Page 63 of Longing for Liberty

One Year Later

When news finally broke identifying me and Jeremy, naturally the whole world was curious.

Well, “curious” was not a strong enough word.

Some were obsessed. I suppose I understood.

Everyone wanted answers. Everyone wanted the pieces to the puzzle that would make the whole picture clear.

But I wasn’t ready at first. The offers for interviews poured in.

It got to the point that I didn’t want to leave the house, and I didn’t feel at ease when any of the family was out of my sight.

Don’t get me started on the first time one of my kids got a fever.

Or the first time I heard a kid flying a toy drone outside.

I needed therapy, but that would require leaving the house.

People wanted answers that I had. Perhaps if I gave those answers, I could have a moment of peace.

That’s when I got the itch to write.

For the first time in my life, I wrote something that was not fictional or fantastical.

I wrote my own story. My Lady Liberty memoir.

As I wrote, my shame, guilt, and disgust were laid out in a way that forced me to fully examine every feeling.

Every hurt. Every raw, gaping wound and freshly healed scar.

I had to put words to those things—things I didn’t want to face. But I had to.

And as I wrote, I began to forgive myself. I began to embrace the difficult decisions I’d made and how I’d reacted in the moment to those decisions. And then I did the unthinkable.

I published it.

I knew it would be insane, but I was still not prepared. If I thought the attention was a lot before…wow.

The good thing was, my book made enough money to buy us a fenced villa with substantial land.

We had cameras installed and a paid security detail.

That seemed extreme, but Jeremy insisted.

Especially after we gave testimonies against the trillionaire Ronald Hempshire.

He was arrested for aiding a war criminal, but he got off.

As I’d fully expected. The rich rarely did hard time.

Unless they were Amos Fitzhugh, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t live in fear of him escaping or being released from Leuze-en-Hainaut prison in Belgium.

I paid close attention to the goings-on in the State. To the point that Jeremy had to gently pry my phone from my hands some nights and urge me to rest. I couldn’t help it. I was obsessed with every detail, so terrified they would somehow backslide into servitude again.

The OM academies were quickly secured after the city center takeover, the leaders arrested, and the children taken into custody.

In fact, all over the four communities, leaders and known OM were being arrested and put on trial in a case that rivaled the Second World War’s Nuremberg trials.

Psychiatrists, mental health professionals, and cult experts from around the world came to study the OM leaders, the women, and the children.

The primary question was who could be safely allowed back into regular society?

Even many of the non-OM workers were brainwashed and wanted to fight against those trying to free them.

After a full year, some neighborhoods were still run by State Force troops holding off the overthrow, but other countries were sending in reinforcements now.

And then stories of abuses began to surface. Abuses against workers by State Force and bosses. Abuses against OM academy children by their teachers and leadership. So much pain. I wasn’t sure how I still had any tears to cry, but I managed to keep making more.

A bright spot was finding contact information for Rebecca, Stanley, Paola and Denari Baker, and Kathy. We flew them all out to the villa. When Rebecca walked in wearing all black with her short hair dyed bright red, I stood with my hands on my hips, grinning widely and shaking my head.

“I knew it,” I said. “You’re hot.” She’d thrown her head back to laugh and spun me in a circle as we hugged, laughing.

We all stayed up late for several nights telling stories. It was fascinating to hear all of the things that had been going on in different places, each moving cog part of the bigger machine, and all parts so important.

Stanley told me he had been captivated by the part of my book about Autry Burton, whom I’d given a fake name because I’d been unable to find him and get permission. Stanley and I both vowed to locate him and see how he was.

“You all should consider coming back,” Stanley said carefully.

He still held a small dessert plate, now empty after he’d eaten the slice of cheesecake with blueberry sauce that we’d special-ordered.

“Your story is really important.” He took my hand and squeezed it.

“We’re all trying to heal and rebuild together.

And I think it would be uplifting for people if you were there. You’re sort of an icon now.”

“Noo.” I covered my face as everyone laughed. I was no more of a hero than every other person in the resistance and C5, and I didn’t want anyone putting a savior stamp on me.

And then I remembered that I hadn’t told them the crazy thing I’d done. “Wait, I need to show you guys something.” I stood and turned, lifting my shirt. Up the side of my ribcage in sexy black letters was the word Jezebel .

May as well own it.

They all cheered, and I saw Jeremy just watching me, a grin of admiration on his face. When I told him I wanted to get it, I expected him to question my thought process, but instead, he immediately grabbed his keys and told me he was ready whenever I was.

“Ooh, I’m going to get one that says Masculine ,” Stanley said, making us go quiet. “Because I nailed that straight man act.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Jeremy, Rebecca, and I met one another’s shifting eyes and simultaneously fell out laughing, making Stanley swat at all of us until he was dying laughing too.

“For real, though,” Denari said to Jeremy once we calmed down. “Would y’all think about coming back?”

I looked at Jeremy. Neither of us had brought it up yet.

We’d only been in the villa two months. I was just finally catching my breath and starting to feel human again, not to mention still building relationships with our children.

Jeremy said nothing, but I knew he would do whatever I wanted to do.

Now that I was back on meds and beginning my healing journey, in a way, I felt like America was a sister who’d also been assaulted and used horrifically.

She hadn’t deserved that. And though the most brilliant and creative minds were coming together to form an even better, stronger democracy, which would attempt to right some of the wrongs done in recent history, and protect the country from future domestic incursions, it would take the rest of our lifetimes to get her into working order.

Could I handle the turmoil of a broken nation being rebuilt?

And would our family be safe? I did worry about retribution from stray Order of Mercy members or Ronald Hempshire. We’d have to take precautions like we had here. Mostly, I was worried about the children’s safety.

It was all so scary. But at the same time, it felt wrong hiding away, just because I could. We undoubtedly all had PTSD. I wasn’t special in my heartache and fears. I’d just been one of the lucky ones who could afford to escape from it for a bit.

I thought about how the United States of America had rebuilt after the Revolutionary War, and how I loved reading those stories. I imagined it wasn’t an easy time, full of unrest and infighting, but there was something beautifully inspiring about starting over and the endless possibilities.

I smiled at my friends and then at Jeremy. “What do you say?” I asked him. “Do you want to go home?”

He grinned at me. “I say let’s do it.”

The room cheered, and a smile split my face as I felt a sense of togetherness and something so much bigger than us. My fight wasn’t over. Lady Liberty needed to relight her torch.

There was work to be done.