“I love being here,” I say. “I love being able to see it all and having no one see me.”
A breeze rushes over the desert, rustling the leaves. It’s like the tree wants me here, even though I did attack it with the Cutco.
The Temple shines like a beacon. At the Prophet’s house (that place takes up more space than a whole line of trailers), lights glow at the windows. I can see some people moving there. The moon slips from behind the mountains, drowning out some of the stars.
I sit for a while, doing nothing but wondering at being alone like this, wondering at the Prophet’s visit, until Mother Sarah calls my name out in a weary cry, “Kyra Leigh, come on in. We’re going over to Mother Claire’s place now.”
“I’ll be back,” I tell the tree, and the leaves rustle again with the wind.
I HEAR THEIR VOICES as I get closer. I can hear the kids as they hurry to meet at Mother Claire’s trailer. They laugh, someone whines, a young child cries out. Maybe one of the twins? I hurry to meet them.
Here are my brothers and sisters.
Here are my father’s children.
Adam, 17.
Finn, 16.
Emily, 15.
Nathaniel, 15.
Me, almost 14.
Jackson, 13.
Robert, 13.
Laura, 12.
Thomas, 11.
Margaret, 10.
Candice, 10.
Abe, 9.
April, 8.
Christian, 6.
Meadow, 5.
Marie and Ruth, 4.
Carolina, 3.
Trevor, 2.
Foster, 1.
Mariah, 8 months.
And two more babies on the way.
WE WAIT.
All of us together. Father, all the Mothers, all of the children. We girls are dressed in our Sunday best. My brothers are dressed in church clothes, too. Their ties on, some of them crooked. My hair’s braided so tight I feel a headache coming on.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Mother Victoria says. “The Prophet and his Apostles coming here.”
Father smiles. He pulls Trevor and Foster onto his lap and smiles.
“Maybe,” Mother says, her words spilling out with hope, “maybe you have been Chosen.”
Her voice is low, but it’s like all twenty-four of us have heard her. Even Mariah grows quiet. We look at Mother Sarah and then at Father. Now he smiles so big it looks like his face might crack wide-open.
“Hyrum says my name’s been mentioned,” Father says. His cheeks have turned pink. We stare at him. “They’ve talked of us all in meetings.”
The timer on the stove goes off and Mother Claire hurries to the oven, the heels of her shoes tapping on the linoleum. From where I sit, I can see her; the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one place in this trailer. She pulls cookies from the oven.
Mother Victoria clasps her hands under her chin. “They’ve been talking of us? Are you serious, Richard?”
“That’s what Hyrum says.” Father squeezes a hug around the boys in his lap and one laughs. “He talked to me yesterday. Told me we’d get the visit.”
“And he was right,” Mother Claire says from the kitchen. She almost smiles.
All the sudden, I’m excited, too. Anyone can see that the Prophet and Apostles are blessed. They have real homes. They have nice cars. Maybe . . . my heart thuds with the thought . . . maybe things are changing for us. Maybe I was harsh to wish the Prophet dead.
“I’ve been faithful,” Father says. He looks around the room at his family. He smiles still. “I’ve been a faithful disciple.”
I am warmed to the teeth at my father’s smile.
My good father.
I REMEMBER sitting on my father’s lap. So small, so cute (I’ve seen the pictures that prove it). My hair was that whitish blondish color. The color that Carolina’s is now.
I wore a dress of pale blue with pink trim. And fed Father strawberries one at a time. I snuggled my head into his neck. And he laughed and kissed my face and told me how much he loved me, his Kyra.
“Kyra, Kyra Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” he sang.
“Kyra, Kyra Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” I sang back. “Kyra Kyra me, me, me.”
And Father sang, “Kyra Kyra you, you, you.”
_________
I LOOK OUT the window that faces east, out over the desert. The sky’s almost black now.
Mother Sarah sits near Father, leaning against him. He pats her hand, pats my brothers in his lap. Mother Victoria keeps all the smallest children quiet by telling a story of Jesus. Mother Claire wipes down an already-clean kitchen.
Adam, my oldest brother, looks over at me like he wants to say something. Emily, who is not right in her mind and who would be the oldest sister if she were sound, wanders around the room. She touches each of us, squished in tight together, on the head. “Duck, duck, duck,” but no “goose” because there is no running or playing. We’re waiting for the Prophet.
We are waiting for God’s Anointed.
While I watch my mothers, while I gaze at my father pink-cheeked with hope, while I listen to my siblings all around me, I am struck to the center with worry. I squeeze my eyes shut. Can Adam read my mind? Is that why he looked at me that way?
I’ve doomed the family. I know it right that second. It feels like someone has dumped ice all over me. It feels I am right-at-that-moment covered with snow.
My father is pure. My mothers. My brothers and sisters. Emily for sure.
But me.
Me!
I’ve planned to kill someone. No! not someone! I’ve planned the death of the Prophet. God’s Anointed. God’s Chosen.
And there’s more. So much more.
Without thinking, I stand. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to run. Get to my secret place so I can be alone. Get away. Maybe make them safe from my unclean thoughts. From the things I’ve done.
“Duck, duck, duck,” Emily says. She reaches for my head.
“Sit, Kyra,” Mother Claire says. She’s by the sink, ringing out the washcloth. “We’re waiting for God’s Chosen.”
“I have to go,” I say. Now Nathaniel and Laura stare at me. “I forgot something.”
“Kyra,” Father says, “whatever it is can wait.”
“No, Father,” I say. I can feel my face turning red. My sins on my cheeks. There for everyone to see. “I need to leave for now. You can tell me what happens. Prophet Childs won’t notice I’m not here.”
“Kyra,” Mother says. “Sit. Please.”
And Mother Victoria, all full of gasps, says, “He notices everything. He sees everything. He’d know if you weren’t with us.”
“Kyra Leigh,” Mother says again and her voice is soft in this room full of my family. “Be obedient to your father.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and flop back onto the sofa. Then, under my breath, where not even the closest sibling can hear me, I whisper, “God in Heaven, forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” It becomes my chant.
I cannot curse this family
OKAY. It’s not just the planning to kill Prophet Childs. There’s more. There’s lots more.
Squished between my sisters I try not to think of my sins but they are all in me. I know they are there.