Redemption (33 page)

Facing Freedom

trained a few friends’ dogs. I had enough money because Roberta gave me a place to live. Everyone—Mom, Christy, Tom W.—gave me the things I needed right out of prison. I drove around in my beater of a car.

I had never experienced happiness like that. I was free.

When I thought things couldn’t get much better, I received a phone call from
The Oprah Winfrey Show
. After much back and forth, they decided they wanted me to appear for my own half-hour segment.

I usually didn’t get nervous about the press anymore. I had done
Nancy Grace
again—this time on her own show—after getting out and hadn’t batted an eye. This time was different. This was big. I actually had to go shopping for nice clothes, a blue button-down shirt and black dress pants. All Oprah wanted was for me to share my story, and that was my wish, too.

I had started a Web site—now a not-for-profit—called Healing Sisters (
www.healingsisters.org
) with the mission of eradicating child sexual abuse. If I can’t eradicate it, at least I can shed some light on the matter. When Governor Blunt released me, his letter said:

“Stacey, this is your chance to have a positive impact in society and to make a difference in the lives of others. I feel sure that you will use this opportunity to help those that might benefit from the perspective you have gained over the difficult course of your life. Best of luck to you in the future.”

I had to do
Oprah
, and I wanted to. She and Maya Angelou had been guiding lights for me for many years because they were so open about their own pasts. So with much fanfare, I boarded that plane from St. Louis to Chicago. I stayed at the ritzy Omni Hotel and used the food vouchers Harpo Productions had given me. I felt like royalty, especially when I got my makeup and hair done in the green room.

I went onto her stage and sat on a comfortable high chair. Oprah sat across from me wearing a black sequined shirt. She played a video of my backstory that almost made me teary. She showed photos of Christy and me when we were kids. She showed photos of my father. Then she asked how I was doing.

I don’t remember everything I said—just that I was sorry for what I’d done, and I hoped others would speak up when they were being hurt. I said that child abuse cannot be tolerated, and no one else should make the mistakes I made. People who are abused think of killing their abuser, and while there is power in that thought, the act is actually cowardly. True strength lies in being able to tell the truth about what happened. Abuse is shrouded in darkness because that is mainly where it takes place and where people like to keep it. If we expose sexual abuse to the light of day, we can change it. We can end it. We can expose how ugly it really is.

Oprah nodded her head.

She asked me if my sister knew.

I said, “No, and I felt like I was protecting Christy by taking the sexual abuse in some strange way.”

Oprah said, “I understand that.”

I leaned forward, closer to her.

She went on. “I really do. I really do.” And then she smiled at me.

I was validated, completely. From that moment, I let go of a lifetime of having to defend my thoughts, feelings, and actions. I didn’t have to do that anymore.

In front of the world, Oprah Winfrey understood me.

For the first time, I felt redeemed.

Bonds

om and I had a huge fight around the time I started doing publicity. She believes she did not know that I was being sexually abused. She still feels terrible every day of her life for letting me down. She admits she made mistakes. After all, she is human. But she says she wasn’t aware of the abuse at the time.

She did not like my insinuating on air that, yes, she did know what was happening to me.

I laid the groundwork for our relationship right then and there. I said, “You’re going to have to accept how I see the past, and what I say about the past.”

She was quiet. She had been crying.

She finally said, “You’re going to have to accept me for who I am.”

So we agreed to disagree. She could have her view, and I was entitled to mine. We could spend our lifetimes being right and making the other person wrong, but then we wouldn’t have each other.

In my mind, Mom is just like me. She wanted what I wanted: happily ever after with a knight in shining armor—plus a couple of kids. I don’t want that now, but I did growing up. We bought into the same fairy tale. Both of our fairy tales went unspeakably wrong. But when it comes right down to it, she wanted somebody to love after her divorce. She spent her life looking for happiness, made choices and sacrifices, and did the best she could with what she knew. And she saved herself, which is kind of important. But since the crime, she’s been there when I needed her. She moved back from Guam. She chose to side with me even though her family disowned her. She sent me money in prison, and she and John visited me regularly—even when I wasn’t nice to them. She has been trying to right wrongs for a long time.

