Chapter 9

That fall we stayed home together, Ashley and I. I still don’t know that had happened to her that summer. But for some reason we just live parallel lives. We separate, we come back together, and everything’s the same. No catching up, no delay. Just comfortable.

That night in the Gholdston’s kitchen, we made bowls of strawberry ice cream with blueberries. We watched Mansfield Park. That was the one time in my life that I knew that my time was being defined by my actions. That those days and night and heartbreaks were with Ashley.

She wants to be a chef. I knew that ever since I met her. I helped her cook thanksgiving dinner one time our senior year of high school. She steamed the broccoli. Who steams broccoli? It was for mister Coffman. Than crazy old man with the federalism tie and the separation of powers and checks and balances belt. He drank only apple cider. Wore the same worn beret every day.

Even back then, I laughed too much.

With Ashley, it was enough. Never too much. We could make each other cry. Laugh. Sing. She could turn me shy and I could turn her bold.

I always wondered what it would be like to grow up in a home that didn’t welcome you. Ashley didn’t have to wonder. Ashley knew. But somehow, she always came out strong. She was strong and stable and loving. She knew her standards and she wouldn’t lower them for anyone. Ashley is small, petite, and French-like. She is delicate looking. With one of the prettiest faces I’ve seen in real life; the kind of face that makeup ruins. That fall, her hair was long. Down past her shoulders.

We’d go to the zoo. We’d go to church. We’d go to the mall. Out to dinner. To the temple. No matter what, and no matter where we went, it was comfortable. It was right. At that moment, God had designed Ashley for me. She became the bandage to my wounds, the Neosporin to my scrapes. She became the Tylenol and the alcohol too. She dressed my wounds, when hers were so much deeper.

Take a picture of us kissing.

He turned bright red. I turned bright red. I mean, I faltered, take a picture of us making kissy faces.

How is it that Ashley was the only one not flustered by that moment? What secret confidence does she hide?

We were going to go on our missions together. We prepared. We talked. We submitted at the same time. And the mine came.

Armenia. September 19^th.

France, January.

Four months?

When I came home from the MTC because they thought I needed knee surgery, she was there. She was so excited. She was so ready. She was so everything that I was not. We sat in my living room. In the too-formal chairs stuffed in the too-small space. I didn’t tell her anything. I wanted her to have her own experiences, make her own judgment. So I didn’t tell her.

I didn’t tell her how they made fun of me. How they didn’t like me. How they thought I was prideful. How they would forget about me and leave me. How it was my own personal hell.

Victoria, it sounds like your mission was your own personal hell.

If you only knew.

One night, we decided to watch a movie with James. James, who was in love with and completely flustered by Ashley at all times. We watched it in my house, on the L-shaped couch that just begged you to curl up in the fetal position and sleep. I was on the edge, on the chaise lounge. Ashley curled up in the corner. James in between us. Ashley and I fell asleep.

I felt like I was protecting you, he told us.

We slept as he watched, guarding us, caring for us. He was one of the most unique people I have ever met; caring more for the welfare of those he loved than for himself. It’s not as common as it sounds.

I remember feeling so sick, so weak, and so un-protected. Exposed. Raw. Like scratching the white part off of strep throat; all that’s left is pulsing flesh, each breath burning and each swallow choking. I remember asking the Lord to give her patience to deal with me. Give me strength to meet up to her expectations.

Have you ever preg-tested a cow? She asked.

Are you trying to say prag-tested and just are Canadian?

No, like pregnancy tested.

Sister, I’ve never even come within 50 feet of a cow.

She looked at me as if I was crazy. It was that look that she always gave me; it was like her face just automatically turned to pity and loathing when I crossed her path of vision. When she listened, she looked like she was in pain. When she was mad, she looked calm. Her face was so deceiving.

Companionship unity is one of the most important things, he told us. We knew that. But how do you reconcile the differences of a peacock and a workhorse? Of a California blonde and a Canadian farm girl?

Lika like dziun ka aintegh.

Even Siranush made fun of her.

Where was James when I felt so alone, so sick, so wrong in the middle of the night. Curled up, sweating on that olive green couch. Our apartment looked like it was from the 40’s it had the entrance, where we kept our heavy boots and heavy coats, heavy with Armenian mud. Heavy with dread. The toilet, that so often ran out of water. We’d carry the borsch pot from the kitchen, down through the breakfast hall, through the living room, and into the entrance just so we could flush.

The shower was off of the kitchen. The bok filled with reddish silt from years of unfiltered water, a clawfooted bathtub underneath to catch the water. But then it spat it back out onto the floor, which had a drain. What was the point of the bathtub, just receiving water to spit it back out haphazardly onto the cold tile? What was the point of Armenia, receiving me only to spit me back, cold, alone, and hurting?

Our beds were in the breakfast hall. I bet it was beautiful in the summertime, that hallway. I bet it was warm and light. My bed had a windowsill that led into our study room. I could literally crawl out of bed and through the window to study.

Where was James the night I woke up in agony, bleeding from unholy orifices, writhing in pain? Where was he when I was awake, night after night, with only the cockroaches for company? Where was he when I needed a strong, loving body by my side?

Where was he the day I came home, when there was no Ashley to console me. When she was gone, living her life no longer parallel to mine. When she was thriving in paris, Versailles. When she was inspiring hundreds and influencing thousands. Where was he?

Then again, where was she?