Marrying Uncle Hyrum is enough to send me away from here.
But if Father can help me . . .
If I ever leave
(should I even think this?
no, I shouldn’t even think this)
if I ever leave
(maybe I could)
I’ll find me a house
with a piano
and doctors to help
my mother
and no old man
no uncle
to be my husband.
THE THIRD TIME I went to choose a book, the guy in the ball cap said, “Hey, since we’re getting to be book friends, I should tell you who I am.” He stuck his hand at me. For a moment I didn’t even move.
Men and women never shake hands in the Compound.
“I’m Patrick,” he said. His hand still out there, like it was hanging in the air. Like it had a mind of its own.
“Okay,” I said, reaching forward, just touching his fingers. His hand was cool.
“Patrick,” he said. “Just so you know.”
I felt glued to where I stood.
“Go on. Look things over,” Patrick said, waving his greeting hand. “See what we’ve got today.”
Then he slid around in his seat, watched as I moved in toward the books, slow.
“And my wife’s name is Emily,” he said, surprising me. “We have one little boy, Nathan.”
I hesitated, that day, my mouth full of words. Me, too, I wanted to say. I have those names in my family, too. I wanted to say, I’m not the oldest. There’s Adam and Nathaniel (like your Nathan) and Finn. I wanted to say I have a sister named Emily—just like your wife. She’s older than me. But her mind is slow. I wanted to say all that, but I just kept searching for a book. At last I found The Borrowers and checked it out. Then I went to the back of the van and slipped the book into the body of my dress.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Patrick, when I came up front with the book good and hidden.
“You bet,” he said. “I’ll be here next week.”
I leapt to the ground, dust puffing up around my feet, and headed toward home.
The engine of the Ironton County Mobile Library on Wheels started behind me.
I moved off the road and, as the van got right next to me, flapped my arms at Patrick.
He slowed the van. Rolled down his window. “Want another book?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m Kyra,” I said.
“Well, nice to meet you, Kyra,” Patrick said and he grinned so big I noticed his front teeth were a little crooked.
I nodded. Stood there.
“Can I give you a lift?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Then I’ll see you next week.”
And off he went, with all those books.
__________
LAURA COMES OUT onto the back step with me. She stands beside me, quiet. Neither one of us says a thing for a moment.
Then she reaches for my hand, links her fingers into mine.
Tears spring to my eyes.
“I love you, Kyra,” Laura says. Then she leans right into me. I can smell the shampoo we use in her hair. “I love you.”
I don’t say anything. Just put my face close to hers. Try not to cry. Hold her hand and hope.
I’M MY MOTHER’S FIRST CHILD, born when she was almost fourteen years old.
“Think of it,” I said to Laura when I turned twelve. “I’m almost Mother Sarah’s age when she was married.”
Laura looked at me, her squinty eyes even more narrowed. “You could have your own old man as a husband,” she said.
“Shut up,” I had said.
And she had laughed.
Being the first child is more than just being married early (or first). It means responsibility.
If I were a boy, I’d get to do more stuff, like the boys do here. I could drive any time I was needed (with permission; Mother has taken me out in the family van several times. I’m not too bad considering, though she’s said I’ve given her whiplash.). I could work with the Prophet by carrying messages to families or running errands among him and the Apostles. I could go into town with the others more often. Be a part of the God Squad. Receive revelation for my family.
Choose who I wanted to marry.
MOST DAYS ARE SLOW. With work to fill them up and no time for me to get to the piano or sneak off and read.
But today zooms past. And all I want it to do is slow down. Give me time here with my family, safe, I think. Let my father talk to the Prophet. Let things change for me.
“Kyra,” Mother Sarah says. This afternoon she’s not as sick and this gives me more time to worry about what is to come. She sits propped in her bed, spooning chicken broth into her own mouth, and sharing bites with me and Laura and Margaret and Carolina. “Kyra, you’re such a good help,” she says. “This soup tastes like Mother Claire’s homemade.”
“I used her recipe,” I say. This is almost the truth.
It is Mother Claire’s recipe, but I stole the soup from her pot yesterday, before all this happened, and replaced it with water. Something like guilt catches in the back of the throat. Is this why I am marrying my uncle? Does the Prophet know that this whole pregnancy I’ve stolen food from the other mothers so I wouldn’t have to make it myself? Does he want to teach me a lesson?
I look away from Mother because I know she never, never stole soup from another woman’s cooking pot. Especially not as many times as I have.
“Mother,” I say, getting ready to tell her everything, like how hard it is to cook dinner for so many. Like how I want to play the piano. Or read. Or see Joshua. But not cook another meal.
She looks at me, her face almost relaxed.
I close my mouth to the confession. She doesn’t need this information now. I’ll tell her later, when her baby’s here, maybe after the blessing. Maybe when I am sick with my own pregnancy. The thought makes my stomach turn over. I don’t want anything else to eat.
Carolina bounces on the bed. Her blond hair swings in its braid. Beads of sweat dot her forehead.
“Don’t bounce, baby,” I say, trying to make my guilt go away by being especially nice to Mother. “You make Mother’s tummy ache.”
Our mother nods in thanks. She eats a bit. Shares some more.
Carolina stops her bouncing and says, “Fan Mother harder, Laura. It’s hot.”
“I’m fanning fast as I can,” Laura says. She smiles. I can see she’s worried.
All around us, the hot desert air moves from Laura’s fanning and the big fan propped in the corner. If we only had air-conditioning like the Prophet and Apostles do, Mother would be able to be pregnant in comfort.
The Prophet.
Is Father still with him?
Thank goodness there’s a swamp cooler plugged into the kitchen window or I swear we’d all go up in a ball of smoke.
“It’s hot as hell in here,” says Margaret. Then she smiles.
“Margaret,” Mother says, her tone disapproving. “Your language is not fitting to that of The Chosen Ones.”
Margaret, her face crinkled, keeps smiling. I bet she likes it that she can say a naughty word. “It’s straight from the Bible,” she says.
Laura fans Mother Sarah harder and says, “Tell us about when you were little.”