by Charity B.
The wood of the door is rough as I press my head against it. “Thank you, Zeb.”
Each of his footsteps is quieter than the last until I can’t hear them at all. It’s odd that I’m smiling, considering where I am, yet Zebadiah sneaking out to see me makes me want to laugh, or yell, or jump, or something to release the swarm of bees in my stomach.
“Thank you, Zaaron. Thank you for letting him come tonight.”
The prayer is a hymn in my soul. It releases a pressure on my chest to know Zeb will do what it takes to remain friends and spend time together. While I may not ever be able to be with him as man and wife, at least he will still be a big part of my life. Zaaron has a plan for all of us. I wish so badly that I could see in the future, then I’d know what it is for me and Zeb.
I don’t understand how I can be this tired when I’ve been sleeping almost all day. Not that there is anything else to do. I make my way back to the water tank, adjusting myself on my stomach. Closing my eyes, I replay our conversation in my mind.
I don’t want you bound to anyone.
I like you too…a lot.
You will always be my friend, Laurel Ann.
My fingers are soft against my chapped lips, and I smile in spite of it. Zebadiah Fitch snuck out just to talk to me…and he said he likes me.
A lot.
CLICKETY-CLANK. CLICKETY-CLANK.
I lurch at the disruption of silence, causing pain to shoot through my body. My eyes barely adjust to the darkness when the door swings open. Sunlight explodes through the room, making me whimper and smack my hands over my eyes.
“Cover yourself, now.”
I force my eyes into slits to see the dark figure in the doorway. The brightness of the light cascading around him makes him a shadow of a man. Not that I need to see him to know it’s the Prophet. His voice is unmistakable.
I scramble to find my dress, releasing a breath when my fingers clutch around the soft cotton. He clears his throat as I shove my arms into the sleeves, my slick skin sticking to the fabric. After tying my apron, I stand as straight as I can to smooth out my dress. The quick movement causes my head to feel dizzy and my stomach to roll with nausea.
When his face comes into view, he doesn’t seem much happier with me than he was before my cleansing.
“Did you make yourself right with Zaaron?”
I think of the most honest answer I can give. Since Zaaron doesn’t speak to me as He does the Prophet, all I can do is look for signs. Zebadiah coming to see me last night was a sign of His forgiveness, I just know it.
“I did, Prophet.”
His nod is harsh and curt. “I am pleased to hear it.” He doesn’t sound pleased. Looking over his shoulder, he says. “You may take her now.”
He turns away, walking down the wooden plank as the Apostle takes his place.
“Follow me.”
I nod at him in greeting. Giving me no acknowledgement, he leaves the same way the Prophet did. I try to keep up, but my body moves in slow motion, every muscle stretching to its capacity just to allow me to walk.
The grass stabs my feet, the soft dirt a welcome reprieve between my toes. The bright sun makes me lightheaded when I turn to see a few people loading up their buggies outside the general store. I see my father and Sister Mary leaving the medical hall, and I freeze. Our eyes meet, staying connected for only a moment before they both look away, and Father nods to the Apostle. They act as if they don’t know me at all.
Apostle Keaton turns in the direction of the schoolhouse and placing dorms. I get choked up thinking of Zebadiah, my friends, and siblings all sitting in class.
We walk up the dirt path, taking the single wooden step that leads to the placing dorms. This and the adjoining nursery are the only buildings in the entire compound that I have never been, so I admit some curiosity. The wind catches the screen door from the Apostle’s grasp and it slams against the side of the building. He turns the knob to the wooden door, opening it to a room almost as large as the meeting hall in the tabernacle. Rows and rows of beds are lined across the room, all neatly made. There are linens and clothing folded beneath many of them. The room only has a few people in it since the girls under eighteen are still allowed to attend school until they are placed, if they choose. Many women are here for the second time because their first husbands have passed, though if they still have young children, they stay in the nursery.
