Tell Me What He Did: A Memoir

My heart broke over the message Heather Marsten sent telling about enduring years of sexual assault and abuse. “Every morning without fail, after one of my father’s visits, my mom would say, ‘I heard him in your room last night. Tell me what he did.’ She wrote down the details, filling two notebooks….”

The title of Heather’s memoir, Tell Me What He Did, refers to two aspects of her abuse—that question her mother asked, and what He—God—did to rescue Heather from her abusive home.

Her healing was a long, meandering process. It included therapy, paganism, New Age practices, witchcraft, voodoo, Macumba, tarot and, she says, “ultimately real healing through Jesus.” Heather now says, “It was only when I discovered God that I was able to put the pieces of my life back together and walk forward in a joyous life.”

“Writing this book has been an adventure,” she says, “because God has been showing me where He was in the midst of all the chaos of my life. Some of the ways surprised me.” 

For example, Heather now sees that God was in the nots—those bad things that could have happened but did not. She says, “I did not get pregnant by my father, did not go insane, and did not get a communicable disease. At the time I saw God as a do-nothing, but in reality, He had put a hedge of protection around me.”

She sent us the following excerpt, giving a glimpse into her mother’s backstory. Heather was in third or fourth grade in this scene.

     Clotheslines crisscross our backyard. Mommy stretches and rubs her back. “Damn hot. Sheets should dry in no time. I’d sell my soul for an automatic washer and dryer.” 

      I hand Mommy a clothespin. “I like our wringer washer. We make a great team. You send the clothes through the wringer. I catch ’em.” 

      “Bet ya Hazel has one. Bastard takes better care of her than he does us.” 

      Shut up about Hazel. 

      After the sheets dry we make my bed. I point to a photograph hanging on my wall—a short-haired Indian princess wearing a fancy dress and a sparkly headband with a feather. “Who’s that?” 

      “Me in my favorite dress. Don’t I look good? Let’s get a drink to cool off. I’ll tell ya about it.” 

      I sip cherry Kool-Aid at the kitchen table. “Why does the dress have those hangy things?” 

      “Fringe. That fringe moved like wild when I danced. Maggie, a hoity-toity maid who worked down the block from me, wanted that dress too. I bought it. You shoulda seen her face when I wore it on my day off.” Mommy smiles and sips her orange juice. “Had this picture taken right after I got my Flapper haircut. Was all the rage. My parents said I was trashy to have my hair so short.” 

      “Flapper?” 

      “We called ourselves Flappers in the twenties. I was so good at dancing the Charleston. Here, let me show you.” She puts her cigarette in the ashtray and stands. She wiggles her hips as she walks forward and backwards, puts her hands on her knees and quickly moves her hands back and forth across her knees while her knees move in and out. “My fringe flied.” 

      “I saw someone dance like that in a movie.” 

      She sits. “Saved five months for that dress. Back in those days you only earned a few bucks a week. That’s the first new dress I ever had.” 

      “Your parents didn’t buy you new clothes?” 

      “There was twelve of us. Daddy was a coal miner. We were dirt poor. We used to run and meet him after the whistle blew. He saved crusts of bread from his sandwiches to give us kids as a treat. Couldn’t afford new clothes. All my dresses were passed down from my three older sisters.” 

      “Didn’t the kids in your class make fun of you?” 

      “No, we were all poor. ’Sides, I only went to school ’til eighth grade. My baby sister, Anna, was the only one to get new clothes and graduate high school.” 

      “You didn’t go to twelfth?” 

      “Nope. My parents needed money so they farmed me out as live-in housekeeper to a rich family in Chicago. Most of my money went home. With the little I could keep, I bought the dress.” 

      “That’s not fair.” 

      “Anna got everything. I got shit.” She sighs and sips her orange juice. “Still, I had fun. On my day off, my friend Betty and I went dancing. Those were some good times. Go play.” 

      I can’t imagine Mommy dancing and having fun. She never smiles.

Wow!

After you catch your breath, notice Heather’s writing—how she develops her mother’s personality and her own, sets the tone, includes details, writes tight (avoids wordiness), and creates curiosity for readers. Especially note how Heather writes dialogue. We don’t find even one “she said,” yet we all understand who is speaking. That’s impressive! Good job, Heather!

She is writing her memoir to encourage those who have endured abuse. In fact, even before publication, her story has brought help to others. God has lovely and powerful ways—even miraculous ways—of using our stories. I know He will continue to use Heather’s memoir to bring His healing to countless others.

Heather is a happily married mother with three young adult children. She and her husband are proud to witness their kids grow into compassionate, loving people venturing into the world.

A scene from her memoir-in-progress, Tell Me What He Did, appeared in Heavenly Company: Entertaining Angels Unaware, an anthology compiled by Cecil Murphey and Twila Belk.