The Chosen One (8 page)

“Father?” It feels like I can’t breathe either. I give Mariah a small shake. “Mariah?”

Father steps to me. Pulls Mariah from my hands. Blows in her face. He’s lost all color. Mariah’s lips are dark blue, like the sky before the sun sets.

“Richard,” Mother Claire says. Now her voice is loud. “She’s not breathing. Richard!” Her voice rises, goes high. Her eyes are wide. She grabs at Mariah.

Mariah lets loose with a scream so loud I think it might blow out the windows, it might call Uncle Hyrum back.

Father hands the baby to me. He puts his arms around Mother Claire, who sinks against him, and then to the floor. Father pulls her to her feet, then guides her to the sofa in the living room.

It takes me a while to calm Mariah. When her little arms are tight around my neck, I walk her into Mother Sarah and Father’s bedroom. I find something warm to wrap her in. A crocheted blanket, all colors of the rainbow.

“If I was going to kill Uncle Hyrum,” I whisper onto her ice-cold face, as she calms in my arms, “I’d do it in Africa.”

HOW CAN I EAT
with him?

I hate him.
Hate
him.

How can I marry him?

I am sick to the very center.

I must think of a way out of this.

FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR NOW
, I have been in my tree, clutching
Anne of Green Gables
, not even reading it, and hating Uncle Hyrum.

“Kyra.” It’s Mother Claire calling. Mother Claire, who never talks to me except to tell me what to do, calling me now.

I make my way down out of my tree, careful not to rip my dress on one of the thorns. I make my way to her front steps.

We stand together for a few moments, like we’re facing off.

I’ve crossed my arms across my chest. She’s crossed her arms, too.

After she clears her throat, Mother Claire says, “The Prophet tells us be obedient. So do his Apostles. Like it says in the Bible.” Her voice is like a reed. Thin and to the point. There is no fear now like there was earlier. Her eyes match the brown of her dress. Her skin is smooth. She’s Mother Sarah’s older sister. Older by five years. They have the same hair color, the same noses.

I don’t say anything, just listen like I care. But I
don’t
care. Mother Claire should have run away with Mariah. No,
I
should have. That’s what I kept thinking in my tree. I should have run and not looked back. Tied Mariah onto my chest, leapt over the fences, jogged all the way to Florentin, or past that. Out of the state. Away.

“Remember in the Bible where it says it is better to obey than to sacrifice?” Mother Claire says.

I nod. Sort of.

“Kyra.” Mother Claire’s face is close to mine now. She smells like garlic. I can see she spent some time crying. Her eyes show it. “Listen to me. It’s easy to fall astray. It’s easy to lose hold of the truth.”

When I don’t say anything, Mother Clair speaks again. “They watch. They see.” Her voice is low as the sand. “They hear what’s going on in our homes. They know everything.”

Everything
.

Fear races up the back of my spine, stopping at my hair. Do they know Patrick? Do they know the books? Do they know Joshua?

“Your father does what the Prophet says. Screaming babies can mean a disobedient child. We do what they teach us to do. You’ve heard of people doing what we did today. Others do it more than we have. It’s what we’re
supposed
to do.”

I look Mother Claire right in the eye. Why stay here, I wonder. And she answers with a shrug like she hears my thoughts.

“This is what I know. What your father knows. This is our lives. We are obedient.”

It’s not my life
, I think.

We stare at each other a long time.

Then I nod and go home.

I REMEMBER BEING SIX
or seven years old. Father held me on his lap and said, “Always do what God says to do. Always do what Father tells you. And Mother, too.”

He caught me outside the Compound fence, just standing there, looking past the chain link. “Kyra,” he said at home, me on his lap, “you must be obedient. You must do as you’re told. Stay home. Stay close.”

“What’s out there?” I said.

Father was silent. Then he said, “The world.”

“I want to see the world,” I said.

“We’re safe here,” Father had said. “We’re away from everyone. Alone. Safe. Out here. Just us. Just The Chosen Ones.”

“Looking outside the fence, going outside the fence alone is dangerous,” Mother said. “It’s like standing too close to the edge of a cliff. You peer over the side, you might fall. You might lose what you have.”

But I looked anyway.

THERE
’
S A NOTE
under the garden rock. “Meet me tonight,” it says. “Behind the Fellowship Hall. Southwest corner. 1:30.”

