The Sound of Gravel

by Ruth Wariner

  There is another knock. “Hey, I have the flowers!”

  Elena reaches for the door and Leah steps in wearing the same chocolate-brown-and-sage dress as her sister. We compliment Leah on how beautiful it looks against her tan skin, the way her long hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. She carries a box of assorted flowers in coral and bright pink: tulips, roses, ranunculus, and calla lilies.

  She gives me the once-over, raises her eyebrows, and cocks her head back. A wide smile spreads across her face. “Awww, Sis, I love your dress,” says the twenty-four-year-old, her voice kind and loving, one that sounds just like Mom’s. “Look at these. The florist sent us the extra flowers she didn’t use for our bouquets. She said you wanted them for our hair?” I nod, and Leah takes out an orange-tipped calla lily, places it behind her head, and stares at herself in the mirror. “Can I have this one? Please?”

  For a moment I’m not sure whether to say yes or pick her up in my arms, so much does her begging now sound just as it did all those years ago. I think back to the two-year-old who never gave me a moment’s peace, who cried and pounded on the bathroom door until I’d come out and hold her while I refilled Holly’s bottles. That was when I was earning my GED, dividing my time between high school home-study courses and taking care of my siblings. More than twenty years have come and gone since we moved into Grandma’s house, staying there four years before venturing out on our own. Grandma has not lived to see this day.

  I look up at the clock and start to feel anxious. Five p.m. is rapidly approaching. “Where’s Holly?”

  “The hairdresser is with her in the dining room,” Elena replies. “She didn’t like how it turned out the first time. She thinks the braid makes her look like an old lady.”

  Another knock. “Holly?” I call out.

  Sure enough. She steps through the door in chocolate-and-sage, as beautiful as her sisters. “The photographer is here,” says my twenty-two-year-old sister, her age a constant reminder of how long Mom has been gone. “She wants to take some pictures of us getting ready.” Holly stops and smiles, gazing at me. “You’re all ready.”

  “Almost. Elena, will you zip me up?”

  She does, then arranges the pearl buttons over the zipper. Holly holds out my veil, but I haven’t yet decided where to clip it. She places it at different spots on my head, as self-assured, as loyal, and as helpful as she has always been. She looks at my reflection. “Sis, the dress is perfect, but don’t forget the sash.”

  “Here.” Elena hands me the sash and takes a bobby pin from the little, round antique table at our side. “Let me pin the veil in and see if it’ll stay.” I find myself staring at my sisters in the mirror and not me. Something about the way Elena separates a bobby pin and puts it in her mouth reminds me so much of Mom; something in each of them reminds me of different parts of her.

  Now that I have finished college and graduate school and have worked for eight years as a high school teacher, I can’t help wishing that my sisters were little girls again. I could give them so much more now than I could when I was a young, struggling student supporting all of us on part-time jobs, welfare, and student loans. It was all so overwhelming. No matter what I did or how hard I worked, there was never enough, never enough to give them what they deserved, never enough to pay our bills on time, never enough to fill the emptiness that any parentless family feels. I was nineteen when we moved out of my grandma’s house. I wanted nothing more out of life than I did to keep my family together and make sure they were safe. The memory of those days reminds me of how exhausted I had been, but my siblings gave my life purpose, they were the bridge from pain to healing, from past to future. They are as much the authors of my survival as I am of theirs. My throat tightens and my eyes fill with tears.

  “What?” asks Elena, catching me watching her. “You’re thinking about Mom, aren’t you?”

  I nod and wipe my eyes. Look at your three beautiful girls, Mom. Are they not what God intended? When you died, I had no idea how they’d survive, and yet from that moment to this, they have been safe. Is that not what God intended? Oh, how I wish you’d lived to see this day.

  I look over my shoulder. My sisters are perched on the edge of the bed, watching me expectantly. “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “Ready.”

  I mount the two steps and turn the knob that leads to the living room of the old house we’ve rented for the wedding party. And there they are. First, I see one of Matt’s daughters pinning a coral-and-brown boutonniere to her father’s black tuxedo jacket. He has a red Charms lollipop in his mouth and looks at me with a guilty smile.

