The Garden Song: a true story about rape

By Cheri Calvert

Weaving together the vivid contrasting colors of two opposing lives into a landscape of forgiveness, Calvert writes courageously of her descent into darkness.

Garden metaphors intertwine gently through the tale, like the tendrils of a vine reaching for the sun, as she leads us down pathways that merge innocence with the horrific.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheri Calvert
• Release date: Feb 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984100019

Cheri Calvert

This has not been an easy journey for me. I have wanted to sweep the dirty events under the carpet. Like an ostrich, I have tried to bury my head in the sand to hide. But despite all attempts to go around this obstacle, it kept cropping up right in front of me, seemingly saying, "This is your Path........ Tell your Story." I am hoping that by publishing this documentation of events that I have experienced, I can help others find answers and healing. Born in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Cheri Calvert’s occupational adventures have taken her from the Aleutian Islands of Alaska to backstage life at Bobby Vinton’s Blue Velvet Theatre in Branson, Missouri. She currently holds a bachelor’s degree in Technology and owns her own Web Development company. She lives in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho with her husband, John.

Book preview

The Garden Song

Reviews & comments

Shocking and Inspiring! Cheri Calvert’s Garden Song cuts deep to the racing heart of terror and redemption. With eloquent precision and unblinking candor, her fresh voice and singular vision take us where few dare to journey while challenging us to rise above our best selves to nurture the enduring hope of the Human Spirit.

Gala Muench, M.F.A.

Author of Siren Song

Approach this book with reverence for you are entering the holy temple of the Heart. There you will encounter an unwashed tapestry of grief and tragedy, woven with such profound sweetness, reflection, and tenderness that it succeeds in wrapping you in a blanket of healing hope.

Patricia Berger

Anusara Yoga Teacher and Ayurvedic Practioner

Blue Lotus Sanctuary

The Garden Song is a valuable resource for victims of violent crime, the people who love them, and the care providers who work with them. Because most rape victims choose to hide behind the cloak of anonymity, this book provides a unique opportunity to understand the pervasive impact of rape and to explore healing in new ways.

Andrea Bershad, MSW

Volunteer Therapist

Coeur d’Alene Women’s Center

Once I started reading, it was impossible to put it down.

"A must read for crisis and trauma counselors and volunteers."

"The Garden Song is a multi-layered journey filled with symbolism and metaphor as the author explores significant themes of the strength and resilience of the human spirit, the power of loving relationships, forgiveness, and trust."

Alternating events of the perpetrator’s life story with those of her own life and childhood, the author provides stark contrasting examples of the role of nature and nurture in human development. This theme is insightfully balanced with the sharing of similarities we all possess by virtue of being human, thus increasing the power of this very personal story.

"The Garden Song is especially suited to the education of professionals and volunteers working in trauma and crisis intervention and as a textbook for students in social work, psychology, nursing, and justices studies. The book accomplishes what no other textbook can – an in-depth personal story."

Eleanor Pepi Downey, MSW, PhD

Director - Social Work Program

Lewis-Clark State College (Idaho)

*****

The Garden Song

a true story abut rape

by

Cheri Calvert

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Cheri Calvert on Smashwords

The Garden Song

Copyright © 2009 by Cheri Calvert

www.The-Garden-Song.com

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-9841000-1-9

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Because of the sensitive nature of this subject, the author has chosen fictitious names for many of the characters in this true story.

The Garden Song

Dedicated to all women who have experienced the devastation of rape

I head into the holiday season unenthusiastically. Ever since reading James Michener’s Mexico years ago, I think of ancient Mayan and Aztec rituals of human sacrifice this time of year as I count the days until the Winter Solstice and the returning light.

I jump at the harsh sound of a buzzer before I realize that it is just the timer announcing the end of a laundry cycle. I set my coffee down, shuffle slowly towards the clothes dryer and bend over to open the door. I pull out an old favorite black velvet shirt that I haven’t worn in almost four years and bury my face in the warm, sweet smelling softness. After all that has happened, I wonder how I’ll feel about wearing it again, infused now with memories that have shaped who I have become.

Anniversaries can be haunting, I acknowledge to myself. As November darkness settles in, I notice myself becoming more unsettled. I try to work at the computer but I can’t seem to concentrate. I get up for another cup of coffee, trying to artificially jump-start my inspiration. I yearn to feel excited about something. But instead, only grayness overlays the thin sunshine spilling into my home office, a penetrating gloom, a deep fear that leaves me feeling like there is something I am missing, something I should have done or something I still need to do. What am I forgetting?