I can hold on till then.

Mother Victoria comes over after dinner. Father is with her.

“I’ve settled my brood down,” she says, smiling. Her smile is fake. She shows her teeth, and her lips curve, but something is missing in her eyes. Does she know how I feel? Did she feel the same when she had to marry my father? Mother Victoria waves a pad and paper in the air.

“Sarah,” she says to Mother, still wearing that smile. “I’ve come to take measurements.”

Laura is in the kitchen, helping me with the dishes. “Mea surements for what?” she says. Even with my hands in hot water I feel cold.

“For Kyra’s wedding dress,” Mother Victoria says.

“No,” I think and until I hear the sound I don’t even realize I was going to say this.

Mother Victoria keeps talking, though she stumbles, grasping for words. “Umm. I have some ideas,” she says. “You know, to make it, nice.”

“No,” I say again. My hands become fists. I can smell grease in the dishwater.

“Kyra,” Father says and Mother Sarah stands and walks toward me. Laura is silent.

“I won’t do it,” I say. I drop the dishcloth and turn to face my mothers and my father.

“I’ve talked to them,” Father says. “Kyra, the Prophet Childs says it was direct from God. A vision was opened to him.” Father’s face has lost color. And he looks old. Old. I’d never noticed before that he’s growing old.

“I don’t care what was opened to him.” I say this between clenched teeth.
Just hold on until this evening
, my mind tells me,
and then you can see Joshua
. “I don’t care what he saw.” My stomach tumbles on itself. “He wants me to marry my uncle.
Your
brother.” I’m almost screaming.

Father flinches.

I run to the bathroom, slipping a little on the wet kitchen floor.

Like Mother, I curl myself around the toilet. I let out a scream, “Aaaah.” My voice echoes around my face. Then I throw up so hard it feels like my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head. The skin stretches over my chest, burning. All the day’s food, gone. And when I’m sure I’m finished vomiting, when I start to move away, I puke again. Then again. “It’s not fair,” I say. “I don’t love him. I don’t even like him.” My voice goes high and screechy at the end.

Just hold on
.

In another room I hear Carolina say something, then start to cry.

I know I should be quiet. That I should do what I’m told. But I can’t help it. Another scream tears from me. Without meaning to, I’m crying.

Someone taps on the door.

“Kyra?” Mother says.

My throat is raw. The room stinks. I’ve cut the palm of one hand with my nails from making such a tight fist. My nose is stopped up. My heart is broken.

How did I wind up here? How did we all wind up here?

“Kyra?” Mother says. “Father will talk to them again.” She doesn’t come in the room with me. Her voice is low like maybe she doesn’t want my sisters to hear what she says to me. Or maybe she doesn’t want those who listen in on us to hear.

It doesn’t matter what she says, though. No matter what her promise might be, I can’t do it. I cannot bear the thought of marrying my uncle. The thought gives me the dry heaves. Makes my head pound.

I will not do it. I will
not
.

Pushing myself up from the floor, I reach for a towel and wipe my mouth. And right at that moment I decide, without a doubt, no matter what, I’m leaving.

WHY ARE THERE
so many babies?

Because children are an heritage of the Lord. Says so right there in the Old Testament. Listen to those words fall from all the Prophets’ mouths. Since time began they’ve been saying this.

During church, when I should have been paying attention and thinking about God, I thought about family. About Joshua and me marrying, having our own babies.

Nothing is like a new baby. Those tight, angry little faces. The way they blink at the light, bothered. Those tiny fists. Squished noses. I love babies fresh from God.

All those babies, coming right here to us.

Coming, maybe, to Joshua and me.

If.

__________

UNCLE HYRUM SHOWS
up for dinner, and us not even expecting him.

He makes Father leave Mother Victoria, though this is Father’s week with her. He makes Father come to dinner at my house.

“We need a man to chaperone,” he says, “to show that I’m honorable,” and he claps Father on the back with a laugh. Not one of us laughs with Uncle Hyrum. He settles on the sofa.

“It’s good to see the women of the community,” Uncle Hyrum says, “to see how they run their homes.”