The back of the room has dividers with the smell of food snaking around them, causing my eyes to water and my stomach to jump in excitement. Immediately after we pass the thin partitions, I can see into a large kitchen where a few women are bustling around. There are rows of tables and seats with a few ladies sitting at them, eating. My hope for food is demolished as he leads me past the delicious scent through another door. There is an open hallway to my right and two doors to my left. The second door on the left is the one he chooses. He taps on the wood with light pressure, opening it without waiting for a response.
“Hello, Apostle Keaton. It’s a pleasure to see you as always.” The woman’s voice is difficult to place until I am ushered further into the room to see Sister Evelyn Taub. Everyone in her family is either a seamstress, weaver, or a tailor, and they clothe everyone in the Anointed Land. Since it doesn’t take an entire family to run the placing dorms and nursery, she, along with a few other women around the compound, control them. I go—well, used to go—to school with her sons and daughters. “And hello, dear!” She reaches her arms out to me. “A clean soul looks good on you, but it takes its toll on the mind and body. Why don’t we get you cleaned up and fed, then I’ll show you to your bed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Apostle Keaton turns to leave after adding, “I will be here to fetch her in the morning, before services.”
She curtsies. “She will be ready.”
The door shuts behind him and she smiles. “Let’s prepare you a bath.”
While the warm water of the bath hurts as it stings my wounds, it still feels incredible. Being clean makes me feel more like myself, allowing my body flexibility. Upon finishing in the tub, I am pleased to see the blood has stopped. I can’t believe that’s going to happen every month now. Since the belt is no longer necessary, Sister Evelyn hands me only a night gown before she sits to watch me braid my hair.
“Are you hungry or would you prefer to rest first?”
“Yes!” I lower my voice an octave when she jumps. “Yes, I would like some food first, please.”
The floor is cool against my feet as I follow her back into the large room. She guides me to a table with three women, all older than my own mothers.
“Hello, ladies. Laurel Ann will be staying here until services tomorrow morning. Let’s make her feel welcome, shall we?” The moisture from her hand seeps through the fabric of my gown when she places her hand on my arm. “I’ll fix you a plate. Take a seat.”
I lift the nightgown to swing my leg over the bench. It doesn’t matter if my ankles show, there are only women here. They look familiar, but my mind won’t let me place them.
“Hello,” I greet them.
They all smile at me when a red-haired woman with sun spots on her face speaks. “Hello, dear. Are you feeling well?”
“I am now, thank you.”
The one in the blue bonnet swallows her milk before turning to me. “You are the one to be bound to the Prophet tomorrow, are you not? That’s quite a blessing. You must be thrilled.”
Seeing as I just cleansed my soul, I don’t want to tarnish it by lying, so I let my smile be my only response.
A plate of eggs, potatoes, bacon, and bread appears in front of me, my hunger making me forget to pray. I grab the fork to stab into the eggs when I feel four sets of eyes on me. I move my utensil to the plate in slow motion and fold my hands together.
I say my blessing and shovel in four bites before I remember to thank Sister Evelyn.
“Thank you for breakfast.”
Her smile isn’t quite as bright as it
was a moment ago. She nods and wipes off her hands on her apron. “When you are finished, you may lie down in bed number twenty-four.”
I nod with my fork halfway to my mouth.
Speaking no more than a few words, I am more interested in my food than conversation. Not that my company minds. Once they mention it, I remember their husband passing a few weeks ago.
A full belly and my clean skin make my exhaustion apparent as I take my leave from the chatty widows. I walk between the aisles, looking at the paper signs attached to each bed. I search for the number twenty-four, like Sister Evelyn told me. When I see it, a number has never been so beautiful.
I don’t even know if my head touches the pillow when sleep hugs me tight.
I don’t awake until after noon, and I only do so because I need the washroom. I eat my lunch alone and ask Sister Evelyn if there’s anything she needs help with. She just tells me to rest. It’s odd for me to not have any chores or tasks to do. The evening seeps by as I read The True Testament, but the words are scribbles to my eyes.