For our first Mother’s Day together in eighteen years, we sat down and talked over a wonderful lunch. I found the perfect card that said:

“Even though we struggle, I love you.” Inside it read, “I only get one mother in this life and need to be thankful that I have one. I am.”

When I got out, I worried that people in St. Louis wouldn’t accept me, a convicted felon. I guessed that people wouldn’t want to be in my company, and surely they wouldn’t want their children to be around me. My release had been all over the news, even before I went on
Oprah
. For a few months, I noticed a lot of whispers and points when I went about life at the mall or grocery store or Taco Bell or wherever.

Because I had only prison identification, one of the first things I did was go to the Social Security Administration office to get a card. I gave the worker my birth certificate and prison ID.

She said, “You look so sweet. What on earth could you have done?”

I said, “Well, I murdered my father who sexually abused me.”

She just looked at me for a minute. I think she recognized me, and she smiled. She gave me a temporary card so I could get my driver’s license, and she said, “You come right back here, and I’ll help you get started.”

When I returned in a few hours to pick up the permanent card, she wouldn’t even let me wait in line. She handed me my Social Security card, saying, “Good luck to you. Good luck.”

After my
Oprah
episode aired, I was even more worried. I had just started teaching step classes at a large local gym and was afraid I might get fired.

Apparently, one of the personal trainers was pointing me out, saying, “That person killed somebody.”

Another trainer, my friend, told him, “Then I’d do everything she said if I were in her class.”

I was surprised when I got so much support from the members of my classes. They smiled at me and waved. I was embarrassed but pleased. Women would follow me into the bathroom and say, “You’re that girl.”

I’d say, “Yes, yes I am.”

Over and over, I heard the words: “Honey, I’m so glad you’re home.”

On May 28, 2009, I turned thirty-seven as a free woman. It was just a day; I didn’t expect much. After all, I already had the best present I could ever dream up.

But when I walked into Elliot’s house near downtown St. Louis, I was truly surprised. He had gathered all of the friends and people I loved in one place. I cannot describe how touching and special it was. My mother, sister, Tom W., and many others were crammed into his house, laughing, talking, eating, and drinking.

We just celebrated; there was so much to be thankful for.

That surprise party summed up why I fell in love with Elliot Freeman. We had just started dating then, but with that party he did something so meaningful—and labor intensive—for me. I realized he was a wonderful man to give me exactly what I had been missing for the past eighteen years—or longer—of my life.

After the party, I was cleaning inside, and he was working in the backyard. I remember looking out the window and seeing him there watering his plants.

I thought,
Wow. I love this man
.

He made me happy; he listened; he made me laugh. He irritated me sometimes, but I had learned things couldn’t be sweet without a little bitter. I knew I needed to make a choice after that party. Either I needed to be with him or leave him—wholeheartedly.

I had been calling him Mr. Right Now, and I decided to stop that. I wasn’t sure if he was Mr. Right, but I knew I loved him. I decided to stay and to love him with all that was inside of me. He was a good man, and not loving him would hurt me.

A few months later, I accepted when he invited me to move in.

Little Things

hristy came over to our house, and she saw a bunch of old photo albums sitting on my coffee table. I was getting them out for research on this book. She picked up the one with the red cover.

“Are you sure you want to look at those?” I asked her.

“Yes.” She was still as determined as ever. She flipped through and laughed at the photos of us as kids. In one I’m dressed in a Raggedy Ann dress, and she’s dolled up in a Mickey Mouse outfit—presents from Grandma Lannert.

Then she turned the page and landed on a photo of Dad. She closed the album and put it down.

I gave her a hug. “It’s just a picture, Christy. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

She said, “You’re in a different place than I am.”

I understood. She remembers only all the bad parts of Tom Lannert—the smacks, cursing, and violence. He was an evil man, but I also remember the good parts of him. Christy doesn’t want her daughter to know anything about Tom. I don’t try to be Christy’s puppet master; I just stand there beside her. I don’t walk in front of someone who might not follow, as the poem goes.

