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According to the post-mortem report, it was something much more prosaic. Frederick Jaffe, the pathologist who performed the autopsy, determined Kathy had acute meningitis and an abscess near her left inner ear, which had ruptured hours before she died. The cult spent days trying to pray it away, to no avail.

It began on September 28, People were shocked that such a thing could happen in Toronto, where the best hospitals in the country were just a few blocks away. Originally, the inquest was to be held at the city morgue on Lombard Street, but due to the massive amount of attention from media and the public, it was moved to the city council chambers at Old City Hall, where hundreds of spectators sat in the gallery.

My father testified that he believed Kathy was trying to get his attention, and that she only seemed to scream when someone walked past her door. He had spanked her across the behind several times the day before she died, claiming that if she was going to act like a child, he was going to treat her like one. During his testimony, my grandparents looked on with doting affection, proud of his loyalty to the family.

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He had stuck to the script. All the attention was on the cult leaders and the Globe family. I never read so much as a single keystroke of sympathy directed at my grieving father. In a piece for Saturday Night magazine, the journalist Barbara Frum took an ill view of my dad.

Toward the end of the inquest, Moore took the stand. He denied ever hitting Kathy and claimed he loved her very much. By way of defence, my grandfather presented himself as a deeply troubled and weak man, susceptible to the influences of others. Doug, for his part, called the whole inquest a witch hunt. After a few hours of deliberation, the inquest jury delivered their findings. They concluded my grandfather and his wife had been negligent to not seek medical care or hospitalization for Kathy.

Matthias that they failed to give her adequate personal attention and similarly failed to recognize the obvious symptoms that she was suffering severe physical pain. A few hours later, the Anglican Church released a statement. No criminal charges were ever laid.

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It included an Anglican priest, a canon and a rector, as well as the head of psychiatry at Sunnybrook Hospital, a U of T medical professor and a lawyer from the Bay Street law firm Strathy, Archibald, Seagram and Cole, which would later merge with Gowlings. In May , the commission published the results of its inquiry. Given this premise, the need for exorcism followed as a logical consequence. B y January , my grandfather was a visiting pastor to the Church of St.

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  • Michael and All Angels on St. Clair West, and regularly administered Eucharist at St. He decided his only solution was to leave the country. That year, he and my grandmother settled in the mountains in Jamaica. For seven years, he ran three thriving congregations. He never practised faith healing again. After Kathy died, my father enrolled in the history program at the University of Toronto and later entered the insurance business. In , the same year his parents fled to Jamaica, he met my mother, Diane, who was 27 and working as an administrative assistant at U of T.

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    Soon after their marriage, he and my mom saw a psychiatrist several times to assess the damage. My father was haunted by guilt and shame, by the brutal shock of someone he loved dying because of his father, a man he worshipped. I was born in , and my younger brother followed four years later. In , the four of us settled in a modest detached house near Laird and Eglinton.

    Leaside will always be my Tatooine, minus the sand and droids. To outsiders, we appeared to be the perfect nuclear family. But my relationship with my dad was always strained. Sometimes he could be kind, teaching me basic carpentry and electric skills for my Cub Scout badges. Other times, he could be unpredictably hostile.

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    Once, when I was eight, he broke my hockey stick in half to teach me a lesson about cleaning up after myself. I hated him. I first met my grandparents in the early s. They were stern but never cruel. By this point, they had left Jamaica and moved to Wilberforce, Ontario, where my grandfather ran a ministry at St. Whenever we visited our grandparents, we would participate as guests at their Anglican parish.

    I can still remember my anxiety of taking communion and walking up in a line with my mother. No one ever mentioned the cult. Once, I attended a family reunion in Wilberforce. He presented my brother and me with matching Yoda action figures, and explained how being a good Christian and believing in God were similar to the Jedi and the Force.

    I was involved in the social aspects of church: the choir, the Christmas pageant where I played one of the wise men. But as I grew older, church and God became annoying chores I had to endure. I had no interest in the prehistoric ramblings of religious characters who were terrified of damnation and crops turning to dust. Deep down, religion also unsettled me. Once I was so mad about something that I ripped a cross—given to me by my grandfather—off my neck and threw it out the car window.

    He loved to sing and was in the church choir, but no one seemed to like his voice. He would sing off-key, which he seemed to do as a way of being heard. Most people try to stand out so they can reveal themselves to others. When my father did it, he was just alienating himself. He had few friends—the only people he knew were his family and the odd neighbour—and he never told us what he was thinking or feeling. He was always preoccupied and distant. B y , my parents had split up and my dad was living in a one-bedroom apartment above the funeral home where he was working.

    My grandparents commented for the story, too. It happened to me. It was a dreadful time. It sounded like some twisted made-for-TV movie. At first, I was horrified, both by the story and at my aunt for airing it to the paper. The family figured she just wanted to drum up publicity for her new congregation. My father refused to talk about it.

    And yet the Star piece was ultimately a blessing. I finally understood my grandfather. I thought about his fear of evil and endless regrets at being so weak.

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    I recognized a genuine sadness at what had happened, the incredible remorse he must have felt. As for my father, everything made sense: his obsession with religion, his need to belt out a solo in the choir to impress his father and his simultaneous fear of him. How did he sweep it all under the table and start a family? After the article came out, my father and I never had any more confrontations. Jump to: navigation , search. Dark Eldar Portal.

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