped her earlobe with alcohol and put the piercing gun to her ear. A second after the gun clicked, Cheyenne started crying loudly; much louder than I'd expected.

I immediately hugged her and said, "It's okay, you don't have to have the other ear pierced. It's all over, we can just go home." There was no way I was making her have a hole stabbed through her other ear.

But then, she did something that really sums up who Cheyenne is.

She pulled away from my embrace, sat up straight, stifled her sniffles, closed her eyes, braced herself, and said, "No. I can do it".

And she did.

### EIGHTEEN

We continued to enjoy relative normalcy in Grand Rapids that summer.

One day, Ben came home from work early on a Friday, excitedly saying he wanted to take Cheyenne to "see Willy" that weekend.

A new _Free Willy_ movie had just started that day. I was a little surprised at the intensity of his enthusiasm, but I didn't have to be at work until Sunday so I told him I would call for movie times so we could decide which showing we wanted to take her to.

Shaking his head and smiling, he says, "No. I'm gonna take her to see the _real_ Willy". He handed me a map in the form of a flip chart he'd picked up at AAA on the way home from work, with a route charted from Grand Rapids to Cleveland, Ohio.

"Ohio? You want to drive to _Ohio_?" I stood there alone holding the map as Ben raced down the hallway looking for Cheyenne.

"There's a Sea World in Ohio!" He called back to me from the other end of the hall. "Seriously! Can you believe that?"

No, actually. I _couldn't_ believe it. Didn't there need to be an ocean to have a Sea World? Evidently not.

I wasn't sure about driving to Ohio on the spur of the moment, but my opinions were irrelevant at that point; Ben had found Cheyenne and told her he was taking her to see the real Willy. She was screaming and squealing in elation as she jumped up and down in the hallway.

Apparently, we were going to Sea World. _In Cleveland_.

We were on the road at the crack of dawn the next morning, though not for long before we had a huge scare. Just as we pulled onto the expressway, blue and red lights flashed behind us. We were being pulled over. Ben couldn't think of any traffic violation he'd committed, so he was struggling to keep his cool. It looked like we were about to find out if his new driver's license was going to pass the test.

I had a tendency to totally panic in these types of situations. I assumed the worst: we would be arrested and my precious little girl, who thought she was on the way to see her favorite animal in the whole world, would be ripped from us and taken by strangers to be deposited back into the hands of her abuser. After the officer took Ben's driver's license and proof of registration back to his cruiser, I began frantically spewing a cacophony of freak-out-worthy babblings, and all the while Ben was telling me to stay calm. It would be okay, he said. Just calm down and don't give the cop reason to think anything is weird, he reminded me.

The officer reappeared at Ben's window, handed him his license back and started telling him the reason he'd pulled him over.

I have no idea what he said. As soon as I realized we were not being arrested, my heartbeat was pounding in my ears and I couldn't hear anything else.

A moment later we were back on the expressway on our way to see Willy. Thirty seconds earlier I'd been mentally preparing myself for prison. Extremes like that can be really tough on a body and mind.

Sea World was great and Cheyenne saw lots of amazing animals. When all was said and done, she was actually scared to death of the real Willy, but in light of what had happened earlier that morning, who cared? So we'd driven six hours and she'd hated the damn fish! Who the hell cared? We weren't going to jail and losing our kid, and that's all that mattered to us.

The best part of our trip to Sea World in Cleveland was the drive home, anyway. As we drove through Ohio on the expressway, we pulled off into a rest area to use the bathrooms. Before we got back into the car we noticed little blinking lights all over the nearby hedges. They turned out to be fireflies, and they were wonderful. We stayed for probably half an hour, completely fascinated by the tiny, enchanting creatures. We had so much fun trying to catch them! It remains the only time in our lives any of us have ever seen them and I know it sounds totally cornball, but it was magical.

That traffic stop was not without its lasting effects on my psyche, though. It was at that time I developed an intense worry about the possibility of having authorities find us while at home; storming into our house to rip Cheyenne away from me.

For some reason, I became very fixated on the idea of being in the position of having to put on her shoes in order for the authorities to take her away. Every time I caught a glimpse of her shoes it seemed all I could think about was what it would be like to have to sit her down and put on her shoes while police stood by, waiting to take her. I was so anguished at that one thought; wondering how on earth she or I could ever endure it if it happened. How could I ever put her little shoes on her little feet and try to explain to her that strangers were going to take her away? The thought was unbearable. I used to pray often, "Please God—don't make me put on her shoes so people can take her away. Please, I just can't bear it. _Don't make me put on her shoes_."

Not a very refined prayer, to say the least. But I knew He knew what I meant, and the pain in my heart as I prayed it was so intense, they were the only words I could muster. As I write about it now—tears flowing and heart hurting—I am surprised by the depth of emotion which still remains; tied solely to this one memory.

Despite our fears, we tried to find opportunities to enjoy that summer. We spent six hours canoeing down a river one day. Ben and I also got to do very "normal" parental things like watch Cheyenne's dance recital. We spent evenings in the backyard watching Cheyenne keep cool in her kiddie pool, and marveling at how late it stays light in Michigan during the summer. We drove to Grand Haven to stand on the shore of Lake Michigan and stared in awe at how giant it was. We took Cheyenne to the zoo where she got to see grizzly bears and ride a camel. Things were going good.

And then one day, everything changed again.

Ben would occasionally walk to the market in our neighborhood to use the pay phone to call his parents and let them know we were okay. One day he arrived back at the apartment after having made one such call and was visibly upset. Cheyenne was in her room, which was across the apartment. Even so, Ben spoke quietly when he told me the news: The FBI was involved.

Ben had an aunt who lived in our home county, and her neighbor disclosed to her that an individual identifying himself as an FBI agent had come to her door with a baby photo of Cheyenne, asking if she'd seen her, or us, around his aunt's house.