Even though the women I have spoken to are nice on the surface, I can sense a level of hostility in their voices. When the younger girls arrive after school, I’m relieved at seeing some of my friends.
Dawn Garret received the blood of innocence only two weeks before me, and when she sees me, she waves and makes her way to my bed. She quirks her lips into a sad smile and sits next to me. “Hey. How bad was it?”
I shrug, attempting to appear brave. “I’m glad it’s over.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Are you excited for tomorrow?”
I chew on my lip as I contemplate my answer. Her eyebrows raise in question, and I spit out a response. “I am excited to fulfill the plan of Zaaron.”
“Well, congratulations.” She stands, holding her books to her chest. “Have you eaten dinner already?”
I shake my head, and she grabs my hand. “Come on, I’m starving.”
While my mind won’t entirely focus on our conversation, I am still thankful for the distraction talking with Dawn brings.
I feel a hot hand on my back as Sister Evelyn’s voice cuts through our discussion. “It’s time for you to rest, Laurel Ann. You have an early and eventful day tomorrow.”
Smiling at Dawn, I nod to Sister Evelyn. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dawn’s fingers wave to me before I walk past the dividers and back to my bed.
It may be because I’ve had so much sleep the past few days or it may be because of what tomorrow brings that I toss and turn through most of the night.
“Laurel Ann, it’s time to wake up.”
Sister Evelyn’s tired whisper is in my ears. Dread consumes me, and I want nothing more than to roll over. I don’t want this day to be here.
It’s dark, other than the moonlight shining through the room in a beam. I follow her through the sleeping bodies, envious of their dreams.
She leads me into the washroom where three of Benji Johnson’s mothers are waiting. They fill my bath with a fruity, sweet oil, washing my skin and hair with soap that smells of wildflowers. They put salve on my wounds and rub my rejuvenated skin with an oil that tingles every bit of flesh it touches.
Their family makes all the hygiene and basic remedies for the compound. They don’t speak other than to tell me to move this way or that. My hair is braided, and my body is rubbed down with more creams until they pat me from head to toe with powder. The room smells divine, and I know I do too.
They wrap me in a blanket, ushering me to the room next to Sister Evelyn’s office. The back wall has two windows where the rising sun shines onto three small tables covered in flowers, ribbons, jars, and brushes. Stacks of chairs are shoved against the wall with a few strays sitting throughout the room. There is a large mirror in the corner, and hanging next to it…is the most elegant and terrifying dress I’ve ever laid eyes on.
They push me into a chair, applying bits of color to my lips and cheeks. My eyes keep going to the dress that seems to mock me until one of them removes it to carry it over.
They don’t let me do a thing. Not even put on my own undergarments.
Slipping a leg into each hole, I stand still as one of the women pulls the white fabric up my body. The bloomers are thin and trimmed in white lace that dangles mid-thigh. The drawstring is a satin ribbon, and while they may be soft and pretty, it takes me a moment to process why anyone would put so much craftsmanship into an item nobody will see… It’s because someone will see them.
My husband.
The Prophet.
I’m going to be sick.
One woman is quick to the draw and has a bucket beneath my mouth before any bile leaves my lips.
“There, there. Shhh. Let it all out, child. It’s just nerves.”
Nerves? Is that what the doubt and fear have been?
Half of my breakfast is gone, allowing my stomach to relax for the moment. “Is it normal to feel this way?”
“Absolutely.” She dabs my mouth with a handkerchief. “You should have seen what a mess I was on my binding day.”
Her statement is a comforting one, and it unties one of the knots in my chest. They continue as if nothing happened, having me step into a full body petticoat. It’s sleeveless, besides the thin strip of lace tickling my shoulders. The blonde-haired one, Sister Kelly Johnson, fastens the small, white buttons down to my waist. More lace separates the horizontal panels at the bottom of the petticoat. If I wasn’t shaking and trying to keep the rest of my breakfast down, this would be a fantasy.
The dark-haired woman holds up my binding gown, and I gasp. From far away it’s beautiful, but close up…it’s stunning.
