The Promised World (47 page)

He knew he was going too far, but he couldn’t help himself. Back at his apartment whenever he tried to think of that day he drew a blank. It was only in the cab, talking to strangers, that he seemed to be able to bring it all to life: the feel of the sun on the back of his hands and the bright drips of green falling off their cones onto the hot pavement and how awkward and adorable Lizzie looked that night, lugging the giant panda to their car.

He didn’t realize how he’d begun to live for these discussions until a rainy morning in April, when they suddenly came to an end.

He’d picked up a girl at the bus station downtown. One of the weirdos, though this one wasn’t pierced or tattooed or obviously strung out, but even more bizarre, naturally pale as a made-up Goth, but dressed like a throwback to the fifties: long flared black skirt, fluffy pink sweater, even the white ankle socks and saddle oxford shoes. Her hair was in a thick braid, twisted like some kind of tight crown on top of her head, and she was sitting up so straight she looked uncomfortable, eyes unblinking, small white hands folded carefully in her lap. Stephen had already put her out of his mind when she mentioned the tickets about ten minutes into the ride. But before he could tell her about the slides or the food or even the perfect weather that day, she noticed what no one else had: that the tickets weren’t stubs.

“What happened?” she said. “Why didn’t you ever use those?”

He flushed with a confusion that quickly turned to anger. It had taken him nearly a year to perfect the story of the amusement park—for chrissakes, couldn’t he have even this? He wasn’t asking for all the days and hours and minutes he would have had with Ellen and Lizzie, he was just asking for one more day.

Stephen had been taking his family to the park when their car was broadsided. Lizzie had wanted to go all summer, and that day they had the tickets: they were really, finally going. All he had done in his story was change “were going” to “had gone.” A mere verb shift, and yet it changed everything.

And now this strange girl in his cab was forcing him to change it back.

Her voice was entirely innocent. She had no idea what she’d taken from him. But then again, he had no idea what she was about to give.

Two

W
E HAD A FATHER
who loved us. Even as my brother Jimmy turned his back on the Sanctuary, I knew he had to still believe this, deep in his soul.

In my earliest memory, Father was holding Jimmy and me on his lap, telling us how important we were to him. More important than all his money, more important than the Sanctuary, more important than the stars in the sky or the ground below. The most important thing in the known world, the most important thing imaginable. “I want you two to be happy here forever,” he said, his voice as tender as his arms around us. “Whatever you want you can have, as long as it won’t hurt you.”

As long as it won’t hurt you.
Too bad Father had such an active imagination. When I was eight years old, I read a story about a girl on a tire swing, with long flowing hair glittering in the sun as she moved back and forth. I asked for a swing of my own, but Father couldn’t do it. “Swings can wrap themselves around your neck and choke you, Dorothea,” he said. “You can fly out of a swing and sever your spine.” When Jimmy wanted paints—not watercolors, like we already had, but real rich colors, thick—so he could try to copy the encyclopedia picture of a Roman centurion onto his bedroom wall, Father wanted to give them to him, I know he did. He was shaking his head sadly when he told Jimmy, “Those paints are poison. The toxins could seep into your skin.”

From pets that might bite to bicycles that could crash, our father had to protect us. He couldn’t bear the idea of a plastic swimming pool, no matter how shallow, because a child can drown in only a few inches of water. Climbing trees was a sure way to break your arm, or worse. There were dozens of trees on our property, but none of them had limbs lower than twenty feet, thanks to Father and the chain saw he kept locked in the storage shed. From my bedroom window, the trees looked like a clump of upright celery stalks.

I was weaker than my brother; perhaps this was why it was easier for me to sympathize with Father’s worries. I was only two years old when I developed what Grandma called my “nervous breathing,” and what the doctor called an anxiety disorder. My heart would pound at a hundred and eighty beats per minute or more, and my breath would develop a frantic rhythm to match. Father taught me how to control it, so I wouldn’t lose consciousness, but still, the horrible feelings of dizziness and panic were something I could never entirely forget, and they lurked in even my happiest moments, like snakes poised to strike.