I'm not sure I can adequately describe how overwhelming it was to learn this bit of information. For people who, under anything but the most extreme circumstances, are straight-edge, law-abiding citizens with no criminal records whatsoever, it is beyond frightening to hear that the FBI is trying to hunt you down. I didn't even jaywalk! I'd never been drunk in my entire life; I'd never done a single drug, or even smoked a cigarette (or anything else for that matter). I was a rule-follower to the point of being accused more than once of being a stick-in-the-mud. To learn that I was considered a criminal in the eyes of an organization so intimidating as the FBI was terrifying.

I remember dropping to my knees. It is the only time in my entire life I can ever remember that happening to me. I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands over my mouth.

Ben immediately said, "We don't have time to fall apart, Rachel."

He was right. I quickly stood back up. I had to hold it together.

At that moment, Cheyenne—not having been able to have possibly heard a single word Ben had said, but evidently still able to sense that something was wrong—came out of her room, ran down the hall and over to me, hugged my leg and said, "Don't worry, Mama. I won't let them take me. I will punch them!"

I'd had no idea she'd known people were looking for her with the intent of taking her away. Ben and I were crushed to discover that as careful as we had been to keep her from having to shoulder the burden of that fearful reality, it turned out she still understood what was happening. It must have been tremendously overwhelming for such a tiny girl. Even worse, in _her_ mind she was bearing the responsibility of stopping it from happening; ready to resort to physical violence if need be. We'd tried so hard to protect not just her body, but also her mind. But in that moment, it felt like everything we had worked so hard to maintain was falling apart around us. We still don't know how she knew.

In the aftermath of learning the FBI was now searching for us, we reasoned it was still quite unlikely they would somehow miraculously guess our new names. Nobody but Ben's parents actually knew them. And the authorities, while probably assuming we were using aliases, would have to manage a lot of clever guesswork to track us down. We knew they were capable, but we tried to keep things in perspective and reminded ourselves that the odds of them locating us under our new identities were very low.

Still, we sensed on a deeper level that things were drawing to a head. The day I realized it was a Sunday in August. The three of us had just stepped out of the grocery store into the sweltering Michigan heat, and were walking toward our car in the Meijer parking lot. Ben and I began to talk about the possibility of turning ourselves in and trying to fight legally for Cheyenne's protection.

The moment that conversation began, I think we both sensed something was changing. The only time we had ever considered going back home was in the early weeks just after leaving, when I'd spoken with the investigator from the Child Recovery Unit and had unsuccessfully asked her for help in protecting Cheyenne. From that day forward, Ben and I had never, _ever_ discussed going back. Not once. The subject was taboo, off limits, out of the question. We wouldn't even hint at it. We couldn't bring ourselves _to_ hint at it.

Until that day in the Meijer parking lot. That was the moment I knew, in my heart, that God was beginning to prepare me for the reality that we eventually would be going back.

In the meantime though, we began to devise a plan for staying safely hidden.

Shortly before going into hiding, Ben had won a tiny plot of property in Mexico. I think it was the type of property intended for people who had the resources to build vacation homes or visit in shiny, new motorhomes. But when we learned the FBI was actively looking for us, we began planning to live on it in a used, and not-so-shiny, camp trailer. I already knew quite a lot of Spanish and was certain I could teach it to both Cheyenne and Ben. I began scouring the library; checking out any book I could find on living in a camp-like environment. It was, admittedly, a drastic plan even for us. But, it was also the best plan we could come up with given the circumstances.

Despite all that was changing, Ben and I both felt very strongly led to leave Michigan first and go back to Arizona temporarily. I can't explain why. We were homesick. We were frightened. We were mentally and emotionally spent. We needed family and familiarity. We reasoned—naively, perhaps—that with entirely different names, and the ability to "prove" who we were (and were _not_ ), we would be safe in Kingman long enough to finalize our plans for heading down to Mexico. We didn't want to purchase a trailer and extensive camping gear in Michigan and haul it all the way across the country. Starting in Arizona would be much easier. We began to prepare for the move.

Summer was ending, and we wanted to head south before any hint of snow could affect our cross-country drive. We gave notice at our jobs, emptied our apartment, packed the tiny amount of things we could fit into the Honda, and met with our landlord on the day of our departure so we could get our deposit back. On that humid summer afternoon, after nearly a year of stability, we found ourselves embarking on yet another long journey.

### ***

This one would take three days. As we neared the suburbs of Chicago that first evening, we could see the leaves of trees in some places were already beginning to transform with autumn colors. We were surprised to discover that the weather in some places was already cold enough for this to happen and we were glad we hadn't waited any later in the year to leave.

Planning a trip to drive cross-country back then was a lot different than it is now. There was no GPS, no MapQuest, no Google Maps street-view, no freeway cams, or websites to check up-to-the-minute information about road conditions. These days I wouldn't dream of driving across the country without hotel reservations, specific restaurant plans for every meal, a binder containing maps and street directions for every segment of the journey, cell phones, and at least one Wi-Fi-ready device.

When we left Michigan, we had a road atlas. That was all.

We missed a turnoff for I-40 going through Chicago. Not knowing what else to do, we got off the expressway with the intent of driving back in the other direction to find our correct exit. Bad idea.

We found ourselves in a very scary-looking neighborhood, on a street which seemed to go on forever without any way to turn back in the opposite direction. It was frightening. We were in a crappy car so we weren't worried about being carjacked or anything, but I'd spent enough time in L.A. to know there are just some neighborhoods you don't want to find yourself in for any reason, crappy car or not. There are neighborhoods where unfamiliar faces are not _wanted_. This appeared to be one of those neighborhoods.

Thankfully, we found a place to make a U-turn and made it safely back onto the expressway, eventually finding the turnoff for I-40. After another hour we decided we'd better find a place to stop for the night.

We were out in what seemed to be the middle of Nowhere, Illinois, with only roadside motels to choose from, yet none of them appeared to have any vacancies. We must have checked half a dozen before we finally found a room at a very old, very rundown motor-lodge type motel near some railroad tracks in a sparse little town with a lot of empty fields around. But it served our purpose, and we were back on the road by six o'clock the next morning.

