Charlotte was again living with Verlan in Las Vegas when Lucy and I made the move. Our trip from the mountains to Baja was even more miserable than my move to the mountains from Colonia Le-Baron. Naturally, Verlan was too busy to take us himself. He asked a friend, Joe Martson, to move us, along with his own wife and teenage son, in his six-passenger van.
Seventeen of us traveled for over twenty hours, jammed into this van with our scant belongings. For my bunch, I got to take a basket of dishes, a few quilts, two changes of clothes per person, and my precious radio. I was sick about having to leave behind my crib, dresser, and the gas stove Verlan gave me when I had typhoid fever.
Just keeping everyone alive in that van was a miracle. Realizing the incredible stress we were all under, Joe drove as fast as he safely could, up and down and around the hills and across the bumpy roads. People started getting car sick almost as soon as we started. We had to stop every few miles to take a breather and get up enough courage to continue. I’ll never forget how ten-year-old Donna, sick from vomiting, lay down on the road beside the van during one stop and begged me to not force her back inside.
Twenty hours stretched into twenty-six. By the time we arrived, my fear of Hell vanished. We found our “land of promise” to be a flea-infested desert with undeveloped sand dunes and salt flats close to the ocean. After our ordeal in the van, however, the dilapidated trailer house that would be my new home looked like a little piece of heaven.
Joel’s second wife, Jeannine, sent bread and honey over to feed us all when we arrived. I changed wet diapers, put blankets on the double bed in my room, bundled all the kids up in sweaters, and put five of them to sleep in one bed. I put my three boys on a box spring with no mattress off the hall. Immediately I was summoned to deliver Jeannine’s baby. After two hours of trying to keep my composure, I delivered her baby girl and returned to my trailer. Then, wrapping myself up in a blanket, I flopped onto the bumpy, broken-down couch and let tears wash away all the exhaustion, stress, and disappointment I’d kept inside.
With no heat in the trailer, I awoke several times during the night to cover chilling kids. Until summer rolled back around, we had to wear sweaters night and day in order to keep warm. We also had a tough time adjusting to the confined quarters; the moist, salty air; and the constant fog blowing in from the ocean two miles away.
The rains may have been what made our lives the most miserable. Mud was tracked in constantly. My nephew Joseph and his wife, Margarita, lived in a tent next to two Mexican friends, Eulogio and Lola, just a few yards outside my front door. During one violent storm, severe winds loosened the stakes and collapsed the tents, leaving canvas and ropes flapping about. All four of the occupants ran to my already overcrowded trailer for cover. With thirteen of us now, Lola and Margarita slept on the sofa, while the two men slept on the floor next to the kitchen table.
Two nights later, I awoke from a deep sleep to find Lola in labor. I put Joseph and Margarita to sleep on the floor in the hall next to my frightened kids while Lola screamed through the rainy night. At 5 A.M., on my ramshackle sofa, I delivered Lola’s baby girl.
These people lived with us for six weeks, until they could afford to get a trailer of their own. Sleeping with my five kids in the double bed, my legs would get so numb, I could hardly move them. I’d put a small chair beside the bed and stretch my legs out on it until they got so cold, I’d have to pull them back in.
With no high chair, I had to sit five-month-old Sandra and eleven-month-old Margaret on the small Formica kitchen table to eat. The older kids had to stand beside them to keep them from falling to the floor. With so much mud and dirt constantly being tracked in, the linoleum floor was next to impossible to keep clean.
My first big thrill in Baja was the day Verlan brought home a brand-new Maytag washer with a gasoline motor for his five wives to share. Joel got wind of it, and before long we were sharing it with several members of his family as well. That washer ran from morning till night, with everyone wrangling constantly about who should get it next. Once, on my turn to wash, I drew water from the well, carried it over, and filled the washer plus the two rinse tubs. While I sorted out my clothes in my trailer house, another woman started her wash in my water, without so much as a “Do you mind?” Being used so much, the wringer on the washer soon broke. My wrists ached from constantly wringing out the clothes by hand. Then the motor died completely.