I’m thankful that she’s finally seeing a therapist. I wish only freedom and happiness for her. In the meantime, she has me.

Today, little things like coffee make me unbelievably happy. In prison, I could only get instant coffee in a Styrofoam cup. My mornings now are wonderful, filled with that rich aroma of a fresh pot I brewed myself. My healing ritual has always been to be outside and watch the sun. Sometimes I’ll drink my coffee during the sunrise. It reminds me how everything is renewed. Tomorrow will always come.

I spend my days working on my Web site for Healing Sisters, a registered nonprofit organization that I hope will help other survivors. I go on the site to tell my stories, and I invite everyone else to tell theirs, too. I want to bring sexual abuse out of the darkness and into the light. That’s the only way to end this epidemic. One in four girls are sexually molested in the United States today. Former governor Matt Blunt called on me to make a difference, and I hope to fulfill this promise.

I speak on college campuses about what I’ve been through, spreading my message to anyone who will listen. We talk about the signs that are easily missed and the consequences of making wrong choices. I just don’t want anyone to feel trapped like I did; I don’t want anyone to walk the same path. There is hope. It’s even more true today than when I was a kid: there are organizations and people who care and will help a child who is sexually abused. I hope Healing Sisters grows into that kind of helpful place. I want others to feel the love and support that people have given me.

I stay busy. I teach ten aerobics classes a week. My favorite is butts and guts. I am starting to do more personal training, too. I love pushing my students to their limits and helping them reach their goals.

I still help the C.H.A.M.P. staff when they call me. I sometimes take in their dogs for a few weeks. I’ve even volunteered for their fund-raisers. Of course, now I have my own dog, too. His name is Coletrane.

My ultimate goal is to go back to school and get my degree. I have to save some money first. I’d like to become a psychologist—working with women who are overcoming their pasts.

———

Just before my thirty-eighth birthday, I had an idea. But I didn’t want to go at it alone. I called my friend Toni to run it by her.

“I am going to get you a present, but I need your permission first,” I said. It was almost her birthday, too.

She didn’t say anything, so I went on. “I would really like to go skydiving, and I thought you might enjoy it.” Skydiving, to me, was the epitome of freedom.

I took her silence as a no. Then all of a sudden she said, “Sure, why not?”

I found a place nearby called Fly Free Skydiving. I told my old friend Sabrina about my plans. She wanted to come, too.

So a few days later, we all drove down there separately for our big jump. I thought for sure they would chicken out. But they showed up, and they didn’t look scared. For some reason, only two jumpers were allowed on the plane at a time. So I let them go first; I wanted them to be able to jump together. I watched the small rickety plane climb high into the air for twenty minutes. One at a time, my friends floated out.

They landed with the biggest smiles I’d ever seen. I wanted some of that.

I got into the plane with the crewmember. You have to fly tandem with someone strapped to your back on your first jump. My guy was cool; the plane was not. It crept higher and higher into the air while I looked down. I noticed a huge white cross up on a hill in a private residence. The cross got smaller and smaller. It was the only focal point I had. No matter what, I felt like I could keep my eye on God and know my place on—or above—the earth.

When we got to 10,500 feet, he opened the door. You don’t jump out; you roll out. The guy strapped to me said, “Right foot out, left foot out, head back!”

Boom
. We tumbled out of the plane. Then we were floating in air. I didn’t feel a rush of wind. I didn’t feel like I was falling. Instead, the earth was amazingly beautiful. The clouds were right next to me.

“I’m going to pull the chute,” the guy said.

Our parachute opened, and the floating sensation was taken away and replaced by something slower and more graceful.

He said, “Do you want to spin?”

“Yes!”

I pulled the cord like he told me, and we did circles.

“Do you want to spin again?”

“No,” I said. I just wanted to drift down to the ground. The whole time, the cross kept getting larger and larger. I felt like I was in God’s hands. I jumped with total trust and faith that I was going to be okay.