  “Your tongue is gonna be red for the ceremony,” I say quietly.

  “Aw, no one’s gonna notice.” He’s forty now, still doing that thing where he closes his lips when he smiles. He still prefers sideways hugs too and gives me one. I smile, grateful for all of his help and support over the years, years when he made countless trips between Grandma’s house in Strathmore and San Diego, where he and Maria lived, where their own family continued to grow and grow.

  “Is Maria here?”

  Matt nods. They have come, but not as a couple. After six children and ten years of marriage, Maria finally gave Matt permission to take a second wife. Two years later, their marriage was over. In my head, I hear Mom’s prediction all over again: If you marry Maria, you’re gonna have a hard time livin’ polygamy.

  I hear a galloping sound and look behind me to see Luke bounding down the stairs from his room on the second floor, black jacket in hand. The brown satin vest is buttoned crookedly over a white shirt only halfway tucked in. Otherwise, the suit fits his slim, athletic figure perfectly. After we arrived in California, Luke went to live with my aunt and uncle not far from Grandma’s house, then moved into a supportive group home. These days he is a three-season athlete for the Oregon Special Olympics and rarely talks about anything else. “Could somebody help me put dis on, please?” he asks at the bottom of the steps, holding up his tie.

  “I’ll help you, Luke,” says Aaron, appearing on cue and from out of nowhere. Today, as on most days during his past thirty-two years, he is perfectly dressed and ready to lend a hand, an intelligent young man with a genius for thoughtful conversation. He straightens the buttons on his brother’s vest, ties his tie, tucks his shirt in, and pins on his boutonniere. Aaron looks the most like my stepfather, but his personality belies any connection whatsoever.

  Lane, of course, is not here. My grandma and Aunt Kim fought him for legal custody, and the day the judge delivered his final ruling, Lane didn’t show up to the hearing. He lost custody and all visitation rights and never regained them. The list of children he abused grew longer and longer over the years, and all of his wives eventually—finally—left him. Over two decades after Mom died, Lane was driving the same highway between LeBaron and El Paso, still in a beat-up, old truck. It veered off the shoulder and rolled onto the side of the highway. He’d had a heart attack, and he died there alone. Matt was the only one of my siblings to attend the funeral.

  I think of the others who are not here. Audrey, who lives in an adult foster-care home with four other women in California, in a town not far from where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. I have visited her there a few times, not nearly as often as I would like, but she is well cared for, and most important, she is safe. I think of my beautiful baby sister Meri, who loved bath time, and who smiled sweetly in spite of her disabilities. I think of Micah, a little boy crouched over a game of marbles or crying after being knocked over at a party. And I think of Mom, a woman who wanted nothing more than to be loved. A woman who wanted a life of meaning, a life lived in service and devotion to something bigger than herself. I hope I have made you proud, Mom.

  And I think about Alan, the man I am about to marry. Alan couldn’t be more different from my stepfather. He is responsible, loving, attentive, generous, and, not incidentally, monogamous. It took years of counseling, prayer, meditation, and self-reflection before I felt worthy of a m
an with such qualities. I had much to discover and nurture in myself first. On this day, I realize that all the work was worth it.

  Someone hands me my bouquet of pink and orange flowers, and a man appears on the periphery. I take a big breath, roll my shoulders back, and smile as I take Matt’s arm so he can walk me down the aisle.

  “Okay, here we go,” I whisper. Together, the two of us cross yet another border, our brothers and sisters following close behind.

  Luke, Matt, Aaron, Alan, Ruth, Leah, Elena, and Holly.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Bringing this book to life has been an incredible, heart-wrenching, and healing journey, and I’m beyond grateful to have had the opportunity to travel it. I could never have completed this memoir by myself, especially not without the generous and loving support of my husband, Alan Centofante. While I was writing, Alan and I took long walks in thoughtful conversation. He listened patiently as I talked through my painful childhood memories and the struggles I was experiencing writing about them. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner with whom to share my life; he has enriched it in every way, and his diligence and hard work helped make this dream of being a published author come true. Thank you, Alan, for loving me unconditionally and for embracing my brothers and sisters who love you almost as much as I do!