It was terrible having to wash out my two babies’ diapers, plus all my other laundry, by hand. Then several of the women who helped wear out my washer each got their own, but they refused to share. So much for a United Order.
I HADN’T SLEPT WITH or written to Verlan for five months. I was mad at him for making me move and for selling my wonderful (if unfinished) house in the mountains. I fumed further when he told me he felt that Beverly and Esther, his two Mexican wives, needed “extra time” with him. He defended this by reminding me they were new brides and each only seventeen. To my chagrin, he moved both new wives to live by me in Baja. To make matters worse, he put me on a budget of only $20 a week, saying we should be grateful for that much, since he had to help support the church.
Somehow we managed. My two older boys spent hours fishing for our dinners. When the grunions were running, we all went out and scooped up buckets full of fish as they washed up on the beach in the waves to lay their eggs. Finally we had some tasty animal protein in our diet.
We scrounged around as best we could to make ends meet. All five wives used one old pickup truck to go everywhere we had to go. I’d drive to nearby farms that shipped their crops to the United States so I could get their leftovers—imperfect and unwanted olives, tomatoes, potatoes, and all kinds of vegetables. I often distributed my loads to everyone in the colony.
Emotionally, I was falling apart. I knew I couldn’t go on this way much longer. I told Verlan I needed a better way of life. I begged him to take me to Las Vegas to live with him like he did with Charlotte. He refused. He claimed he was saving money by doing it his way, but I knew the truth. All along, he’d favored Charlotte in a number of ways.
I was sick at heart. I went on begging for a little attention, pleading for my needs to be fulfilled, but Verlan couldn’t do a single thing for me because, as he said, “It would be unfair.” I got that response whenever I asked for what I felt I really needed. Each time, it spelled nothing but more sacrifice for me.
I was now twenty-eight years old, and I could see my life was going nowhere. Although the prospect was traumatic, I thought a lot about divorce. According to our religion, I would lose my blessings if I left my husband for no other reason than that he was faithfully living the Principle. Even the natural consequences of a polygamous life—the poverty, loneliness, and insecurity I’d come to know so well—were not valid reasons to divorce a husband. Besides, I had no way to support myself. Even emotionally, I wasn’t prepared to go out into the world alone. Nevertheless, I went many times to Joel, who convinced us all he was a prophet and our ultimate earthly authority, and I asked him to exempt me from the rules. Instead, he changed them.
In order to get an official divorce, Joel decreed a wife had to physically and emotionally separate from her husband for at least six months. After that, she could marry someone else, but he would have to be of our church in order for her to keep her blessings. In one more month, I would satisfy the time limit, but I begged Joel to give me a divorce immediately. Instead, he took me to Las Vegas himself, hoping to get us reconciled.
I held out for five days after seeing Verlan because I wanted a few concrete promises from him before I gave in. I demanded more money, my own washer, a high chair, and at least a front step for my trailer. He swore he’d do as I asked, but I knew deep down that we’d soon be back in the same rut. I returned home still distraught and pregnant once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I looked forward to driving all the kids to school in Guerrero each day. It was my chance to get away and associate with other people w
hile in town. Linda Stanley, who previously lived in Bravo, moved with us out of the mountains and now lived near the new Baja colony. I helped Linda with a difficult delivery in the mountains a year earlier. We now loved each other like sisters.
Almost every day, she’d wave me down as I drove by her house, taking the truckload of children to or from school. She would insist that I drop whatever I was doing to spend some time with her. I knew she was lonely, with her husband working in San Diego except when he came home on sporadic weekends, and no one but her two-month-old and one-year-old daughters to keep her company most of the time.
I was most appreciative of the fudge, brownies, and hot meals she served me whenever I stopped in. I knew no such luxuries. Invariably, though, I had to cut short those visits in order to get home and get to my housework. I also hesitated to impose on Lucy for a minute longer than necessary, since she tended my little ones each day until I returned from town.