A while later, we stopped in a tiny town called Pocahontas for breakfast. Cheyenne was very much enamored by the Disney movie of the same name, therefore getting to eat at a restaurant called Kokoum's, in the town of Pocahontas, was a pretty big deal to her.

Later in the day, as we traveled through Springfield, Illinois, we were excited to see signs directing us to a house which was once home to Abraham Lincoln. We drove to Springfield's historic district, but were ultimately disappointed when we discovered the house was temporarily closed to visitors.

In the end, we drove a bit further and stopped at Meramec Caverns in Missouri. The tour was phenomenal and Cheyenne loved it. It was so fun to get to take her somewhere as amazing as Meramec.

We'd also crossed the Mississippi River that day, and had marveled at the St. Louis Arch. We'd gotten stuck on a drawbridge waiting for a boat to pass, and Cheyenne was able to see how tugboats pull larger boats. Finally, we pulled into Oklahoma City for the night. Nothing fancy, just a cheap roadside chain motel.

Before pulling out of Oklahoma City the following morning, we had breakfast at the truck stop next door. There were telephones at the tables so the long haul truckers who stopped there to eat could call their families from the road. Cheyenne got such a kick out of that and desperately wanted to make a phone call from our table!

Later in the day at yet another Oklahoma truck stop, Cheyenne got to ride a horse and get up close and personal with a giant buffalo (he was someone's pet). Although we'd tried to avoid Texas at all costs, this route took us across the very top of the panhandle. But no matter; we were only in Texas for about an hour before crossing into New Mexico. There, we stopped at another roadside restaurant (at least this one wasn't a truck stop).

It was an extremely long day of driving and when we found ourselves finally staring at the lights of Albuquerque below, we realized it wasn't a moment too soon. Cheyenne started squirming and complaining loudly in her car seat. She wanted out. _Now_. We were stuck in traffic, so in an attempt to quiet her down Ben and I pointed to the lights in the distance and excitedly announced, "Cheyenne, look! It's Albuquerque!" Drawn in by our fake enthusiasm, she gasped, craned her neck to see the city below, and asked, "Albeturkey?" And from that day on, in our family, Albuquerque has been fondly known as "Albeturkey".

We stayed in a much nicer hotel in Albuquerque than we had in Illinois or Oklahoma. In the morning we had breakfast at a nice little café around the corner, and we were able to make time to visit a small art gallery before getting back into the car for that day's travel. It was an enormous luxury to spend even one short morning feeling like we were traveling for enjoyment instead of as fugitives running from the FBI, and I for one, really tried to savor it.

Las Vegas was our destination. Instead of going straight to Kingman, we were meeting Ben's parents at a hotel in Vegas where we would all spend a day and a night.

When we pulled into the hotel parking lot, Cheyenne asked if we were at her auntie's house. She was so accustomed to seeing my sister only in Vegas—and usually at this same hotel—that she'd come to the conclusion her auntie must live there; yet another moment from that trip which later became an ongoing joke in our family for years afterward.

It was an emotional reunion, but an extremely happy one. Cheyenne could hardly believe she was back with her beloved grandma and grandpa (although despite her joy, she became a bit theatrical when conveying her utter disappointment that her auntie really _didn't_ live at the hotel and would not be making an appearance).

The five of us packed a lot of activities into that Vegas visit. We took Cheyenne to see a circus act, white tigers, one of the largest saltwater aquariums in the country, an erupting volcano, and the pirate show at Treasure Island. She played midway games at Circus Circus and had her face painted. By the time we pulled out of Vegas and headed for Kingman, she was one exhausted little girl.

None of us knew it at the time, but it would be the last time we returned to Kingman as a family running from the FBI.

### NINETEEN

I remember our last fall in hiding as being incredibly stressful.

Ben and I estimated we would have enough money for a camp trailer by the following spring, and we still planned to move to Mexico. But I became unexpectedly paranoid that the house was being watched. In truth, judging from events which unfolded soon afterward, it actually may have been. We never saw anything strange or suspicious, but I had the strongest feeling we were not going to be safe in Kingman for very long.

Ben found a job quite soon after arriving. In fact, he found two jobs. I was often too frightened to stay home during the daytime because I was still convinced the authorities would soon show up at the house. As a result, I frequently dropped Ben off at work in the mornings and then stayed out all day with Cheyenne. We spent the majority of our time at parks and the library. That was the fall she read every Morris the Moose book our library carried, and I read every book about camping in a desert environment I could get my hands on. Additionally, I read books about first-aid and food preservation.

On days when we did stay at the house, my behaviors kept Ben's mom on edge. Every time I heard any sound outside, I immediately raced to a window to look through the blinds. Sometimes I would run to two or three different windows so I could see what was happening on multiple sides of the house. If somebody knocked on the door, I flew into a panic and grabbed Cheyenne before hiding in our bedroom.

Cheyenne knew how to hide. She would stay very still and quiet, and she did not ask questions. I felt terrible that her life included fear and hiding. But what was the alternative? I wanted desperately to be able to stay calm, but my fear was out of control.

Ben's mom had a friend who was aware of our circumstances. She lived in Golden Valley, a neighboring town. At the time it wasn't much more than a few homes on the desolate stretch between Kingman and Laughlin, Nevada. One night I became so frantic and convinced the police could show up any minute that I asked the friend if Cheyenne and I could come to her house. She was very kind and immediately said we were more than welcome to come, and right away if we wanted to. I packed some things and had Ben drive us to her house. I definitely felt safer there.

Ben had to continue working though, so he went back to stay with his parents in Kingman. He would come and visit us every day when he was finished working.

I noticed one day that he smelled like cigarette smoke and was shocked when he actually pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He had quit smoking years earlier—the week Cheyenne and I had moved in with him, in fact—because he hadn't wanted to expose her to second-hand smoke. But the stress levels were so high, and his nerves so frayed, that he had started smoking again. Fortunately, he was able to quit again within a couple of weeks.

