Burned (2 page)

One Time, One Day
between Davie and Roberta,

I asked my mom

why she persisted, kept on having

baby after baby.

She looked at me, at a spot between my eyes, suddenly fallen

blinking like I had

crazy. She paused before answering as if to confide would

legitimize my fears.

She drew a deep

breath, leaned against the chair. I touched her hand and I thought she might

cry. Instead she put

baby Davie in my arms.

Pattyn,
she said,
it's a womans role.

I decided if it was my role, I'd rather

disappear.

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I
n My View, Having Babies was supposed to be

something

beautiful, not a duty.

Something

incredible, not role-playing.

Bringing

new life into this dying

world,

As I saw it, for a saner

tomorrow.

As I saw it, any expectation of sanity rested in a woman s womb.

God should have

given Eve

another chance.

Instead, He Turned her away, no way to make the world better.

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Regardless

Barring blizzards or bouts of projectile vomiting,

I attended Sunday services

every week, and that week was no exception. Three solid

hours of crying babies and uninspired testimony, all orchestrated by bishops, presidents, prophets, and priests, each bearing a masculine

moniker, specialized "hardware," and "God-given" attiTude; of taking the sacrament, bread and water, served up by young deacons, all boys.

The message came through loud and clear: Women are inferior.

And God likes it that way.

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Silly Me

I refused to believe it.

Not only that, but I began to resent the whole idea.

I had watched women crushed beneath the weight of dreams, smashed.

I had seen them bow down before their husbands, and not just figuratively.

I had witnessed bone-chilling

abuse, no questions, no help, no escape.

All in the hopes

that when they died, and reached up from the grave, their husbands would grab

hold, Tug hard, and allow

them to enter heaven.

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As I sat through that sacrament

meeting, observing those women

smile and nod and kowtow, my warped little mind

wondered if any of them ever

dreamed about really hot guys.

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Somehow, I Couldn't Reconcile

Any of the LDS viewpoint with a "wake up, tingly all

over, and bathed in a cool

sheen of sweat" kind of dream.

I considered talking to Jackie about it. We were really each

other's best friends.

What eise could we be?

Thick as mud,
Mom always

said, and why not?

We shared siblings, cohabited a double bed, confided concerns, diwied responsibilities.

Traded secrets.

Plotted the fuTure.

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Besides, who else but my closest sister

could understand the uncertainty of our lives

Still, I was pretty sure she couldn't relate to spicy dreams about

Justin Proud.

Mom was out. Jackie was out. I tried to think of a friend who might understand.

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Oh Yes

I had a few friends, upstanding Mormon girls all.

Becca and Emily

lived just around the corner.

We'd known each other since primary, and before too many sisters

made it nearly impossible, we used to play together.

In grade school we walked to the bus together, sat as if glued

together, giggled together.

Confided hopes and dreams.

But our moms knew each

other, our dads held

church callings together.

Once things at the Von Straften

house started to dive south,

I didn't dare talk to Becca or Emily about them.

Once baby detail feil more and more to me, I didn't

have time for outside activities.

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Becca played outstanding

soccer. Emily sang outstanding

soprano. I was an outstanding

diaper-changing machine.

So we'd chat a bit at church, walk to class together, discuss a hunk du jour, without believing he might

ever belong to any of us.

Sometimes we'd go to church

activities together, but in the final analysis, we had

very little in common.

Not like Jackie and me, who had almost everything in common and no secret

worth keeping from each

other. At least not then.

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But Neither Becca

Nor Emily could possibly

answer my questions about maintaining all manner of decency

while a person dreams.

So I decided to pose the question in seminary.

Wait. Do you know about seminary?

See, come high school, Latter-Day

eenagers spend an hour each weekday

morning, before the first bell rings, being reminded of Who We Are.

We met at Brother Priors house.

Dad drove me on his way to work.

Afterward, I could walk to school with other good Mormon kids, the "right kind" to have as friends.

Brother Prior repeated scripTures, though we'd heard them a thousand

times already. It was his Job to reinforce

our values and keep our testimony strong.

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He did not encourage hard questions.

Once, after one of Dad's really bad

SaTurday nights left Mom too battered to chance

Sunday Services, I arrived at Brother Priors on Monday morning, weighted heavily.