One morning, after dropping the kids off at school, I was making a mad dash to go to the outskirts of town to fill four butane tanks to take back to Los Molinos. The wives needed the gas to heat water and start their meals.
As I passed her place, Linda waved, trying to stop me. If I stopped, I knew it would be at least a half hour before I could pull away from her, so I just waved and drove right on by. In my side mirror after I passed, I could see that she’d started crying and yelling, waving her arms in despair. Something was wrong. I swung around and drove on the shoulder of the dirt road into her yard. I’d never seen anyone look quite so pathetic. She put her arms around my neck, clinging to me, sobbing, unable to talk.
“What’s the matter, Linda?” I asked, thinking she might just be feeling lonely or rejected because I’d failed to stop.
“I need to talk to you,” she said gravely. “It’s really important.”
I followed her into the kitchen and took a chair by the cluttered table of breakfast dishes. “Irene, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I feel I can confide in you.” She sobbed between words. “I’m going to die,” she wailed. She picked up a notebook, handing it to me. “In here I’ve written down all my funeral arrangements, my wishes concerning my burial. I want you to promise me you’ll carry them out.”
“Oh come on, Linda. I think it’s just those postpartum blues. Come on, get your kids ready. Get some diapers and a couple of changes of clothes. When I pick up the kids after school, I’ll drop by and take you home with me. All you need is a change of scenery.”
She hung onto me and sobbed. “Irene, it’s not the baby blues. I’ve had a premonition that I’m going to die.”
I shook my head. But not wanting to offend her, I asked, “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? Do you have any symptoms?”
“No. I just woke up at 2 A.M. with this premonition that I should write things down in a book and make funeral preparations!”
I assured her I’d be back after school was out. My heart ached for her. I’d had the baby blues many times, feeling as if I were going to die. But I knew it would soon pass.
Promising to return for her, I left to make preparations for her visit. There was no way I could repay Linda for her all special kindnesses to me, but at least I would try. I baked a German chocolate cake from a mix she’d given me the day before. I also made a big potato salad; then I hurried like mad to finish my wash. After completing my errands, I picked up Linda and her babies when I went to collect the children at school.
“You had time to make that cake for me?” she asked me, clearly touched. She seemed excited to be with us for supper, and I could tell she looked forward to the opportunity to chat alone with me later that night.
We threw clean sheets on the old, outstretched sofa. Soon Linda’s two little girls and my own eight kids were settled down for the night.
Linda talked long into the night about her teenage years in Florida and her marriage to Chuck. She told me all about meeting him, painting quite an interesting love story. Then she got around to the premonition she had the night before. I was exhausted, but she begged me to stay up with her. She needed me to console her, but mostly she wanted to tell me the intimate details of her life, which she insisted was coming to an end.
I confided in her that I was expecting again. I hadn’t even told Verlan, but I wanted her to know. She told me I could have all her maternity clothes.
At 4 A.M., I made her lie down and try to rest because I desperately needed sleep before my kids got up. I’d have to fix them breakfast and then take them along with the rest of Verlan’s kids into town for school. I eased myself onto a sliver of my bed alongside five of my sleeping children, and I pulled the chair into place for my feet. I was instantly out.
“Irene! Irene!” Linda’s cries awoke me. I made my way groggily down the dark hall, lighting a kerosene lamp on the table beside her. I could tell by her cries that she was in real pain. It was only a quarter to five. How could something have happened so quickly? Linda was holding her hand over her left breast, sobbing. “Irene, I’ve never had such a pain in all my life.”
“Maybe your breast is caked,” I said. “Are you sure you’ve been nursing your baby on that side?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s never been sore like this. I know the baby has nursed just fine.”