The lady we were staying with in Golden Valley was preparing for a long-distance move. And although she had generously offered to let Cheyenne and I stay with her until she relocated, the reality was that we were going to have to go back to Ben's parents' house, at least temporarily. Ben and I had our eye on a camp trailer for sale in the area, but we wouldn't have enough money for it by the time our host moved. After a few weeks in Golden Valley, Cheyenne and I returned to Kingman.

The holidays came and went, and we all tried to enjoy them. We baked cookies for Cheyenne to decorate, and watched holiday movies. She had a fun Christmas; she'd received some Barbie dolls and a carrying case she'd been desperately hoping for. The case had a tiny closet and a piece which folded to create a bed for the dolls, and she spent several days afterward playing with them for hours and hours on the bedroom floor. I'd never seen her enjoy toys the way she loved those Barbies. It seemed she would have been content to spend weeks doing nothing but playing with her new dolls and their little fold-out apartment.

But as the New Year crept up on us, I knew we would have to leave again soon.

Two weeks later, I awoke to the sound of a car door shutting in front of the house. Our bedroom window faced the street and as always, I peeked through the blinds. I saw what I feared most.

A man in a suit had climbed out of a white Crown Victoria and was standing at the fence. I saw Ben's dad approach the gate from the other side and then I heard words which terrified me. The man told Ben's dad he was with the FBI, and then he mentioned my name and said he was looking for me.

Panic stricken, I called for Ben to wake up. Cheyenne came over to me at the window, and I wrapped my arms around her; so afraid those moments would be the last I would ever have my little girl in my arms. Ben had jumped out of bed and gone into the living room where his mom was standing at the front door, looking terrified. I carried Cheyenne into the living room and told Ben, "It's over. We have to go out there."

Ben disagreed. He asked me to just stay calm, and said we weren't going anywhere. I took Cheyenne back into the bedroom so I could listen at the window. I heard the FBI agent saying, in a voice louder than necessary, "You understand that if I _see_ them, I have to bring them in".

_What was this? Did he assume I was listening? Was he giving me fair warning? Was he giving me a way out?_ These are the thoughts that went through my mind at that moment. I guess I'll never know for sure, but it seemed like that's exactly what he was doing.

Cheyenne tried to comfort me—my tiny three-year-old, who must have been so frightened herself, was comforting _me_ —and said, "Don't be scared, Mama".

Already on my knees, I answered her, saying, "Come and pray with me". I was so paralyzed with fear I couldn't think of anything to say except, "Please God, make that man go aw—", but before I even finished the sentence, I heard the car door shut.

The man was leaving. He was _leaving_! In disbelief, I thanked God (seriously, I've never had a prayer answered so fast before or since) and ran into the living room with Cheyenne.

Ben's dad came inside the house and told us what had been said, which amounted to essentially what we had already heard. Now I knew for certain we had to get out of there. Surely the FBI would be back. Or at the very least, the local police.

Ben's mom agreed to take Cheyenne and I to Laughlin, Nevada for a few days until we figured out what to do next. Laughlin was less than an hour away—far enough to feel like we were out of immediate danger, but close enough that Ben could get there reasonably fast if he needed to.

We checked into a hotel right after we arrived in Laughlin. I remember Cheyenne was excited because we were going to "sleep in the hotel that looks like a big boat". Ben's mom and I were doing everything in our power to act calm and normal despite the fact that we were extremely nervous. We weren't nervous about being found in Laughlin because it wasn't impossible, years ago, to remain relatively anonymous at a hotel. The anxiety stemmed more from the fact that we were running out of options in the immediate area. We couldn't live in a hotel forever.

It was during these days in Laughlin that I truly accepted the reality that we would end up turning ourselves in and trying to fight for Cheyenne's protection through the courts. I didn't know when or how, but I knew it was coming. I can't provide any logic for choosing to go back; the truth is we could have kept running for quite some time—years, in fact. I still had people in Michigan and California who were willing to help us hide, and we could have undoubtedly developed new contacts through some of them. We still could have made it to Mexico, eventually. All I can say is that God was speaking to my heart and guiding me into accepting that going back was His will for us. When Ben came to Laughlin after punching out at work, it became clear he was coming to the same conclusion.

What a terrible and sad time that was. We knew our time with Cheyenne was dwindling to an end, and our hearts were broken. _We_ were broken. I cried nearly nonstop and I remember the face on my skin was raw and tight from it. I held Cheyenne almost constantly. Ben looked exhausted and barely spoke. I forced myself to take photos because I wanted to have the most recent pictures of Cheyenne possible in case we were separated very soon. Those photos still evoke painful memories and are very difficult to look at, even now.

Cheyenne was nervous and quiet. We tried to relieve some tension and distract her by taking her to the arcade at the hotel and letting her play games for a while. She kept asking to play one particular game where the player tries to hit plastic, bobbing alligator heads with a padded mallet. The game would say things like, "I'm gonna get you!" and Cheyenne would laugh and laugh because the voice sounded just like my dad; her beloved Poppa Jimmy whom she hadn't seen since my brother's wedding in Vegas. The game really did sound like him, and she thought it was the funniest thing.

After a few days at the hotel in Laughlin, we decided we would have to split up temporarily. I was determined to spend no more time in Kingman, and Ben felt strongly that he needed to stay and work.

We'd made a big decision during those days. Our new strategy was to abandon the plan to go to Mexico, and use the money instead for a new lawyer. We would have to wait until we had enough money, though. Believing it would be another month or two before we could afford to retain an attorney, I made arrangements to head back to Northern California with Cheyenne while Ben stayed behind.

I called my dad from Laughlin to tell him what was happening. He thought it would be safer if he bought the bus tickets himself. I can't remember now but perhaps some type of identification was required when purchasing a ticket, and that may have been why he insisted on being the one to purchase them. I was to go to the bus station and simply pick the tickets up there.

