Stolen Innocence (35 page)

When I met Whitney that day, it was the first time I’d ever been introduced to an African-American. I didn’t know what to expect or whether Warren’s words would be true, but within minutes, my unease dissipated as I instantly liked Whitney and their baby. Whitney was so different from what I had pictured in my mind. She was clearly not the evil person that Uncle Warren had described. She was kind and welcoming to my siblings and me, despite our differences. She even let us hold the baby. Jacob had named his daughter after our sister Michelle, whom he’d loved as much as I had. Their baby was gorgeous and—like her mother—different from anyone I’d ever seen. She had milky caramel skin and exotic bright brown eyes. Even though she was only a few months old, I could tell that she would grow into a radiant beauty.

As I sat there talking to Whitney, I found myself thinking that all it took was contact with the outside world and the barriers of fear that Warren had constructed came tumbling down. It was becoming much harder for me to view outsiders as evil when they were my family. Jacob was a good person and he was creating a good family. I could not stomach the idea that he, his wife, or his daughter were somehow wicked just because they were not a part of our church.

I was happy to see my twin brothers reunited. As for me, I was overcome with a mix of emotions when I climbed back into the car for the next leg of our journey north. Being back in Salt Lake City and seeing this unit of my family gathered together reminded me that there was a whole world out there beyond Short Creek that I had all but forgotten.

We traveled a less direct route than we normally took in order to meet Kassandra at a convenient spot for her and Ryan. My sisters had agreed upon the parking lot of the Red Lion Hotel in southern Oregon. I hadn’t heard a word from Kassandra since she’d left the previous month, and I was still upset with her for leaving, not to mention all the trouble she’d gotten me in. Though I missed her immensely, I acted distant during our meeting. I felt severely abandoned, and the load that I felt she’d forced me to carry on my own was starting to crush me. She looked happy with Ryan but very different from how I remembered her—her hair was cut short and she wore worldly clothes of slacks and a blouse.

I hung back as Kassandra and Teressa caught up on things but tuned in when the topic turned to Craig. He’d embarked on a great journey since leaving our home in 1996. He’d bounced around a bit but now was living near the coast in Oregon. I was happy to hear that he was okay but a little disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see him. I remained withdrawn for much of the meeting, staying close to Justin as my two sisters spoke in hushed tones so that I couldn’t hear. It bugged me that they were whispering right in front of me like I was too young to participate in their “adult” conversation. Every time I moved in closer, they would stop speaking, and by the end of the afternoon I was offended by their slights.

With Justin safely dropped off, we pulled onto the road for the last leg of our trip, and I was relieved we were almost there. Before we left Hildale, I hadn’t told Teressa that I was “with child,” even though I was already close to four months along and suffering from terrible morning sickness. Because my two previous pregnancies had ended in miscarriages, I was scared that this too would have an unfortunate end. The thought of my miscarriages made me feel horribly guilty, and I was certain that God was punishing me for my disobedience. Even as my third pregnancy had passed the two- and three-month mark, I couldn’t bring myself to seek medical care at the women’s clinic at Uncle Fred’s house. I was nervous that within hours of my appointment the entire community would know that I was pregnant. Pregnancy was proof of what Allen and I had been doing, and the thought of such a private, unclean matter becoming public gossip felt dirty.

When we got to Bountiful, almost instantly I felt a change in myself. At last, I was able to relax. Letting my guard down a bit, I finally told Teressa about the baby growing inside me as well as the others I’d lost. She was kind and compassionate, and helped me to feel good about myself. She brought me to see the FLDS midwife, Jane Blackmore. I had heard that Jane was in the process of leaving her husband Uncle Wink, the former bishop for the community in Canada, as part of a broader move on her part to leave the FLDS altogether. She’d recently moved to a location about twenty minutes outside of the community but kept her birthing center in Bountiful, where Teressa took me for my first-ever prenatal examination. Jane immediately set me at ease with her gentle manner, and she agreed not to tell anyone about my pregnancy. I knew that if word got back to Allen, I would be ordered to return to Hildale. After some routine tests, she searched my belly for a heartbeat. It was at that moment that the magnitude of my circumstances crystallized. Hearing the heartbeat made my pregnancy real, and overcome by my situation, I burst into tears.

