I looked away from him, stared out the window, held my trembling fingers to my lips.
“Is she correct?” he asked. “Have you been sexually abused?”
“Yes,” I said, almost inaudibly, and tried turning farther away from him.
He sat there quietly, patiently, saying nothing. More than ever, I wanted to run. I wanted to get away, to hide, to check out, and just leave, maybe go to Mexico or something, and just disappear into the countryside. I didn’t want anyone to see me anymore. I didn’t want to be the famous preacher, the focus of a congregation. I just wanted to hide.
“Can you tell me about it?” he said quietly.
I found myself wanting to bite my fingers. I didn’t know if I was sad, hurt, guilty, ashamed, or angry. Maybe I felt all of that.
“My daddy,” I said quietly, with my wadded fist n