We lived on thirty-five acres that straddled the border of Colorado and New Mexico, more than twenty miles from the nearest town. The four of us—Father, Grandma, Jimmy and me—were survivalists. That’s what the local preacher said anyway, when he came for a visit to see what we were up to, and went away convinced, without ever stepping foot inside, that our father knew what he was about.

After he left, Father laughed. Each month, we ordered nearly everything we needed from Colorado Springs: three freezerfuls of food that arrived on the first Tuesday in a clean white truck. “Survivalists?” he said. “We wouldn’t survive twenty-four hours without the delivery man.”

Father could joke and laugh, but the grown-up Jimmy had forgotten all about that side of him. “He’s a nut,” my brother would say, and I would sigh. This was about a year before Jimmy left, for good as it turned out, though only Father suspected he wouldn’t be returning. I thought he would come running back as soon as he realized what the world was like; I even tried to convince him in my letters that he was putting himself in danger, though of course I had no proof of this, and he laughed off all my fears. He wrote that he was surrounded by normal people doing normal things, like working and falling in love, things he himself was planning to do now that he had finally “escaped” from the Sanctuary at the ripe old age of twenty-three.

The Sanctuary was Father’s name for our home.

We’d lived there as long as I could remember, though Jimmy claimed that he vividly remembered the time before, in California, when our mother was still alive. I was four when we left, he was six; maybe he did remember. Maybe everything he said was true: that we’d lived near the ocean in a house on a hill with a whole room just to watch movies in; that he’d gone to first grade with other children, and watched cartoons on television, and flown in airplanes to other countries, and rode at the front of a parade on Thanksgiving Day. He even got to stay outside until he was sunburned, he said, because a sunburn wasn’t a big deal to our mother. She said a sunburn gave you rosy cheeks and little freckles across your nose and all you had to do was put on spray and it didn’t hurt anymore.

Father would never allow us to stay outside for more than twenty minutes at a time. He would sit on our wide porch with his watch in his hand. “Sunburns can give you skin cancer,” he said. “I’m sorry, children, but we have to be on the safe side.”

Jimmy’s first rebellion was pretending to be sick during lessons and then climbing out of his bedroom window so he could stand in the sun all morning. At first, Father thought Jimmy’s redness was due to a terrible fever from his flu. When he realized the truth, he was so surprised he collapsed in the chair by Jimmy’s bed, head in hands. Then Jimmy was sorry. He was only eleven years old; he still wanted to please our father.

Grandma said this rebellion would pass, but it didn’t, obviously. As he grew to be a teenager, the things we’d accepted all our lives were suddenly unacceptable. Why hadn’t we gone to school like normal children? Why did the doctor always come to our place? Why didn’t we have a television like everyone else in the world? Why did we have to learn everything from old textbooks and an ancient set of encyclopedias? Why had we never left this stupid Sanctuary? Father got to go to town sometimes—he had a Land Rover just for such trips—why wouldn’t he take us with him? What was wrong with him anyway?

It shocked me to hear my brother talk like this. Father had taken such good care of us for so long, and personally, I felt sorry for him, having to do it all with only Grandma to help. I often thought if only our mother was there, everything would have been much better, though the truth was the only thing I really remembered about her was her hair: long and fiery red, like Jimmy’s. There were no pictures of her in the house; Grandma said it was because Father couldn’t bear to see them. Neither Father nor Grandma would tell us how she died. Jimmy didn’t remember either, but he said it must have been really awful, or why else did our father become so strange?

“He’s no stranger than the Amish,” I retorted during one of these arguments, sticking an encyclopedia volume in Jimmy’s face, already open to a page on the Amish people of Pennsylvania. I was thirteen and I was ready. “At least we have electric lights!”

Jimmy frowned. “We don’t have a religion.”

I wasn’t sure about this. Father said we were “lapsed Catholics,” but Jimmy said that meant no longer Catholic, which meant no longer anything.

“So?” I said.

“The reason the Amish live like that is they believe it’s what God wants. That’s not what Father thinks at all. He thinks the people in town are evil monsters we have to stay away from.”

“He never said that.”

“Oh come on, Thea. You know how he talks about how corrupt the world is. What do you think he means? The dogs and cats and horses?”