Jane understood; she made me feel safe and like it was going to be okay. I confided in her about my previous miscarriages, and she promised to take care of me. She did not approve of my underage marriage, and she knew what lay ahead for me both in the delivery room and as a new mother. I was still a child, and Jane appeared upset that a person so young should be put in this difficult and emotionally trying position.

She encouraged me to go into the hospital in the neighboring town of Creston for an ultrasound, but I had no medical insurance. Not to mention that it was a huge risk for me to seek care at a real medical facility. I had no money and was not a legal resident of Canada. Medical personnel would have wanted to know where my parents were. If they learned my age, they might learn of my marriage, which could be a huge problem. Seeking help ran the risk of shining a spotlight on the FLDS, and I feared the repercussions.

My checkups with Jane did a lot to ease my apprehension about the pregnancy. That winter, I rang in 2003 surrounded by the warmth of my sisters and their families. Teressa assured me that I was welcome to stay with her and Roy for as long as I wanted. “I’ll take care of you,” she vowed.

Of course, the occasional thought of Hildale only made my anxiety return. Everything was unsettled back there: my marriage to Allen, the situation with my family, and the leadership of our people under Warren. I’d begun to wonder about the way things were developing. I took great risk in silently questioning whether Warren’s behavior was right. He’d told us that none of the prophet’s wives were going to be married, and he’d also said that he wasn’t going to be the next prophet. It didn’t make sense to me because neither of these assurances had happened as he’d said they would. In Canada, I saw the fallout from Warren’s declaration about Winston Blackmore. A new bishop had been assigned to the Canadian community in the wake of what we thought was Uncle Rulon’s decision to strip Winston of his position. Bountiful was now divided over where to pledge its allegiance.

By early February, I was almost six months pregnant. I’d been to the midwife for two examinations, and everything seemed to be progressing well. When I next saw Jane on February 20, I expressed concern. I hadn’t felt the baby move in a couple of days, and I was feeling very weird. I’d begun experiencing a burning sensation in my stomach as well. The next night, I awoke to a sharp pain in my side and spotting. I kept trying to tell myself it was probably nothing to worry about, that I’d just been to the midwife. I tried to go back to sleep but was too uncomfortable. The next morning, I was speaking with my sister Sabrina in her bedroom when suddenly blood began gushing down my leg.

She raced me to the bathtub and immediately summoned Teressa, who called Jane for instructions.

“Bring her in right now!” she told my sister. I hardly had time to think as my siblings gathered me up and bundled me into the car. By the time we arrived at Jane’s, I had lost a lot of blood. I was terrified as Jane quickly started an IV and checked me over. I was hemorrhaging badly, and she couldn’t find a heartbeat. The baby had died, and my body was going into labor to expel the fetus. I would actually have to deliver the baby, with no anesthetic. I was sicker than ever before, and barely able to stand. My condition frightened Jane, but she was helpless because I was not a Canadian citizen, and due to my situation, I didn’t have access to Canadian health care. She was so concerned for me that after the initial crisis she took me to her house outside the community to keep me close.

I’d gone through labor to produce a stillborn child. The trauma was overwhelming. Jane tried to console me, reassuring me that it was not my fault. But it wasn’t easy for me to put behind me. I felt like I was to blame, and it took me a long time to get over the suffering. Part of me was relieved and part of me was devastated. This stillbirth only reinforced my belief that God was punishing me. I reviewed the last two or three years of my life, and all the things I’d done and how I hadn’t been a submissive wife. I wondered if this was why God was bringing this on me. Still, Allen had not made it easy for me, and it had been at his insistence that we have children in the first place.

At age sixteen, I’d been married for less than three years and already I’d had two miscarriages and a stillbirth. I couldn’t prevent what was happening to me, and I didn’t know what was wrong. Was it God warning or testing me? Was it that I was impure? It wasn’t just the miscarriage; I started to worry that my body was somehow just wrong. Consumed with guilt, I begged everyone to keep what had happened a secret, fearing that if Allen found out, he would surely make me come home.

