A week after Seth entered kindergarten, I received a note from a psychologist asking me to come up to the school for a conference with him. When I arrived, he was tactful but very serious. “I want to talk to you about your son Seth. I’ve given him several tests, and he’s failed every single one. From my evaluation, he appears retarded and needs to be in a special class.”
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Retarded! He’s one of the smartest kids I have.”
The look on the psychologist’s face told me he thought I was the problem and that I was living in complete denial. Still smiling to myself, I asked, “May I see the tests he took? Something is certainly wrong, because I know he’s a bright child.”
“Excuse me,” he cut in, “I’m the psychologist here. I’m sorry if you disagree with me, but he must go into special classes. Still, I’ll be glad to show you the tests we gave him.”
He opened a picture book. On the first page was a baseball mitt. “See,” the psychologist said, trying to convince me. “He couldn’t even tell what that was!”
Then he turned the page. “And look here. He couldn’t identify Mickey Mouse, a fireman, a policeman, a fire hydrant—”
I put my hand over the page with the fire hydrant, stopping him before he could go any further. “Seth’s never seen any of those things,” I informed him. “He’s lived in Mexico and Nicaragua all his life. Had you asked him what a burro was or a three-toed sloth, or a monkey, ox, coconut, banana, machete, or sugarcane, he could have told you.” I continued, pointing to the next page. “This lightbulb, for instance. He’s never seen one. We’ve always lived without electricity. In fact, I have to reprimand Seth most every time I hear the toilet flush. He’s in there tearing squares of toilet paper from the roll, watching excitedly as the tissue disappears. It’s all new to him. We’ve never had a flushing toilet before.”
The psychologist was amazed. Together, we scanned through all three books. Not one thing pictured in them was familiar to Seth. The psychologist shook his head.
“I want you to know this is the first time I’ve been made aware of the unfairness of these tests. Now I can see we may have been improperly screening children from other countries, placing them in unsuitable circumstances. I’m so sorry, but I’m very thankful you’ve brought this to our attention, Mrs. LeBaron.
“By the way, when I was in my internship at the Utah State Mental Hospital in Provo, I met one of the nicest men I’d ever met, and his name was LeBaron also. He was a friendly, tall, blond man who had a flawless character. I was so impressed by him, I named my son after him.”
“What do you call him?” I asked.
“LeBaron,” he said.
“Did you know the man’s first name?”
“No, I never did. But he was a great guy.”
I opened my wallet, pulling out a photo of Verlan taken while he was working at the State Mental Hospital, almost thirty years before. I put it on the man’s desk.
“Oh my, this is him! I can’t believe it. Why, I’d recognize him anywhere.” He smiled. “So, it’s your husband?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can’t believe it either.”
LIVING IN THE STATES also made it impossible for my children to see their grown brothers and sisters, half siblings, cousins, and extended family in Mexico. The three oldest—Margaret, Sandra, and Connie—begged me repeatedly to take them back there. Most of all, they wanted their father and reprimanded me constantly for taking them so far away from him. Their tears wore me down, producing a new uneasiness in me.
In his own way, Verlan was a good father, and they needed him. But I knew what it was like to submit to him, and I didn’t think I could stand being one of ten wives any longer. Besides, I hoped I could ultimately give my kids more by living in the States and outside polygamy.
Then again, it was not just the kids who longed for the familiarity of Mexico. I fit in so much better there than here. If I returned, I could also stop living off welfare and just maybe assuage my guilt about abandoning God and Verlan. Perhaps I could bear it at least until all my kids were out of the house. I felt utterly conflicted.
I was weary of defending myself to my children and looking for any good excuse to go back to Mexico, but I also dreaded and felt foolish making that decision. I called Becky, hoping she could tell me what I should do. Over pie and coffee at Denny’s, I expressed my concerns to her. I wanted a good future for my children. I also wanted one for myself.