I hear a noise. I cautiously push myself up out of the burgundy leather office chair in front of my computer and make my rounds once again with cell phone in hand; first checking the French doors that open onto the back patio from the kitchen. I make sure that the wooden dowels in the sliding glass windows at ground level are all securely in place and tug on the front entry doors to reassure myself that they are tightly latched. I get a glass of water, hoping to regain my emotional balance. I want to feel motivated again. Instead, fear crowds out creativity as I wait for it to be over.

Waiting…waiting…waiting for the darkness to recede.

I desperately needed to find the light in my own life again, but murky memories still intrude...

Chapter 1

It is the stuff nightmares are made of. Muffled words creep in as the gloved hands tighten around my neck, demanding submission to vile acts. I watched you in your garden… he said.

My eyes strained to catch a glimpse as I turned right off Sherman Avenue. A fleeting view over my left shoulder as I drove by confirmed the rumors I’d heard. The little white cottage, surrounded by my once magical gardens, now looked cold, neglected, and unloved. I refocused my attention on the icy road in front of me and continued driving north on 15th Street.

It was a little after 7:30 a.m. on Saturday, December 30, 2006. The sky matched the dirty, unforgiving chunks of left-over snow as I parked the black BMW and crossed the parking lot, heading towards a skyline of barbed wire. This would be my first time and I was unsure. I chose a door closest to a modest cluster of well-worn cars that seemed to be huddled together for warmth on this frigid morning.

Four women and one little boy about five or six-years-old sat perched on stark wooden benches bolted to the floor at the entrance.

You need to go through there to get signed in, a very pregnant young woman with stringy hair and yellowed teeth volunteered as she pointed to the arch of the metal detector on her left. A pale, unhealthy complexion with sores dotting her face made me suspect picking at crank bugs – the tactile hallucination that meth addicts often experience.

You’re lucky this morning an over-weight older woman in dirty red sweat pants added as she glanced up briefly from her book, Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul. There is hardly anyone here. I’ve had to wait three to four hours sometimes.

Signup for the 9:00 a.m. Visiting Hour at the Kootenai County Jail was scheduled to begin at 8:30. The gray skies threatened more snow, temperatures were frigid, the roads were icy, and it was New Year’s Eve weekend. I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky, but at least I had avoided the usual crowds!

Already on edge, I startled easily when an alarm sounded as I walked through the metal detector clutching my ring of keys.

That’s OK, the disheveled little boy playing backgammon with his mother assured me. But, look! You can go around – through here. He hopped up proudly to demonstrate his experience at bypassing the system by pointing out a wooden gate to the right of the metal detector arch."

Thank you. I said, appreciating the helpfulness and camaraderie of this Saturday morning group as the boy returned to his game on the bench.

I lifted the receiver of the black phone hanging on the cement block wall.

I’m here to visit Luke Crowley.

I could vaguely identify a human figure towering over me through the smoke-colored glass, but not well enough to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Just plain Pat! I thought ironically, remembering an old Saturday Night Live character.

Sign-up is not until 8:30, I was curtly informed by the androgynous figure behind the darkened glass insert.

Thank you, I uttered as I took a deep breath, put the receiver back into its chrome holder and returned to my spot on the bench to watch the clock and wait.

I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him. I figured it was probably over seven months ago, at graduation. The memory gradually became clearer, like a distant shoreline appearing through morning fog as I paddled cautiously closer. I remember it was a lovely May day. I was standing beneath a pink dogwood tree outside of the south facing entrance to Boswell Hall on the North Idaho College Campus, enjoying the warmth of the midday sun. Lewis-Clark State College students from the Coeur d’Alene campus were lined up in their graduation caps and gowns, snapping pictures amidst animated chatter. I spotted my husband, in his doctoral robes, heading up a line of Social Work graduates who looked relieved to have finally made it to graduation. The students included many single mothers who had persevered for years, maintaining not only a full academic load but also full-time employment. Their dedication and stamina earned my respect.

Who are you here for? I turned towards the familiar voice and saw a former co-worker named Luke over my right shoulder, amidst the bevy of impending graduates.

I know a number of the students … and faculty, I responded. My husband is the Coordinator of the Social Work program. How ‘bout you?

I have a friend that’s graduating, and he told me her name as he nodded in her direction.

She’s one of my husband’s students, I said as I recognized the woman from a Social Work Graduation Banquet I had attended the previous week at The Iron Horse Restaurant.