I can't even remember where we boarded the bus. It may have been Kingman, it may have been Laughlin. So much about that time became nothing but a blur of panic, fear, and heartache. All that was certain was that Cheyenne and I were on the bus again. We were headed back to Northern California.

### TWENTY

Cheyenne and I made it to Vegas later that afternoon. We had about an hour to wait before we could board our bus to Los Angeles. Greyhound Bus stations in large cities are generally not great places to wander around with small children, so I tried to simply find a corner out of the way where we could wait in relative peace.

As we sat and waited I watched a family for a while. There was a young mother with several very small children. As they were standing near us while they waited in line to purchase their tickets, I overheard much of the conversation she was having with the lady who had brought them and was waiting until their bus arrived to send them off.

The young mom was traveling back east with all those tiny children, alone. I thought back to my bus journey to Michigan with Cheyenne and wondered how she was going to manage the trip all on her own.

Then it got me thinking about all of the mothers who've had no choice but to go into hiding to protect more than one child, and do it completely _alone_. My own experience had been difficult, but I realized likely nothing compared to the hardships of mothers with multiple children to protect, and no friend or family member to travel with them, or work to support them. For so much of our time in hiding, I had simply been capable of no more than existing in what I call "function mode". I had always been thankful Ben was with us—for so many reasons—but until I saw that young mother with all of those babies getting ready to hop on a cross-country bus, I don't think I fully appreciated just to what degree his presence, love, unselfishness, courage, and effort had been literally holding us all together. Where would Cheyenne and I be without him?

When it was time for us to get on our bus, we did so quickly and found that we were some of the first passengers to board. Within about ten minutes the bus was over half full, and I expected we would be departing the station within moments. The bus driver climbed onto the bus, sat down, started it up, and closed the door. But then I noticed the passengers on the right side of the bus turning to look through the windows toward the ground below. There was muttering and shuffling about. Clearly, something was going on.

Not wanting to bring attention to myself, I resisted the urge to stand up and peer over. Much to my dread, the bus door opened then, and several men in uniform—along with a large police K-9—stepped onto the bus and started walking toward the back; toward where Cheyenne and I were sitting.

I'm sure I stopped breathing. I put my arm around Cheyenne and cuddled her, praying to God these men were not here for us, even though in my heart I felt sure they were. But about three seats ahead of us, the police dog stopped to sniff a bag. I don't clearly remember what happened next; the relief of realizing the search was most likely for drugs as opposed to a fugitive mom left me with the heart-pounding-in-the-ears sensation I'd experienced during that traffic stop in Michigan, leaving sounds muffled and distant. I believe a man and woman were escorted off the bus. And that was it. The bus clamored into reverse, and we were on our way to L.A.

I had been to the Los Angeles bus station a few times before in my life. Never for personal travel, but instead to pick up friends or relatives who were coming in for a visit. I knew it was worse even than the Las Vegas station and as we pulled into the terminal, I began making plans in my mind for where to wait during our layover.

But then as the bus parked and I peered through the window, I saw the unmistakable figure of my dad standing there waiting for us. My heart was so full of joy and relief to see him. I couldn't believe he was there!

Cheyenne hadn't seen my dad for nearly two years at that point; I wasn't sure she would even recognize or remember him. But the second her feet hit the cement of the bus terminal, she screamed, "Poppa Jimmy!" He knelt down and spread his arms out and Cheyenne raced into them, nearly knocking him over as she locked her arms around his neck. I could tell by the look of sheer joy on his face that he'd figured she probably wouldn't remember him, either. To be so enthusiastically greeted by this tiny person whom he loved and missed, was powerfully moving to him. In the years that followed, I really believe that memory remained one of his favorites.

As we entered the bus station, my dad carrying Cheyenne in one arm and wrapping the other one around my shoulders, he explained he had a rental car parked nearby. He was going to drive us the rest of the way to Northern California himself.

Cheyenne and I were given another much-welcome surprise then. My Dad had arranged with my sister for us to spend the night at her house before heading north. It was bittersweet, but very comforting to be with my family. Cheyenne was thrilled to get to see her auntie, uncle, and cousins again.

It was a short visit, though. We headed out very early the next morning. We drove all day and instead of taking the more common I-5, we drove the back way, up Highway 395. It was a much less-traveled route at the time.

My dad and I talked as Cheyenne slept—mostly about where we'd been and what we had experienced. I'd had precious few conversations with him while in hiding due to concern of authorities eventually resorting to tapping phone lines. Naturally, we believed my dad's line would be on the list if they did.

The trip was relatively uneventful, and the only time I remember getting nervous was when we crossed the border back into California from Nevada.

It was quite late when we arrived at my brother's house, and we slept in late the following morning. That day happened to be my twenty-third birthday, and my brother and his wife made a special dinner and my dad came back from the market with a cake. Despite the stressful reason for our being there, everyone really tried to make my birthday feel celebratory.

Later that night though, it was as though Cheyenne and I could sense something was very wrong. I felt terribly uneasy and Cheyenne seemed extremely nervous. Finally, we crawled into bed and fell asleep for the night.

I awoke early the next morning to what I can best describe as an atmosphere of concern and heaviness. My brother, his wife, and my dad were talking in low voices among themselves in the kitchen. It was obvious they knew something I didn't; something _big_. Finally, my brother's wife broke the news to me.

Ben had been caught and arrested.

Numbness engulfed me for the first few seconds after hearing the words. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't exhale. Most people can probably relate to my description of hearing overwhelmingly bad news; the way it really does feel like being punched in the stomach.

Ben and I had discussed this scenario, of course. The plan, if one of us were ever to be caught without Cheyenne with us, was for the other one to keep running with her. Like I said, we had people around the country who were still willing to help us; people nobody we'd ever been associated with back home had ever known existed. They were people who cared about Cheyenne and with whom we may have been able to hide out with for years.