Becky was heartbroken at the possibility that I might leave, but she also wanted me to do what was best for me and my kids. Not certain what that was, she recalled a friend of hers recently recommending a palm reader who was supposedly very accurate in predicting the future. Becky was rather into that sort of thing, and in this case she hoped it might help me think more positively. She felt so strongly about my going to this psychic, she said she’d accept all responsibility for taking me there. I had many misgivings about it, but I went along because I simply fell back into my old habit of listening to other people rather than trusting myself. Besides, I felt I was drowning and needed answers.
Still, I felt great apprehension as we approached the door. A thousand voices from my past screamed at me to stay away from psychics because the Bible forbids any interaction with divination or sorcery, witchcraft, consultation with the dead, and the like. As Mormon fundamentalists, we’d been taught instead to listen only to the brethren (whose intuition was supposedly far better). But Becky was unencumbered by any of those voices. She walked right up and rang the doorbell and then turned to me. “Hey, sis, maybe Lady Maria will see some good-looking man in your future who’ll take you, kids and all!”
I was so racked by guilt, I could barely laugh. According to Mormon fundamentalist beliefs, I’d already sinned by leaving my husband. Even worse, I’d all but abandoned my personal commitment to the overall practice of polygamy. Now I wondered if I’d be damned for coming to see a fortune-teller as well.
A portly, dark-haired woman with colored ribbons in her thick black braids invited us in. I watched her intently as my mind spun. Was she Italian? Mexican? From the Devil?
“How much do you charge?” Becky asked her.
“Forty dollars each.”
I wondered if Maria thought her big smile would make me feel better about being ripped off. “Thanks anyway,” I heard myself say, “but I can’t afford forty dollars right now.” I silently thanked God I was getting out of this creepy situation.
But I got pulled right back in when Becky said, “You go first, sis. I’ll be glad to pay for both of us.” Maria motioned for me to follow her. When Becky came, too, Maria stopped and said, “I only take one person at a time. We must have complete privacy so I can concentrate.”
I sat at a small table with a red linen tablecloth. Smoke from burning incense rose from the table, and the acrid smell stung my nostrils. Maria sat on a wooden chair opposite me. “Give me your right hand,” she ordered, spreading my fingers wide apart as she peered at my palm. “I see you going to Mexico.”
My heart fell. Why did she say that? Why not New York or Paris?
“I see you left your husband because of another woman. But don’t worry. He didn’t love her as he did you. You have thirteen, maybe fourteen children?” she asked quizzically. When I nodded she was right, she continued, “I know you won’t like this—I can feel it—but you must return to your husband.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering how she knew all these things.
“Because only you can teach him certain things.”
I shook my head. “I’ll never go back.”
“I know how you feel,” she assured me. “As I said, there are certain lessons in life that only you can teach him. I can promise you this—in one year, you’ll know why you went back.”
While Becky had her fortune told, I reprimanded myself for being crazy enough to have come here. I didn’t believe in soothsayers. But if she was a fake, how did she know so much about me? I returned home, wishing I’d mi
nded my own business. Now I just had one more thing to worry about.
Next Becky was given two tickets to a psychic fair at the College of the Redwoods. Her friend suggested to Becky that she take me along. I decided since I’d gotten myself in this deep already, it wouldn’t hurt to have a second opinion.
Becky and I took seats on opposite sides of the conference room, hoping not to influence each other. I don’t remember the speaker’s name. She was a pretty blonde woman who worked in Florida as a psychic for a police department. After an hour of amazing demonstrations, she announced she’d show us how to do what she called “psychometry.” Passing around an empty cigar box, she instructed us to place a ring or watch or some other small article in it if we wanted to participate.
As the box went around, I held my gold ring, which had LOVE inscribed on it. My daughter Donna had given it to me for my birthday. I knew after watching her that this woman was amazingly accurate. I put my ring in the box while praying, God, I must know for sure what I should do about my future. Please let the psychic pick out my ring when she does the demonstration.