I
n the end, it didn’t matter whether or not Allen knew. I’d been dodging his calls for a while, but not long after my miscarriage, my priesthood responsibility knocked at my door and I could no longer ignore him. He wanted me back in Short Creek, and he called to let me know that Uncle Warren was instructing me to come home. Uncle Fred, too, had said that it was time for me to return. I’d been gone much of the winter—nearly three months.

“I’m not coming back,” I told my husband.

“I’ve changed,” Allen insisted. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I can’t,” I told him. “I don’t love you and I don’t think I ever will.”

Allen began to send cards and letters in an attempt to sway me, and when his efforts failed to bring me back, I later learned Uncle Warren telephoned my sisters’ husbands and told them that I could not stay with them any longer. Teressa wanted to keep me with her, and she’d tried to do everything she could, but she had zero influence. Even her husband could not sway Uncle Warren. Everyone was afraid to go against his power. Not long after Warren’s call, Allen informed me that he was going to drive up to Canada to see me.

I felt like a deflated balloon when I saw him step out of his truck that first day of March, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He said he’d missed me so much, but I couldn’t say the same. There was pressure from every direction, and the decision to stay in the marriage was not mine to make. Uncle Warren, Uncle Fred, and even my mother were urging me to come back to Hildale to carry out my responsibilities as Allen’s wife. It was as though I was being pushed into this marriage all over again, and I didn’t want to succumb. I knew that if I agreed to get into his truck that day, there might not be another chance to get away from Allen. I had fought hard, but here I was again, back at square one.

I could feel that familiar lump forming in the back of my throat as I fastened myself into the passenger seat and waved farewell.

“It’s going to be okay,” Allen assured me as he turned the key in the ignition. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

From the first few moments of the drive, I could see that he was making a huge effort, trying to start over and make me fall in love with him. I decided that the only way it was going to work was if I was completely honest, so I told him what I’d been keeping from him for so many months.

“I was pregnant, and I had a miscarriage,” I announced, as we drove south along the highway. “And it wasn’t the only one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked in a soft voice, slowing the truck to look in my direction.

“I didn’t want you to know. I was having such a hard time being pregnant in the first place, and I didn’t want you to know or Mom or anyone.”

It was clear that Allen was hurt, even though he managed to maintain his composure. But his sadness was not for what I’d been through; it was for himself and the fact that he was not going to be a father. The way he spoke only heightened the guilt that I already felt, as if he was trying to make me see that I’d done something bad. As I sat there listening to him place responsibility for the miscarriages solely on me, I felt upset that he wasn’t taking time to understand how I was feeling. The only thing he wanted to do was blame me for them. The conversation slowly shifted away from this painful topic as I sat silently in the passenger seat watching the mile markers fly by.

Allen had set his mind on making our drive back to Hildale a kind of second honeymoon, and he promised that he would try harder to respect my feelings. I wanted to believe that he meant it. We’d been on the road for a while when we exited the highway in Lava Hot Springs, a riverside resort town in southeast Idaho, halfway between Salt Lake City and Bountiful. He had booked a room at the Lava Hot Springs Inn, where we would spend the night. The rooms, some of which had jaw-dropping views of the Portneuf River, had comfy big beds and huge bathtubs.

The emotional drama of the day had worn me out, and I dressed for bed the minute we returned to our room from dinner that night. After a few short minutes I dozed off to sleep, but when I woke up I knew something was not right. Dazed, I realized that I was in bed next to Allen and he was undressing me. In spite of all his promises, here I was just a few hours reunited with him and already he was going back on his word. Catching him beside me unfastening my nightgown brought back a flood of old feelings. I loathed him and I hated what he was doing to me. It was an instant reminder of how many times it had happened and how he’d refused to stop even as I begged him to. I’d just confided the harrowing events of the past few weeks, and the fact that he would even think of pushing himself on me in this way only proved to me how little he thought of me. To him I was merely an object of sexual desire. There was no me, just a body.