Jimmy was rolling his eyes like I was a fool. Perhaps I was, but Father was not, of this I was certain. If he said the world was corrupt, then it had to be true. No matter how innocent the dusty road to town appeared, there was something out there, something unspeakably terrible and cruel. There had to be, or why would Father work so hard to keep us away from it?

It helped that Grandma took my side. She’d lived in California her entire life, but she never missed it. She said the world was a bad place that had made me sick and nearly destroyed our father. “You’re lucky he bought this Sanctuary for you,” Grandma said. She was in the kitchen, cooking as usual. We had Mrs. Rosa, our housekeeper, for weekly cleaning, but Grandma herself prepared all our meals. She never let me help her. Father didn’t want me to get cut or burned; he thought it might bring on one of my attacks. “I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn’t,” Grandma concluded, and I nodded.

The unknown was always more frightening than the familiar, and the Sanctuary was familiar. Why didn’t Jimmy see this too? The Sanctuary was a safe place for us all. We had very good books, old though they may have been. We had a beautiful piano, and a record player with hundreds of records, also old, but many great songs. We had fields of flowers to gaze at (but not walk through, in case of bees). We had a father who loved us more than life itself, and who had taught us algebra and geometry, Shakespeare and Spenser, the history of the world (up until 1960, when Father said the culture became so decadent that even learning about it could harm a child’s spirits), biology and physics and geography.

Our own nearest town, Tuma, New Mexico, we knew only by the address on our mail. It was too small to be on any of the maps in Father’s library. Too small to be interesting, I told Jimmy, when he complained about wanting to go and see it for himself.

Part of me did understand Jimmy’s longings, especially when I found myself wondering how I would ever fall in love. I’d never known a boy, never had a kiss, never even had a crush, though sometimes my stomach would do a strange flip when I saw a picture of a handsome man in our encyclopedia. My favorites were John Keats, F. Scott Fitzgerald and an unnamed Civil War soldier with the most mournful expression. When I was about fourteen, I made up a story about the soldier, ending with his arrival at our front door to ask for my hand in marriage. It was a silly daydream, but it cheered me. Father said I had an optimistic temperament, and maybe it was true. Certainly I never gave up hope that the man of my future would arrive when the time was right, though how that would happen, I couldn’t say.

To Jimmy, my optimism was just annoying.

“You’re so conservative,” he told me once. He was older then: eighteen, nineteen. I was older too, but I hadn’t changed, which of course was the point.

“Conservative means to hold on to what you have.” My voice was firm. “I see nothing wrong with that.”

I didn’t realize Father was standing right behind me until I heard his quiet laugh, but I was glad I could give this to him. Nearly every day, he had to listen to Jimmy’s complaints. He’d been a patient teacher throughout our childhood and he was patient now, almost to a fault. He’d let Jimmy yell at him, yet he never raised his own voice. And he always apologized to Jimmy. He said he’d done the best he could, but maybe it wasn’t enough. All he’d wanted was to protect us, and that’s all he still wanted.

“I hope you understand,” Father would say softly. He was a tall man with well-defined features and thick eyebrows over deep blue-gray eyes framed by his ever-present black glasses; I’d always thought he was as distinguished as any of the presidents in our encyclopedia. But lately, he’d begun to look tired: his eyes haunted and his shoulders stooped with what I knew was the weight of his only son’s rebellion.

Half the time Jimmy said—or shouted—“No, I don’t understand,” and ended the conversation by stomping out of the room.

If Grandma hadn’t gotten sick, Jimmy probably would have left even sooner. He was twenty-one, of legal age to do as he wished, as he liked to say (constantly); maybe he was just waiting for the right moment. On the other hand, maybe he would have made his peace with Father if Grandma hadn’t gotten sick and suddenly decided that Father had been wrong for taking us away from California, after all.

I turned against her then, I have to confess. Not that she ever knew. I remained kind to Grandma until the end, and it wasn’t hard because I did love her. But I loved Father a thousand times more, and I quickly decided that Grandma’s sick-bed revelations were no different from the ramblings of a lunatic.