Someone handed the box back to the psychic, who turned to a woman in the front row and asked her to pick out an article. She told the woman to stand up, holding the wristwatch she’d just chosen from the box. “Now, say the very first thought that comes into your mind.”
“Oh, this sounds silly,” the woman remarked, embarrassed to say what she’d thought.
“Go ahead, flow with it. Say it no matter how silly you think it is.”
“Well, I see early European sailing ships on the ocean.” She laughed, embarrassed.
“Whose watch is this?” The psychic motioned for the woman to hold it up high so it could be identified.
A tall man in his thirties came forward to retrieve his timepiece. “Wow! That’s exactly right. I’m working with friends, diving in the ocean to recover treasure from a sunken fifteenth-century ship.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, we were amazed by the accuracy of the participants’ “first thoughts.”
“Now, I’ll do the last one myself,” the psychic said. She reached in and drew my ring from the box, holding it up. “I see this woman going to Mexico. She won’t like it, but she must go. My, this person has suffered; she’s been a pioneer. I see she has thirteen or fourteen children. Whose ring is this?”
As I came forward, she continued, “I see you left your husband or companion. You must go back to this man, even though I see you left him because of another woman. In fact, I see many women in his life. You must return, for he has some very important lessons he must learn, and only you can teach them to him.” Sensing my unwillingness, she added, “Don’t be downhearted. I promise, in exactly one year, you’ll know why you returned. I also see happiness and success in your future.”
Faced with a clear answer to the question I’d been asking, I found it nearly impossible to accept. I made myself almost sick going back and forth in my mind, weighing the horrors of both of my choices. Finally, exhausted by my own fear and ambivalence, I took a walk, seeking the answer from God. I told him I would do whatever he wanted me to, whether it meant going back to Verlan or doing everything it would take to make my life work right where I was. In that moment of surrender, I had a miraculous, spiritual experience that comforted me. It was so profound, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I would be able to return to Mexico for a year and trust God with the outcome.
Armed with that God-given courage, I called Verlan the next morning. He was shocked when I told him to come and get me and take me back to Mexico with him. He’d tried so often to coax me back, promising me all sorts of things if only I would return. Now he was baffled by my unexpected change of heart, but tickled that I wanted to come.
On August 16, 1980, Verlan brought his truck, pulling a U-Haul trailer behind it. We loaded up my possessions and drove to San Diego. We left there the next evening, driving across the scorching Southwest, and arrived in Colonia LeBaron on August 18.
Even today, I wonder about this event and the involvement of psychics in my experience. I’ve told this story as it happened, so I can’t deny the facts. However, I know psychics are not godly sources of counsel. All I can now surmise is God loves me so much that, like Balaam in the Bible, he’d have a donkey talk to me if it would help me down his path.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
By the next summer, with my yearlong encore as a plural wife drawing to a close, nothing eventful had happened. It was early August already. Nearly the whole town of Colonia LeBaron was attending the annual rodeo, which immediately followed the second session of our church conference. Not being a member of the church anymore, I’d chosen to withdraw from all religious activities, even the rodeo.
While others attended the festivities, I spent my time preparing huge kettles of spaghetti, fresh corn on the cob, toasted green chilies, and homemade wheat bread. Word spread fast of the open invitation to come to my home for a free meal. More than sixty friends and family showed up to partake.
I wasn’t on Verlan’s calendar that day until suppertime, but I knew he’d join his friends anyway so we could all enjoy his presence as we ate. He had just self-published a book titled The LeBaron Story. It was about the LeBaron family and Joel’s claims to be the true prophet. I took great exception to a remark he published in his book, asserting, “Irene’s one wish was for a can of Franco-American spaghetti, while Charlotte would have been satisfied to attend just one evening of the Summer Festival at the University of Utah.” It crushed me. He told the world, in essence, that I had no aspirations. At times in our poverty, yes, I’d mentioned how nice it would be to enjoy a can of spaghetti; but I cajoled Verlan far more about the finer aspects of life than about food. To prove my point, I told everyone who came in that day to read the spaghetti story on page 103. Then I served them a great meal as we all laughed about it.
