Page 13 of Dying to Meet You

Offering a prayer, I fold my hands and say, “Gracious Lord, we give you thanks for the blessings of the food we eat and the love we have around our table. Thank you for our home, family, and friends. Thank you for our health, work, and play. Open our hearts to your love and help us be blessings to those we encounter. We ask in your name. Amen.”

I hear Eden say, “You can be mad without being mean, Waves.” Dinner is tense. Matt grilled steaks, and Hutton threw together a salad. Blaine feels the need to tell me there’s complaining because Matt didn’t do it the way I do, and Hutton put too many tomatoes in the salad.

Once we’ve all dished up, Waverly throws her fork down onto her plate before stomping away. On her way past Zinnea she loudly says, “Just because you don’t have any friends doesn’t mean you get to tell lies to mine!” The message of our meal’s blessing seems to be going unheard. By everyone.

Blaine leans toward me. “You got home later than normal…” He proceeds to fill me in on what I missed prior to supper. Wes and Zach filled the bathtub near their room, tossing in rolls of toilet paper to see if they’d absorb the water. Waverly came home from school angry, Zinnea told her friends she wets the bed, though I can’t imagine why she’d say that. Matt needs to talk to us about something heavy that has him distracted, and Eden has been quiet. According to Blaine, suspiciously reserved.

“Sounds like it was eventful. I stayed to help lock up the building with the new church secretary. She appreciated it.” Warner’s sippy cup is launched, striking Zach in the side of the head. While Matt pulls the crying five-year-old onto his lap to look him over, Keir washes Warner up, telling him not to throw things. He’s three; he’ll do it again.

Wes grabs Zach’s hand as his crying turns into sniffling. “Hey, Zach, wanna hear a joke? What’s brown and sticky?” He giggles to himself as he shakes Zach’s whole arm in excitement.

I speak up, “Wes, let’s not-,” I don’t want to encourage talk of poop at the dinner table. Blaine is ready to put his hand over Weston’s mouth.

He yells over everyone, “A stick! What did you think it was?”

Just like that all the pent-up tension disappears as everyone left at the table starts to laugh. Even Hutton who rarely cracks a smile. “Did you hear me? Who’s the secretary? Is it the weird chick who smells like a cross between mildew and wet dog?” Blaine asks as he flips his fork between his fingers.

“Come on…be nice.” I can’t help laughing at his description. Leave it to him to remember those details from one of only a handful of times coming along with me to church. “No, that was the choir director. Becca just moved here. Get this…She was raised on a farm that did animal rescue.”

Blaine drops his fork, his eyes narrowing at me. “Uh-huh, sure. Let me guess, she’s single and has a crush on you, Big Gulp.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” Not to mention, I’m married. Looking down at my wedding ring designed with my birth stone, I twist it out of habit. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind Blaine of my status, but I drop it, like I do many of the arguments I have in my head with him. I’m closer to him than I am Eden’s other husbands, but he drives me nuts. “She’s aware I’m married. It’s possible to be friendly with someone without it meaning something else.”

It’s in this moment I make the decision to join the adult ministry group. Why can’t I have a friend outside the family? Everyone else does, except Hutton, but he’s not wired that way.

Blaine’s abandoned our conversation in favor of teasing Eden. Typical.

I’m settling back against the pillows as Eden enters the room with a bag of popcorn tucked under her arm and two strawberry milkshakes. “Got your favorites.” Her voice is hoarse, and the jovial tone sounds forced. With her reddened nose, glossy eyes, and her earlier reserved demeanor, I’d be an idiot not to notice she’s upset about something.

“Angel? What’s wrong?” Taking the shakes and sitting them on the bedside table, I fold her into my arms.

A ragged breath leads to full-body sobs. Picking her up, I cradle her close to me. A lump forms in my throat, and tears pool in my eyes. I hate seeing her upset. I’d rather absorb every last bad emotion threatening her than see her suffering. “Eden, angel, tell me what’s going on.”

It could be anything. Lately, the problems have been plenty. Was it Waverly’s outburst at dinner? Maybe it’s our next-door neighbor building a large sign in his yard facing our property, which is sure to be mean. Matt is leaving soon, and his absence disrupts the balance in our home. Her grandfather Roger is having health problems. It’s likely all of it. “Angel?” Kissing her forehead lightly, I implore again, “Tell me?”

Swallowing thickly while wiping her cheeks she bites her lip before replying, “Can I ask you something? Please answer honestly…”

“Of course.”

“Do you think …Do you feel…uh, how do I word this?” She drops her face into her hands, shifting away from me slightly. Muffled, she continues, “Do you ever feel like I pushed you to be here? To be with me? That the way we met caused you to make decisions you wouldn’t have otherwise?”

Not this again.

Every few months she has a crisis of conscience, regretting the fact we met while she was a graduate student doing an internship with cult survivors. But how would our paths have crossed otherwise? I was an eighteen-year-old Holy Brotherhood Mormon who was told I’d be the next prophet before I ran, and she was a twenty-four-year-old college student looking for answers about her past. Worlds apart in life experience. Each time she questions it; I’m forced to examine it again. To make the argument that the start of us doesn’t matter. But each time, it weakens. I find myself indulging in the same doubts. Do I belong here? I want to…

“Eden, why is this coming up…again?”

“You’re not answering me.”

Because the answer isn’t easy. It’s not definitive anymore. I may have fallen out of favor with God because I’m living a lifestyle that could be displeasing. Her expression of hurt when she looks at me causes me to say quickly, “No. Whether our story started in the bookstore the day we met, or God placed you and I in the same place at the same time…we would’ve found each other.” Do I believe that as strongly as I’m asserting? Not anymore. Not after church this afternoon. That realization only makes me feel guilty. I’m letting Eden down, God down…our family down.

Chapter Six

That was dark, I apologize

Keir

Iletmyphonering while staring down at the paperwork on my desk. Disbelief holds me captive at the police reports, statements, and attached photos spread out in front of me. Good god. Is this really happening again?

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