Chapter42

As the girls huddled together in their darkened prison, not one spoke. They held each other comforted each other and cried together but not one had spoken to another. One of the girls prayed silently, another tried to recall what her parents looked like; another was determined to fight, while the last one was most resolved to her death. Four women, four different outcomes. As they awaited their fate, only one wanted to fight.

Kimberly Doyle was a college freshman. She was studying Media Journalism. Her father had always told her she was going to be famous. She loved to smile and talk. No matter what she did, her dad always prodded her forward and her mother always doted. When she thought of her parents she thought of those TV shows that portrayed the perfect life. That was her life. Her stay-at-home mother who cooked, cleaned and had Book Club on Tuesdays, Bible study on Wednesdays and Bridge on Thursdays was the picture perfect example of it. Her father who was a lawyer at an oil company was gone before breakfast but home before dinner every day, helped his only daughter, the apple of his eye, with her homework, tried to be the ‘cool dad’ with her friends and the ‘yes man’ to any of her wild and crazy shopping sprees, and was the iconic father figure from TV. The day she remembered most vividly was the day her mother had not been at home when she returned from school. The house was empty; there were two notes on the kitchen table. One addressed to Kimberly and one to her father. She sat at the table waiting for her father to get home before she did anything. She sat for the better part of three hours, just sitting and staring at the letters. When her dad came home he found a darkened house and Kimberly sitting motionless at the kitchen table staring at the letters. He grabbed both letters off the table and read one after the other. When he was finished he put them on the table for Kimberly to read. She looked at the paper and slowly read them. From that moment on it was just the two of them. Kimberly’s dad took shorter hours at work and Kimberly did her best to keep things going at home. They made it work for them. Kimberley had boyfriends and they all adored her and her father. The family had no secrets, until now.

Pamela Schmidt sat with her eyes closed and listened to the other girls breathe. As she quietly sat, Pamela thought over her short life and became resigned to her fate, whatever it might be. She never really thought much, she just always took what came her way. Her parents said she had always been easy going, never difficult, always content. In school she got good grades, had friends, and never rocked the boat. When she had become pregnant at 17 her parents were shocked more so at her emotion than at the pregnancy itself. Her mother took her to the clinic and after a few weeks things were back to normal. Pamela graduated high school and went to work at her dad’s catering company. That was expected and Pamela was accepting. Now here she was again ‘accepting’ her situation, resigned to her fate, “More than likely, I’ll die here.” She thought to herself.

Joanne Horne cried off and on. Not out of fear, but because she worried about her sister. Her sister was her responsibility. Hers alone. Joanne knew she would fight whatever came her way, just as she did when her parents accidentally died and her Uncle and Aunt decided that Joanne and her sister would live with them. Joanne fought them by getting a lawyer and getting custody of her sister at 18. The judge agreed that Joanne could look after her 10 year old sister in their parents’ house. Shortly after the final court hearing Joanne had found out she was pregnant. She had hoped her boyfriend would be happy but instead he laughed, called her names and left her. Joanne did what was needed and visited the clinic. It had been four years since she had thought of the clinic but the memory was as crystal clear as if it had been yesterday. Joanne would fight. Fight for her sister, for herself and for her future.

Bridgette Westholm prayed and cried. Sometimes she prayed then cried, sometimes she just cried, sometimes she would just pray. She had thought God had given her this tribulation to test her faith. Bridgette was going to be a Nun, no matter the trials. She grabbed the other women and prayed out loud. None of them spoke against her when she started…

“Oh Lord, hear our cries pouring out from troubled hearts. The sorrow which clutches at our souls has driven us to You, our protector. Our True Friend in time of need. You know, our God, all our failings, our faults and our sins as well as the torment gripping our souls. Our greatest sorrow should be for our disregard of Your holy Commandments in the past and we sincerely hope you will grant us the grace of true contrition. Oh our Saviour, hide not Your Face from us in this tribulation, let the light of Your countenance shine upon us that we may be illuminated by its love. If it be Your will, lighten this burden from us, yet should it be means of our salvation, help us, help us oh Lord, to carry this cross, for alone we can do nothing. Radiate Your love upon Your prodigal children oh Lord, these beggars who knock at Your door seeking shelter in Your Sacred Heart; these once proud earthen vessels made of clay seeks You, Oh Christ, and in a newly found faith, firmly believes that You will receive Him in Your limitless Love and Mercy. Amen.”

Bridgette heard three small ‘Amens’. Then it was quiet again.

In the silence the girls had an understanding, acceptance of each other and their situation. The quiet was soon broken by the sound of an opening door and footsteps. A hand grabbed Bridgette Westholm; a second hand stabbed a syringe into her neck. Within seconds Bridgette was hauled up the stairs. The door closed and then there was silence. The remaining women sat as still as their breath waiting for another sound. When nothing came, crying started to erupt from the small space.