The difference now was that we had already begun discussing the possibility—and even the _probability_ —of returning home to try to fight for legal protection for Cheyenne. I didn't know what to do.

My sister had been the one to call and tell my brother about Ben's arrest. I called her to find out what she knew. When I did, a frightening image formed in my mind of the scenario Ben and his parents had endured.

It had happened the night before. Ben had an uncle who also lived in Kingman, and who had been, quite literally, on his deathbed. When they realized his uncle was so close to passing, they decided to drive to his house to see him one last time.

Less than a mile from their home, they pulled into a corner gas station and as they did, several police cars pulled in behind them seemingly out of nowhere, their lights flashing. Cops jumped from their cruisers and ordered Ben out of the car.

They were unnecessarily rough with him, not just in the way they physically handled him—slamming him face-first into the car—but also with their words. I doubt very much that reading about cops behaving badly surprises anyone, but it still disgusts me how so many in law enforcement seem to feel the need to push their weight around so they can feel big and important instead of simply acting like decent human beings. Anyone who had any information about our case knew Ben had no history of violence or misconduct; he had no prior record at all, in fact. I hope the officers who were involved feel very accomplished for making the worst night of a good man's life even more miserable.

His parents had witnessed the entire ordeal. His mom buckled emotionally as his dad pleaded with the officers not to be so rough with his son. As Ben was taken to jail, several officers followed his parents back to their house to search it and question them extensively.

It had been Ben's mother who'd called my sister to tell her about the arrest. After getting the news, my sister had contacted the Child Recovery Unit to speak with an investigator to ask what our options were. She gave me the number to contact one of the investigators, a man named Donovan.

When I hung up the phone, I stood there in my brother's kitchen. I was surprised to realize that instead of immediately calling my contacts in Michigan to make arrangements to flee there, I felt led to call the investigator. I _had_ to call. In my heart, I knew it was what I was meant to do. I knew it was what God was leading me to do. I truly cannot find the words to describe how afraid I was. Still, I knew it had to be done.

When I told my dad I planned to call the investigator, he suggested I shouldn't do it from the same house I was staying at. He drove me a few miles to my cousin's house; the same cousin who Ben, Cheyenne, and I had stayed with for a few weeks nearly two years earlier.

I remember how badly I was shaking when I dialed that number, and how I actually had to hang up the first time before anyone answered because I realized I couldn't breathe, let alone speak. When I calmed down enough, I dialed the number again. By the time Donovan answered the phone, I was already crying.

I told him who I was, and he said he was surprised I'd called. We discussed my case and I explained—for what seemed like the millionth time—that all I wanted was for my daughter to be protected from being sexually abused.

At one point, Donovan said to me, "Why didn't you call me two years ago? I was starting an investigation the next day!"

To which I could only respond, "Well it sure would have been nice if one of the many people I asked for help would have directed me to your office!" I told him that in the end, even the CPS investigator had told me there was nobody left to contact or ask for help. As did the police, my attorney, and the nurse at the hospital who had examined Cheyenne. Not to mention the judge who ignored all reports and ordered me to hand a baby back to the man who had molested her. Who the hell else was I supposed to ask for help? Was I expected to just magically realize out of thin air that somebody at an office called the Child Recovery Unit could be of help to us? I told him, "I asked for help! I asked _everybody_ for help! They all told me there was nothing else to do, and nobody else to ask! If you knew Cheyenne needed protection back then, why didn't you call _me_?"

He didn't answer that question, but our conversation continued. We began to discuss the possibility of me turning myself in. I remember at one point he tried to get "cop-ish" with me and said something meant to intimidate me if I didn't follow through with the agreement. I was so "done" with these people at that point that I, with irritation and exasperation clearly present in my voice, answered, "Man, if I wasn't serious about coming back, I would have never bothered to call you in the first place."

As fed up as I was with people in positions of authority who had knowingly turned us away when my daughter had needed them most, I came to the conclusion after talking with Donovan for a while that he was my best hope for finding a route to secure legal protection for Cheyenne. He gave me his word that he would do everything in his power to keep her out of Steve's hands. With nothing to hold onto but his promise and my faith, I agreed to come back and turn myself in.
TWENTY-ONE

I was going home.

I was so nervous and afraid that I was physically sick, but I knew it was what I was supposed to do. I knew God was showing me it was time. My dad and I decided to get on the road as soon as possible.

I went back to my brother's house to say goodbye. His wife hugged me, and, thanks to wisdom gained after a string of unpaid parking tickets many years earlier, quickly explained strip-searches to me so I wouldn't be too mortified when it happened (I knew I was going to be arrested), and then told me she wished she could face the nightmare for me. Those small gestures stayed with me, and really did help me to endure the ordeal I faced later.

And then, we were on the road. Heading down I-5, I knew I had to tell Cheyenne as much of the truth as I could in order to prepare her for the profound changes she unknowingly faced. She would turn four years old in less than a month. She was _so_ young. I was afraid to tell her where we were going and why. But I was more afraid of letting her go into a situation that carried so much potential to damage her heart and mind without having been given all the information I could reasonably give her.

I turned to look at her in the back seat of the car. She had such a beautiful, angelic little face. I looked into those big eyes that trusted me to hold her whole world together. With so much pain in my heart, I began to tell her the story that would change her life forever.

I started by explaining to her that sometimes a father is different than a daddy. I used my own dad—who had been with me since infancy—as an example, and told her that he was not my father but he was my daddy and always would be. Ben's dad—his step-dad—had raised him since he was a year old, so I told Cheyenne that her grandpa was her daddy's daddy, even though he wasn't his father.

I defined a father to her as someone who was married to a mommy when a baby started growing in her tummy, and that sometimes the father stayed so he could be the daddy, too. But sometimes, I told her, the father went away and someone really special came along to be the daddy. I asked her if she understood. She nodded.

At that moment, my dad tried to stop me from saying anything more to her. He was visibly shaken. He put his hand on my shoulder and tried to turn me away from Cheyenne and said to me in a low voice, "You're going to mess up her head, stop telling her all of this".