Mother glances over her shoulder at him. I know she wasn’t planning a big dinner, nothing more than pancakes. She scurries around the kitchen, then says, “Come with me, Laura. And Kyra, please set the table.” The two of them hurry out the back door. Mother doesn’t look like she feels that great again. Maybe Uncle Hyrum has made her sick to her stomach. He sure has me. I try not to look at him while I work. But I can’t help it. I steal glances at him and Father as they sit in the living room.

His hair is gray at the temples and is slicked back with something that makes it appear wet. His shirt is buttoned all the way to his throat again.

Carolina sneaks over to Father’s lap. He wraps his arms around her tight.

After a few moments, Mother comes back into the house. She carries a platter of roasted meat with carrots and potatoes lining the plate. Laura has a pan of rolls in one hand and a pie in the other. I’m betting they’ve been to Mother Claire’s house. We haven’t eaten this good for months because cooking meat makes Mother want to puke. I can’t believe how good the food smells.

My mother says, “We’re ready, Richard.”

Father nods and he and my uncle come in to sit at the table.

Uncle Hyrum presides, taking Father’s chair. He makes me sit next to him. And makes Mother Sarah eat with us, too, though her lips go pale as she sits there. I’m not sure if it’s the beef or Uncle Hyrum that make her feel sick.

“Dear God in Heaven,” Uncle Hyrum prays when we kneel at our chairs for the blessing on the food. “We thank thee for this bounty. We thank thee for the truth. Help us to see it and be believing. Help those here who must yield.”

I think my heart might stop beating. If I’m lucky, my heart
will
stop beating. But there is Joshua tonight. I can make it till one in the morning. I could do anything until one in the morning.

We wait for Uncle Hyrum to fill his plate. I make sure there’s grape juice in his glass at all times, like he tells me.

Uncle Hyrum has six wives of his own. Six! What does he need one more for? Why? He’s greedy.

I can tell by the way he eats. With his mouth open. And piling so much on his plate there’s hardly any left for the rest of us.

No one speaks but Uncle Hyrum. He talks on and on of God and his family and the blessings that are his. The blessings that will soon be mine.

“Just one month,” Uncle Hyrum says, “and you, Sister Kyra, will be bound to me and headed toward heaven.”

What can I say to that? Nothing.

What do I think?
You make me sick. With your balding head and meat stuck in your teeth and the way you smack your lips when you eat. You make me sick and I’m not planning on sticking around here. I’ll leave, I’ll take my sisters away, I’ll go. You can’t make me stay here
.

He smiles and I see where his tooth should be and I realize this is another reason to hate him.

He talks and talks. About discipline. About obedience. About lalalalala and dadadida. If I could get to a piano right now, I would play Chopin. I would try a bit of Liszt. I would hammer out Beethoven just to make this uncle—my future husband—be quiet. I could care less that he’s an Apostle. I just want him to shut up. How could this man be my father’s brother?

At last, at last, Uncle Hyrum is done eating. He calls on Father to say the closing prayer. My uncle hasn’t spoken to anyone once. Just at us. He’s never asked for a response. And all I can think is how much I hate him.

Then Uncle Hyrum says, “Kyra, walk me to your gate.”

“We don’t have a gate,” I say. Bricks line our yard, separating it from my father’s other wives’ yards.

“Oh yes,” he says. His eyes are like buttons. The kind on an old coat that have lost their shine from so much use. I hate him! Hate him and his button eyes.

I keep sitting.

“Kyra,” Father says, his voice low coming across the table at me. Margaret says, “Don’t make her go with him.” She starts to cry and then Carolina bursts into tears, too. Laura hurries to the kitchen sink like she’s anxious to do the dishes. Now I feel like I might weep, but I don’t. I feel so much hate, I could spit.

I walk to the door where Uncle Hyrum stands. He tries to take my hand in his, but I won’t let him.

I’ll never let him
, a voice that I don’t even recognize screams in my head.

Outside the evening is cool and the moon has given the yard a milk-washed look.

“Do you understand what is about to happen?” Uncle Hyrum says when we reach the bricks that border my mother’s yard. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t think you do.” He links his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. He stares off toward the Temple. “You were saved for me. I saw you when you were young and prayed for you to be mine then.” He’s quiet a moment. “Doing what you’re supposed to do will make life much easier for you, Kyra. And your father. And your mothers.” He takes a breath. “Don’t send your father to Prophet Childs again.”