I didn't hear more than a select few words:

respect.

expect. .

require .

Finally, I jumped up. "Excuse me,

Brother Prior, but is it okay for a man to . . .

" Nine of my peers Turned and I caught

something stränge in their eyes, something . . .

knowing.

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Did They Know

About Dad and his deepening

relationship with Johnnie

Walker Black scotch whiskey?

How, despite the church's

prohibition of all things alcoholic, he only drank more and more?

Did they know why Mom rarely

left the house and often wore

dark glasses to services?

How she never said a word, and neither did we, though

we knew we really should?

How, no matter what happened the night before, the next day Mom and Dad would be tandem in bed?

How Jackie and I would get up, straighten up, dress the little ones and take them outside to play?

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Did they know how maybe once a year Dad would confess to the bishop, promise to do better?

Or how every time he fell

back off the wagon his rage

only seemed to grow deeper?

I tried to find answers in their eyes. But all I found behind their blinks were blank walls.

I couldn't cough out the rest of my question. Instead I decided to look like a total dolt.

". . . Never mind. I forgot

what I was going to say.

It wasn't important, anyway."

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L,ater, However

My cowardice came back to haunt me, wrapped in Mom's muffled screams.

And now, the dream thing preyed on my mind.

I'd never been so impressed by a dream.

I mean, it wasn't a nightmare, not at all.

But its honesty ran chills down my spine.

Was it really something I wanted, deep down?

Would I rot in the grave because I wanted it?

So I stood up and dared to ask Brother Prior, "

Are we responsible for our dreams?"

Serenas jaw dropped. Maria giggled. Mike and Trevor poked each other.

Brother Prior looked completely perplexed.

l'm sure I don't know what

you mean, Pattyn. Let's get back to our scripTures, shall we?

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Maybe It Was the "Shall

Maybe it was just his obnoxious tone, but I decided not to let it drop.

"But
are
we? I mean, if we dream, let's say, about killing someone, will God hold us responsable?"

Did
you dream about killing someone?

"No ..." I fixed my eyes on his.

". . . but I did dream about sex."

The girls gasped. The boys laughed.

Brother Prior turned the color of Mom's rhubarb-cherry pie.

Uh. Um. Well, that's fairly

normal for someone your age.

"What do you mean, 'fairly'?

And how does God feel about it?"

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I was center stage, everyone

waiting to see what came next.

But for once I didn't care.

Uh. Um. Well, I can't really

Speak for God, Pattyn.

"Really?" Then what, exactly, was I sitting there for?

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J
ournal Entry, March 23

Brother Prior is an icliot. And I'm

supposed to swallow his garhage like it doesn't even taste bad.

Well, it stinks! Ask him about

Joseph Smith, he can recite an entire oral history.

Ask him about dreams, he pretends like he doesn't have them.

Ask him about God . . .

I'm not sure he even believes

God exists.

Do I?

Does Mom?

Does Dad? I mean, really?

I know his past haunts him.

But ifhe truly believes he and God are brothers, meant to live together in the Great Beyond, can't he ask for a hand, a way to silence his ghosts,

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without Johnnie WB?

Or is his drinking sin

enough to make his Heavenly

Sibling turn His back?

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The Next Day in Chemistry Lab

Mr. Trotter partnered

me with Tiffany Grant.

Her style was low-ride

jeans, belly-baring tops and designer tennis shoes.

Oh good,
she cooed. I
get the smart one. Guess I won't

start anyfires today.

Tiffany and Bunsen

burners were incompatible.

One time she singed the ends of her perfect hazelnut hair.

My life was in danger!

Tiffany poured water into a beaker.
You light the burner, Tat.

Pat? That's what you did to a dog's head. Part of me

wanted to say something

nasty. The cautious part won

out. "Please call me Pattyn."

That's acTually a pretty name.

Her carrot-colored fingernails

tapped against the counter.

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Actually? As I added salt to the beaker, Mr. Trotter

stepped out of the room.

Not two minutes later, guess who walked through the door?

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Justin Sauntered Over

Totally

defining the word "saunter." For

one completely

insane

minute, I forgot about my lab

partner and actually

thought he was coming over to talk to me.

A fine, prickly

mist of sweat broke

out all over my body, chilled by a jolt of reality.

Justin barely glanced at me before turning to Tiffany.