I understood his anguish. Truly, I did. He knew that what I was about to tell her was going to devastate her on some level, and he just wanted to protect her. He couldn't bear to be present while I inflicted heartache on this tiny, wonderful girl he loved so much. He only wanted to keep her from sadness. I really loved him for that.

But I explained to him what I knew in my heart to be true. "Dad, she needs to hear it from me. If she hears it from anyone else first, she's going to believe she can't trust me".

He was crushed for her. But I think he realized what I was saying was the truth.

And it is the only reason I told her at that time. I would have told her eventually no matter what, but I knew the first thing Steve and his family would do when they saw her was tell her that he was her "real" daddy, and I knew them well enough to know they would use it like a weapon; a tool to manipulate her into believing that her own mommy had somehow betrayed her, so that Cheyenne would become convinced they were the only ones she could rely upon. It's exactly what Steve used to do to me, and I was well aware of where he'd learned the tactic. This was going to be a war; one in which Steve and most members of his family would certainly not play fair, or take Cheyenne's heart and mind into consideration as they fought it.

I couldn't send her into that situation without full knowledge of the truth beforehand. Like a soldier going into battle, she needed to be as well-equipped as possible. Part of that was having enough information so when Steve's family started bombarding her with huge truths about her identity, she could say to herself (or them), "I know. My mommy already told me that". Otherwise, she'd be left wondering, _Why_ didn't _mommy tell me that_? Which, in my opinion, would have left her stranded in a far more precarious place, mentally and emotionally.

The next thing I said to Cheyenne was the most difficult thing I've ever had to say as a mother. I delivered the news as gently as I could.

"Honey, Daddy loves you forever and will always be your daddy. You have a father who is not the same person as Daddy. Your father is Steve".

Her eyes left mine. The memory of the look on her face—a combination of fear and confusion—as she processed my words, still makes my heart ache. There was so much anguish and disbelief in her voice and eyes when she looked back up at me and answered.

"The bad man?"

Again, my dad tried to stop me from laying any more of the awful reality on her. But I had to answer her.

"Yes. But _you_ are not bad. You are very good."

Cheyenne started shaking her head back and forth violently in defiance. It really frightened me. I'd thought I could keep the situation under control and help her accept what I was telling her, but her reaction left me wondering if I'd affected her in a way far beyond my ability to manage successfully.

"No!" she screamed. "Daddy is my daddy! Daddy is my father, too!" She started to cry.

I took off my seatbelt and crawled into the back seat with her. I rubbed her legs and arms and told her that her daddy was going to love her all her life just like my daddy loved me, and just like her grandpa loved her daddy. I told her a lot of other things, too. I explained we had to go back to where we used to live when she was a baby. I told her we would see her auntie, and her daddy would come and see her very soon. She was so mentally exhausted afterward that she slept the entire duration of the drive.

We arrived in my hometown later that night. It was strange to be back. Technically, I still needed to "hide" while there because there was an active warrant out for my arrest and I didn't want to be arrested before my court hearing. Doing so would almost certainly leave Cheyenne in the hands of CPS. We drove straight to my dad's apartment.

Late the following morning, Cheyenne had grown very upset about the conversation we'd had the day before. To help her calm down, I'd poured a warm bath for her. Seconds after she got in, the phone rang. It was Donovan. He wanted to know if I'd followed through on my promise to come back. Once he knew I had, he began to speak to me in a way which gave me real hope that he was going to help us.

One of the things he told me was that he had some very good friends, a married couple he'd known for a long time, who were licensed to take in foster children. He assured me these were extremely safe and trustworthy people and that he would do everything in his power to make sure Cheyenne ended up with them if the judge removed her from my custody initially (which is what we all expected to happen). He also gave me the name of an attorney he believed could really help us.

Just then, Cheyenne called me from the bathroom, a few feet away. I asked Donovan to hold on a second while I answered her. When I did, she asked me who I was talking to. I told her it was a man named Donovan. She asked why (all this time, Donovan is waiting patiently on the line). I explained he was someone who wanted to help us. She said, "Then I want to talk to him". I told her she could talk to him at another time.

Donovan had heard my side of the conversation and asked what Cheyenne had said. I told him, sort of apologetically, that she'd said she wanted to talk to him. And then he did something which genuinely surprised me. He said, "Well, put her on the phone, then. Please. I'd be happy to talk to her". I put the phone down and got Cheyenne out of the bath.

I quickly dressed her and she picked the phone receiver up off of the floor. Listening to her talk to Donovan on the phone simultaneously impressed me—because of her tremendous courage and independence—and broke my heart. I sat close to her so I could hear their conversation.

She wanted to know who he was. He explained that he wanted to be our friend and to help her and her mommy. She began to cry really hard and told him she didn't want to go away from her mommy. He told her he knew a very special family who she could visit until her mommy could come and get her. She said she didn't want to go. He consoled her and reassured her. When she was done talking to him, she handed me the phone back.

I really appreciated that he had put forth the effort to actually talk with her and treat her like a person who deserved to be listened to. I felt like it made Cheyenne feel that things were a tiny bit less out of control.

Donovan told me I was required to attend a hearing on the tenth of the month. It was the seventh. I had three days to hire an attorney and prepare for court. And that's exactly what I did.

I hired the attorney he'd recommended. I spent most of those three days in her office working with her assistant to prepare my declaration. I had to share some very personal bits of information about Steve's behavior in that declaration; details most ten-year-olds today wouldn't even bat an eye at, but to me—twenty years ago—seemed disturbing. I had no idea when I was sharing such personal information that it would not be kept confidential. Unfortunately, I'd find that out the hard way on our first day in court.

The day I hired the attorney was also the first day I was able to speak with Ben since his arrest. He sounded terrible. Everything he'd faced during and after the arrest, added to all we were now facing together, had, understandably, left him a basket-case.