They lift my aching arms, sliding the dress over my head. The bottoms of the sleeves are fitted from my wrists to my forearm with more buttons in a line down the sides. From my forearm to my shoulder the laced fabric is loose, creating a slight billowed effect. The dress tightens around my torso as the back is fastened. The entire bottom is layers of scaffolding lace with a pink ribbon woven through at the hem.
Fingers remove the braids from my hair, and the light red waves cascade over the ruffled trim along the bodice of the dress. They tie it up in white ribbons and pink flowers after sliding white, crochet stockings up my calves.
The blonde woman holds out a pair of white ankle-height boots with a short heel. I have never worn a pair of new shoes before, much less ones like these. As they are slipped on, yet more buttons are fastened up the sides.
All three women stand in front of me to admire their work.
“You are a lovely bride.” The dark-haired one smiles, gesturing to the mirror.
With a deep breath, I follow her invitation. I don’t recognize myself, though I must admit I look beautiful. The lace neckline is tight around my throat, making me appear very sophisticated. I wish there was a way to remember what I look like right now.
“Thank you,” I whisper before turning to them. “I’ve never looked this pretty.”
“Do you have any questions about your vows?” The blonde wife asks.
I’ve heard vows exchanged enough times I could say them backward in my sleep. “No, ma’am.”
A tap at the door pulls all of our attention toward it as Sister Evelyn sticks her head into the room.
“The Apostle is here for Laurel Ann. Is she prepared?”
Hands nudge me forward when one of the Johnson wives reply with a lie.
“Yes, she is ready.”
THE APOSTLE IS WAITING FOR me at one of the tables next to the kitchen. Sister Evelyn greets him, barely receiving a nod in return.
“We must leave for the tabernacle,” he informs me.
He mutters in annoyance at the girls who continue stopping us to compliment me on my ensemble. I follow him outside and hold up the delicate dress as not to dirty the hemline. Upon stepping out the door, I see the common ground has been transformed for the binding celebration after the ceremony. Tables and chairs adorned with ribbons and flowers are arranged in a circle a
round a large open area. Paper decorations are streamed from wooden poles, the binding pyre right in the center of it all.
The doors of the tabernacle are a heavy oak, carved in an intricate illustration of Zaaron consuming the vessel and preparing the Anointed Land. I’ve always found it comforting, until now. Today it makes my stomach turn.
The tabernacle is hollow with empty pews and an eerie silence. The tapestries and paintings on the walls seem haunting in the light of events transpiring. The pulpit stands as a beacon for my fate through the doors of the foyer. I walk behind Apostle Keaton, and he leads me to the bride room at the left of the entrance.
“You will await the service in here, with the family.”
Once the words leave his lips, he opens the door, putting me face to face with the Fitch family. The wives all swoon, telling me how wonderful I look, but when my eyes lock with Zebadiah’s, my heart falters at the heartbreak in them. He doesn’t appear to be breathing as his gaze roams over my ensemble. The last time we spoke he made me feel secure in our friendship, but seeing his expression brings doubt into my mind.
While I carry on conversations with my soon-to-be sister-wives, my thoughts remain in the corner of the room with Zeb.
There’s a tap on the door, and the Apostle pokes his head inside. “Service is about to start.”
Sister Ava Fitch, Zeb’s mother and the Prophet’s first wife, ushers everyone in their order. The air evaporates from my lungs when Zebadiah stops next to me. His scowl heats up my skin, and he seems to be struggling to force out the words.
“You look beautiful, Laur.”
He doesn’t wait for my ‘thank you’. He just walks away to take his place in the order. I try to swallow back my urge to cry, making my throat feel raw. I don’t understand. He knows I don’t want this.
Taking my place last in line, I stand behind Sister Cora Fitch holding her baby boy. Hundreds of eyes are burning into me as I follow the family to the front row of the meeting hall. I know the Prophet has taken the pulpit from the sound of steps crossing the stage, yet I can’t force myself to look up at him.