  Alan helped my manuscript find its way to Whitney Frick at Flatiron Books, and I have been honored to work with her. Whitney has not only helped make my memoir shine, her thoughtful guidance through the publishing world has been invaluable. Thank you for loving my story and for sharing it with your publisher, Bob Miller. Thank you to everyone at Flatiron Books for taking a chance on my book and me: Elizabeth Keenan, Marlena Bittner, Molly Fonseca, Karen Horton, James Melia, David Lott, Kenneth J. Silver, Steve Boldt, and the many others who shared their enthusiasm for The Sound of Gravel with me. I appreciate everything you’ve all done to help my story find its way in the world.

  Before reaching Flatiron Books, Scott Vogel’s dedication and passion for this project helped bring my manuscript to a new level. Scott asked all the right questions and helped me hone in on the heart and soul of my story. Your heart and editorial talent inspire me, Scott. Thank you for caring so much.

  It has been an absolute pleasure to work with Don Seckler and Meg Cassidy. Meg, sharing your publicity experience in publishing has made this project so much more comfortable and enjoyable for me. Don, you are awesome at connecting me to my audience through social media. I am grateful to you both for your hard work and commitment.

  To Kent Watson and Steve Leach: Your professional advice and early enthusiasm for my story have inspired me and helped me persevere. Thank you!

  I also had several early readers who provided honest feedback that helped bring out the best in me as a new writer. Thanks especially to Teresa Majerus and April Christofferson, who read several drafts and always gave the most helpful and heartfelt comments. Every new author should be so lucky.

  I sincerely appreciate the support from regional and national booksellers. Your encouragement and interest in my memoir helped give me the confidence to move forward.

  Thanks also to my friends at city and regional magazines for helping to spread the word about my story. Your magazines continue to build a better world one community at a time.

  I have had a tremendous amount of support not only while writing this book, but through the toughest times of my life. There have been many earthly angels along this path.

  My Grandma and Grandpa Wariner were the superheroes of my childhood. It’s because of their love and influence that I was able to envision a different life for my adult self.

  A very special thank you to my aunt and uncle, Kim and Ron Taylor. You have always cared so much for my siblings and me and you’ve consistently been there for us through the hardest stretches. Thanks especially for taking care of Luke as if he were your own son. You have been a true blessing to all of us.

  Thanks also to my brothers and sisters who have shared so many of their memories with me, have been so supportive of my writing, and who were willing to let me tell our story. I began to write when I finished graduate school, once my sisters were older and had moved out of our apartment. My brothers and sisters, Matt, Luke, Aaron, Elena, Leah, and Holly, have encouraged me every step of the way. They have also read the memoir and provided feedback on the final drafts. I couldn’t have survived without my siblings and their love. They know me and understand me like no one else in the world. Thanks for always having my back.

  And finally, thank you, Mom, for blessing me with love, strength, and kindness. I miss you every day and would give anything to sit beside you and have a woman-to-woman conversation about this book. I wish I had been able to discuss all of this with you, to understand why you stayed. Now I realize that you did the best you could. My biggest regret has been not being able to say a proper farewell. I love you, Mom. Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  RUTH WARINER lives in Portland, Oregon. At the age of fifteen, Wariner left Colonia LeBaron, the polygamist Mormon colony where she grew up, and moved to California. She raised her three youngest sisters in California and Oregon. After earning her GED, she put herself through college and graduate school, eventually becoming a high school Spanish teacher. She remains close to her siblings and is happily married. The Sound of Gravel is her first book. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I: The Promised Land

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II: Babylon

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part III: Alone

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part IV: Breaking

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE SOUND OF GRAVEL. Copyright © 2015 by Ruth Wariner. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed and certain characters and events have been compressed or reordered.

  All photographs courtesy of Ruth Wariner.

  www.flatironbooks.com

  Cover design by Kimberly Glyder.

  Cover photographs courtesy of Ruth Wariner.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-07769-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-07771-4 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781250077714

  Our e-books may b
e purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: January 2016