I learned many details about his ordeal for the first time during that conversation. I learned it was actually the owners of the pet store where he'd been working who had bailed him out of jail. We'd known them for quite some time, but had never told them we were in hiding. Evidently, the FBI had contacted one of them before Ben was arrested, and she later explained to Ben that she'd wanted desperately to call him and warn him, but was afraid of breaking the law. We were very moved that they cared enough about Ben to bail him out. It was an extraordinarily kind thing for them to do.

I also learned that the FBI agent who we'd seen at the gate at Ben's parents' house in Kingman stayed with Ben most of the night of his arrest and treated him very decently. In fact, he even went so far as to visit Ben's bosses at the pet store afterward, and plead with them for Ben's job. He told them Ben was a good person, and asked them not to let him go.

In the end, _both_ of Ben's employers happily allowed him to keep his jobs.

Two days before my court hearing, Ben and his mother drove to our hometown from Arizona. While we were so happy to be together again, I think the three of us—Cheyenne, Ben, and I—felt we were looking at each other as very different people than we had the last time we'd been together.

Everything was different; Cheyenne knew the truth about her paternity, Ben had been to jail, I was facing an arrest, and we were all facing indefinite separation. We'd only been apart for a few days, but it felt like a year had passed since the day he'd put us on that last bus.

Cheyenne seemed sad and was very clingy with Ben. And Ben was terribly anxious. His demeanor reminded me of how unhinged he'd been the night he'd had to get our money back from the deceitful truck-seller in Michigan.

After a conversation with my attorney, she and I agreed it would be better if Ben did not attend court with me. He was simply too emotional. Personally, I was afraid he might physically attack Steve if he saw him. And even if he didn't, I was sure there would be hostile words between the two. While, admittedly, I believed Steve deserved a physically painful consequence for all he'd done to Cheyenne, I couldn't handle the added stress and Ben certainly didn't need to get himself arrested again. I also didn't know if we could avoid a situation where Cheyenne witnessed a confrontation between them and God knows _she_ didn't need any more reasons to feel insecure. In order to hold myself together for court, and for Cheyenne to be able to make it through that day with the least-possible amount of trauma, I needed the atmosphere to be as calm as it could possibly be.

My attorney told Ben he should avoid court because he might be arrested, but the truth is there was no threat of a warrant for his arrest; she'd encouraged him not to attend because I'd asked her to help me avoid a chaotic atmosphere. In the end, he agreed to spend the day at his aunt's home nearby.

Our last day before I was scheduled to appear in court was tremendously difficult for Ben, Cheyenne, and me. I think we walked on the beach at some point. We cried. We barely spoke. Nobody could eat.

We knew our hours together were dwindling away and we had no way of knowing how long it would be before any of us would see each other again. Who would Cheyenne go to? What would become of all of us? It was both the ending of a terrible ordeal in hiding, and the beginning of a time we knew could easily turn out to be even worse than our years on the run. It was an awful day. We simultaneously wanted it to hurry up and end, but also last forever. It was a lot like knowing someone you love is dying; you want to get the worst over with, but you also want the last day to go on forever so you won't actually have to say goodbye.

Ben's mom drove to her sister's house nearby for the night with plans to switch places with Ben in the morning when he would go to his aunt's for the day while his mom stayed at the courthouse with Cheyenne and me.

We spent that night at my dad's apartment. My poor dad was riddled with anxiety and couldn't sleep. All through the night we heard him walking the floors, going out onto the balcony for fresh air, in the kitchen making chamomile tea. We were all awake most of the night, and out of bed before dawn

I can still vividly picture in my mind the clothes I dressed Cheyenne in that morning—pink jeans and a white cotton blouse with tiny flowers in different colors embroidered on it.

And then it was time to put on her shoes.

And I remember thanking God then. I thanked Him because, as I put on her tiny pink hi-top sneakers, there weren't strangers standing by to whisk her away. She wasn't crying or panicked, and I'd had lots of time to calmly explain to her what was happening.

He'd answered that prayer, and a hundred others along the way. But that is the one which sticks out in my mind so prevalently. We _hadn't_ been found. Police had _not_ stormed through our door. And though I dressed Cheyenne to face a day with very uncertain outcomes, the vision in my mind which had plagued me for so long had never come to fruition.

And it never would.

The sequel to Kidnapping My Daughter is now available.

It is titled, _Bringing Cheyenne Home_

### Acknowledgements

I want to thank my amazing husband, without whom this story would almost certainly have had a far different outcome. He has been a source of constant love, strength, and encouragement to me. But even more importantly, he has been everything my daughter has needed in a dad. Throughout every day of her life, he has loved her, protected her, and set an example for her of what a good man really is. Not only is he my husband and her dad—he is also such a beautiful friend to both of us, and we couldn't love him more.

I could not possibly thank him enough for all he has done for us and for the many roles he plays in our lives. I can simply say that he has been, and continues to be, such a profound blessing to both of us.

Thank you, my love. Thank you for helping me save my little girl. I am certain I could have never done it without you.

I also want to give special thanks to my daughter's uncle, who appears in this story.

On July 13, 2013, as this book was being written, and despite a very courageous fifteen-month-long battle with Multiple Myeloma, my sister's husband, a kind and beautiful soul, stepped into eternity.

He was instrumental throughout portions of my daughter's life, and he added so much happiness and laughter to it. It isn't possible to convey effectively just how much he meant to us. He is painfully missed, and will always be so loved. It is with an intensely grieving heart that I thank him for all he did for us during his life.

So, Thirty-One, _thank you_. There are so many things I could have never done without you.

Until I see you again.
About the Author

Rachel Jensby is an ordinary woman who once happened to find herself in the middle of extraordinary circumstances. She's loved writing since she was a child and has had over six hundred articles published under a pseudonym. To date, she has published _Kidnapping My Daughter_ as well as the conclusion to her family's story of being in hiding, titled, _Bringing Cheyenne Home_.

Rachel lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains with her husband and children, and their hundred-pound black lab, Toby.