Seeing I was being a good sport about his book and that I’d been a good host to his friends, Verlan whispered to me as he left, “I’ll be late, about midnight, because I have a lot of business to take care of, but I’ll be coming back to spend the night with you.”
That was nice, especially since it wasn’t my night, but it didn’t make up for much. In the year I’d been back, circumstances hadn’t changed at all. I just quietly accepted whatever life, and Verlan, dished out. Now I was merely marking time until I found the right moment to tell Verlan that I’d be leaving for good within the next couple of weeks.
I forced myself awake as Verlan crawled into bed beside me a few hours later. I didn’t want him to zonk out in a flash as he usually did. It had been six weeks since I spent a night with him because he’d been busy traveling back and forth to Texas, publishing his book. On each trip, he took one of his wives, but my turn hadn’t come up yet.
He took me in his arms and held me, but he was completely silent. Despite my own plans to leave, I felt a sudden surge of that old, familiar fear that Verlan would soon abandon me. It had always been the same story: wait and wait for weeks on end, longing for his return, then start over.
Not wanting to be pushy but starved for his love, I let my fingers roam. He grabbed my hand. “Please don’t pressure me. I’m too tired to make love to you.”
I’d heard the same excuse the last three times. Didn’t he realize it had been four months since he’d loved me physically? He always came to me late, and always, he was exhausted. As usual, I was dying from neglect, but I was determined not to complain and cause a fight.
I held my face close to him. His familiar scent made my tears well up as I recalled that old shirt of his I’d clung to and wept over all those years ago in the mountains. I wanted to catch and hold onto a part of him, even now, but I made myself turn over so he could go to sleep. As I did, he grabbed me, holding me as he began to convulse with soul-wrenching sobs.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, perplexed. “Tell me why you feel so bad.”
“I had a dream,” he said between sobs. “All I ca
n tell you is, I had a dream.”
His need for me canceled out my every complaint. It wasn’t like Verlan to show such emotion. He always seemed strong and able to bear any trials that came his way. I knew that whatever was bothering him had to be serious. I ran my fingers through his hair, comforting him. “What did you dream?” I asked.
His voice was hoarse with emotion as he said resolutely, “In a few days, you’ll know what it was.”
I held him but remained silent as he sobbed. I didn’t insist he relate his dream.
When he calmed down, Verlan apologized for not accompanying me earlier that day when I went to the cemetery to take a new headstone to Leah’s grave. Then he wistfully added, “I hope you left the old cement marker I made on her grave. Was it still intact after so many years?”
“Yes.” I reassured him. “I left it standing exactly where you placed it. We flattened the mound and then laid the new marker level on top of the grave. She would have been twenty-seven years old today.”
“Unbelievable,” he whispered.
After a moment’s silence, he continued, “I haven’t slept for five nights. I’m so tired I feel sick, but I need to talk to you. I know you’ve had so many doubts about my love for you. I know you feel I’ve always taken you for granted, but it’s because of you I’ve been able to organize my family and accomplish my utmost dream. You’ve been my pillar of strength. Your heart hasn’t been in it all, but you’ve been steadfast anyway throughout the years. I can’t help but love you for doing it. God has taken that into consideration, and I know you’ll gain your reward.”
I decided it might be a good time to tell Verlan about what God showed me that afternoon almost a year before. “Have you ever had a revelation, or can you say you know anything beyond a shadow of a doubt?” I asked him.
“No,” he admitted sadly. This surprised me some, since he’d always seemed sure of so much. But tonight he was exposing his vulnerabilities. That was why I felt I needed to tell him this.
Shattered Dreams Page 38
