Chapter 18

If that summer were a story, Lake Powell would be the climax. We talked about it for months, fantasized, planned. But that was supposed to be one of those things that you dream about, that never happens.

Like when Anna and I went to Disneyland.

But suddenly we were there, baking on the sand and exploring the water. Suddenly we were riding in a speed boat with former missionaries. Young men and young women whom we had only seen in skirts and blouses, suits and ties. Eating, sleeping, living in their bathing suits. The pictures from that trip inspired a generation of jealously – the group of us, talking and laughing. Sleeping.

That first night, we made the ridiculous decision to sleep boy girl boy girl, one after another. I somehow got sandwiched between Michaelsen, whom I had never met before that evening, and Seeley, the sister with lioness hair. Halfway through the night, Christensen and Seeley began hooking up. They thought we were all asleep. But no, we were all awake. I want to be clear here; this was strictly kissing. In our world, that’s what “hooking up” means. But all the same, awkward.

There were so many memories. Anna, Jodi and I on the top of the houseboat. Three generations of the Princess Dynasty. I feel I should explain the Latter – Day – Saint mission culture; your first “companion”, or missionary that you live and work with, is your trainer. They also call them your “mom” or “dad”, depending on your gender. Anna was my trainer, Jodi was hers. We were given the nickname of the princess dynasty because, well, it fits. So those nights on top of the houseboat, it was like we got to know each other as women. Not as missionaries, sent into a savage country to preach the truth to men and women who, for the most part, don’t have any interest in listening, but as real women. Women with emotions, and likes, and dislikes, and fashion sense, and sex drives. And oh have we got that. It runs in the family, you could say. Each more volatile than the next.

Anna and I snuck off as everyone else started a slide show. Too painful for me. Too recent for her. We snuck into the darkness, lit by the full moon. From that moment on, I started counting the number of full moons since that trip. I lost count in Chicago. We talked of eternity, of events too significant to voice. We wandered the shore on the quiet side of the boat, just making the moment and turning it into the memory it became. I begged my angels to makes sure to write all that down. I want to watch the footage of that walk someday.

Me moaning on the floor of the houseboat as the random chiropractor who came on the trip popped all my dislocated ribs back into place. A group of people surrounding me, fascinated by the process.

Throughout the hell that was my life in Chicago, I would look back to that trip. Considering it foreshadowing of what was to come. Hoping that someday, all the plans we made would come true. I dreamed of that trip; when the wind grew especially cold and fierce, ripping and tearing at my flesh, I would picture myself rolling around in the waves as Anna snapped photos. So hot that any part of your body that touched another part would sweat. I would imagine the water, the food, the caves. I would begin feeding off the emotional stores I had created.

It was like starvation; as the body would feed off its own fat stories, so I would feed off of the emotional haven I created that summer.

It ran out it may.

There were no more warm nights, no more careless road trips, no more memories to feed from. They all seemed a dream. A world of happiness I didn’t dare recall. It scared me what I would be willing to do to go back.

There was a night, in Chicago, where the weather reflected my heart, my mood. Usually the weather there was pretty random. But that night, it fit. The clouds swirled in black and purple mounds, a witch stirring her poisonous brew. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled and roared. And I sat on the carpet, but the sliding glass door. The exit to the balcony. Rested my head on the cool glass, pushing the heartbreak to the ends of my fingers and toes. Trying to push it out. Emotional constipation. She slept in the other room. A scene all too common for her; while her companion lay in a heap on the floor, she slept soundly, dreaming of her own sanity.

She was deceiving. So innocent, so perky. Inside she was a she-dragon. A ravenous she-wolf, hungry for the misery of others. You know the phrase misery loves company? She was a walking, talking version of that phrase. Her own immoral past haunted her, causing her to lash out at anything living or breathing nearby. The girl before me lasted 18 days. The girl after me lasted 10. I lasted a month.

It’s difficult to explain exactly what she does to you. I heard that one of her companions wanted to jump out of an 8 storey window, rather than stay with her. I considered ending my life. I really can’t explain it to you; I wish you could see it. She is emotionally abusive to women. Probably because she was emotionally abused by the women in her life. A deadly pattern. She’s a carrier.

Somehow everything became my fault. Suddenly, the somewhat easy task of loving others became impossible. Somewhere in that hellish month, I lost myself.

Letters were my refuge. I had a typewriter that I used to write about 12 letters a week. I would write and write, every Wednesday. Pouring out my soul on paper, trying to get people to respond. That week, the letters turned into something to dread.

First from Mandy. A friend from high school passed away in a sudden and tragic car accident. No one was at fault. It was just an accident.

Then Mike. I loved him so dearly, so completely. He opened my frigid heart and taught me to let go. And he chose her over me. What’s funny is that I saw it coming. That morning, I woke up, said my prayers, and declared to Hna. Ramos that today I am going to get Dear Janed. We went about our business as usual. And when we got the mail that evening, there it was. I walked calmly into the bedroom and cried. I let the racking sobs of disappointed affection, of a fairy tale gone awry shake my frame. He was perfect, as far as I could tell. He was what I wanted. I wanted him for now, forever. I wanted to give him everything.

My mission ruined my life.