I had smiled and waved as we went our separate ways and Luke disappeared, merging into the crowds entering Schuler Auditorium.

That was the last I saw him, until his face appeared on the evening news a month or so later.

At 8:30, we all cued up in front of the glass window in the order in which we had arrived as instructed over the PA system. One by one, we each inserted our proper paperwork and IDs through a small metal drawer in the wall.

I’m here to see Luke Crowley, I stated over the phone when my turn arrived. Minutes passed.

What’s your relationship?

I was caught off guard with that question, and I wasn’t quite sure of the correct answer. I had not asked anyone’s permission to do this. I had told no one, except my husband, of my intent. Co-worker. I responded, making a quick decision after a brief pause. I nervously shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited patiently in an uncomfortable silence. I began to wonder if I would be allowed to communicate with Luke. Were they checking my ID, running my information through the computer? I did not know the law. I wondered what sort of data might show up. There might be some sort of restriction until after the trial, I worried.

Number 6. The brusque voice informed tersely as I retrieved my ID from the metal drawer. I returned to my spot on the bench to wait until 9:00. Gazing out through the glass entry doors at the parking lot, I wished that I had thought to bring a book. Next time, I mentally reminded myself as my thoughts drifted back to when I first remembered meeting Luke.

My employer, VT International Inc. had hired Luke as a customer service representative for their Virtual Tour Business in the spring of 2006. At that time, the company was experiencing difficulty keeping employees in the Customer Service Department. I had temporarily abandoned my office, where I maintained the company website, and volunteered my services in that department in an attempt to help keep abreast of the springtime scheduling surge of Virtual Tour Photo Shoots. We produced 360º panoramic images of hotels and restaurants for delivery on the Internet for the Hospitality Industry. We were just finishing up a big contract with all of the Best Western properties.

Truth was, I hated Customer Service. I disliked trying to clean up the messes that others had caused. I was frustrated with the unprofessional structure and inadequate accountability. Too many versions of the ‘truth’ made me feel uncomfortable. I concluded that one had to be a proficient and convincing liar to be an effective customer service rep in this game. I longed to get back to my technical issues of coding where the boundaries were clearer and the answers more definitive.

Louise, the Project Manager, had marched Luke over to the cubicle where I was working and ordered him to observe me. I was to guide him through the various intricacies of our proprietary database system and then demonstrate the process of calling clients to confirm the time and date of their Virtual Tour photo shoot.

Luke sat down behind me, positioned to observe the computer screen by looking over my shoulder. I was eager to welcome him, for his presence was my ticket back to the Graphics Department and my Web Development office. Each day, I made a point of complimenting him and encouraging him. I was his most enthusiastic advocate – because I knew that as long as he continued to show up for work, I would not feel obligated to go back into the chaos of Customer Service.

Luke did continue to show up for work on time. I wondered if he would work out, especially since he didn’t drive and he’d asked for permission to attend AA meeting during his lunch break, but I felt supportive of anyone who was obviously working hard to make a positive change in his life.

Luke lasted as an employee of VT International for about two weeks. I didn’t ask why when I heard he had been let go.

At 9:00 a.m. a loud speaker jolts me back to the present, announcing that visiting time is starting. I watch the seasoned veterans for a clue. Almost in unison, everyone stands up and heads around the corner to six little round stools bolted to the floor, with phones and video monitors lining the wall, separated for minimal privacy with cement block wall dividers. I follow behind like the last in a line of baby ducks. A number labels each space. Number 6 is at the far end. As a figure appears on the monitor, I sit down and pick up the receiver.

Hello, Luke, I say uncertainly.

Hi, Cheri. He looked uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact. I can’t hear you…

I take a deep breath and raise my voice a notch, Hello Luke. Can you hear me now? He shakes his head, stands up and walks towards a door visible in the background. I can no longer see his face, only his torso encircled with chains. I shudder. The leg shackles inhibit his movement and make him look like a dangerous animal in a cage. It appears that he is asking for some help to make the audio technology function correctly – but I am unsure. Does he just not want to deal with me? I wait. He returns to his seat and fiddles with something that was out of camera range.

Calvert! booms a male voice over the loud speakers, Move to #5! I stiffen at the harsh sound of my name, feeling immediately vulnerable and somehow guilty. The woman at #4 catches my eye and points at the stool next to her to make sure that I had heard and understood my instructions. I nod a swift, silent thanks as I slip onto the designated stool and stare at the blank screen;