Holding the lamp up close to her breast, I could see that it was inflamed. I heated water on the gas stove, then dipped a washcloth in hot water, wrung it out, and gently fanned it in the air until it cooled enough to be put on her breast. “This should make it feel better.”
She got some relief and quit her moaning as I continued the hot packing, but neither of us slept anymore. I promised to take her with me to see the doctor as soon as the kids were up and ready for school.
DR. CORTEZ SHOOK his head. “We need to give her antibiotics every four hours. Can you continue the hot packs?” he asked. “An abscess is forming. The heat will help draw out the inflammation. Do you have someone who can give her the shots if I let her go home with you?”
“I will!” I promised. “I’ll make sure she gets them on time.”
We later dropped by Linda’s house, and I picked up all her dirty clothes. I offered to do her wash for her so her kids would have enough changes of clothes to last for three or four days.
“Irene, you’re like a mother to me. I love you so much. I hope I’m not being too big a burden.”
“Of course not; that’s what friends are for. I’m happy to help you. Just lie down and relax. I’ll take care of your babies so you can have complete rest.”
The next morning, Linda’s breast was swollen even worse. The pain was becoming unbearable. I kept Donna out of school to stay with Linda and the small children while I drove to town, dropped the kids off, and then went to persuade Dr. Cortez to come to my trailer house to check on my friend. At the hospital, I watched as he rummaged through his cache of medicines. He brought six more shots, plus some strong painkillers, hoping that things weren’t quite as bad as I’d described.
As soon as Dr. Cortez saw Linda, he administered the painkiller. He said he’d never seen an abscess so large, and then he added, “Her breast is filling with pus. You must continue to give her these shots and painkillers. Bring her to the hospital tomorrow afternoon. If it’s not improving, I’ll have to operate. A lancing should correct the problem.”
The following day, Linda was in too much pain to ride along with a truckload of kids, so I brought them all home from school first. I left Donna in charge of the children until we returned.
Dr. Cortez took one look and said, “I’m very concerned. We’ll have to operate immediately. I’ll go get the room ready.”
Linda put her head down on his desk and started sobbing. “Irene, I want you to tell the doctor that the only way I’ll consent to do this is if he’ll let you be with me every minute. I don’t want to die alone.”
I put my arms around her shoulders. “Linda, if you’re really that worried, let’s get you out to San Diego, where you can be with your h
usband and go to a hospital that can give you the best of care.”
“No. I just want to get the operation over with. I can’t impose on Chuck now. My only regret is that he doesn’t have another wife to comfort him when I’m gone.”
The doctor returned while Linda was crying. He asked me in Spanish why she was so upset. I was embarrassed to answer him because I thought Linda was just paranoid and overreacting. Still, I explained to him that she wanted me to be with her for the operation because she thought she was going to die, and she didn’t want to die alone.
“You can be with her, but tell her it’s a simple operation. It’ll be over with in no time.” He then led us both into the operating room. I helped Linda remove her clothes and put on a white gown that tied in the front.
The doctor had me put on some green pants, a shirt, coverings for my shoes, and a green cap; then he tied a gauze mask around my nose and mouth. We helped Linda onto the operating table, and a Mexican nurse untied the strings on her gown, letting it fall down at her sides. Then the nurse painted Linda’s whole breast area clear down to her navel with disinfectant.
Tearfully, Linda grabbed onto my hand. “Irene, promise me you won’t leave me. Promise?”
I patted her hand, holding it firmly, hoping to put her at ease. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here every minute. I promise I won’t leave you. You’ll soon wake up, and I’ll be holding your hand.”
The doctor motioned for silence as the nurse prepared to administer the anesthesia. Wanting to say one more thing, Linda wouldn’t let the nurse cover her nose and mouth. “Oh, Irene, it’s so comforting to die with your best friend by your side. Tell Chuck I love him.”
In the next moment, I felt her grip loosen as her body relaxed. The nurse turned up the fumes as she monitored the flow through the gauge, nodding her approval that all was well.
Shattered Dreams Page 27
