In the past, I’d often pretend to be asleep so he could tell his stories without the usual guard he put up whenever he had occasion to share a memory with me, but this time I found myself startled into wakefulness.
When you were still a spirit up in heaven . . .
The first time I’d heard Elder Thomas speak about a preterrestrial life—the idea that all humans live as spirit children born to Heavenly Father before being reborn into this earthly life—I found it to be a rather sweet, comforting idea. Imagine, all the while I was preparing to be this child’s mother, all those years living as a child myself, this little baby was a mature, healthy spiritual being.
Oh, I’d heard Nathan tell the story over and over. But I listened to it now with new ears, and only half of it rang true. Yes, Nathan had lived before now—he’d been a little boy, a young man, my husband. But he and I made this child, through the miracle of God’s design. I listened, waiting to hear some word about the role I played in the child’s creation, wanting to share some part of the spiritual lore, but heard nothing. Instead, I heard empty words whispered by a father about to lose the very son he’d longed for, words that held more wonder at the life the child had already lived than sadness at the one he never would.
As that tiny spirit fought for every living breath, something inside of me began a slow, sour churning. I closed my eyes and listened to my husband’s secrets and my son’s struggle, but both were eventually drowned out by a smaller voice within me repeating a single refrain.
It isn’t true.
It was the first time since my foot stepped onto the ferry that any part of me questioned the teachings of Joseph Smith. Perhaps my blinding love for Nathan or yearning to be a part of this exciting, fervent spiritual family had kept me from ever questioning what I’d been told. I’d faced famine and locusts and storms and drought and death with these people, supposing their unshakable faith to be a testament to their doctrine. Not until now did I see a chink in the armor of Joseph Smith’s revelations.
Of course I knew that God himself had chosen to take on human flesh when he came to earth as a helpless baby. But that was a miracle. That was Jesus, God’s one Son, his only Son. And he came for a purpose—to grow and live and die. But what “spirit child,” what glorified spirit being, would come to be born in the frail, ever-weakening shell that was my son? Who, outside of a Savior, would choose to be born, only to die? Because I knew, from the first minutes of his life, that my son was going to die. Not in the same vein that we all will—someday, in the full timing of God—but that day or the next. I knew his life would be measured in days, in hours. And only a creature made from the equally frail coupling of two human vessels could come to be so mortally doomed.
How strange to think about such things in those shadows where I counted each shallow breath, measured each spoken word. It was, for me, my comfort. Every woman who loses a child wonders at the wisdom of God. The purpose for ever touching such unbearable pain. But for just a moment, I no longer despised my own heartbeat, and the wonder of God’s grace shone clear. The entire purpose for my son’s existence—within the womb and without—was to bring me to this tiny moment of doubt.
* * *
He would be known in the church record as Arlen Nathan Fox, named for my father. No promises were made to dedicate him to the teachings of Jesus Christ; no requests were made for a life of good health, no prayers for his future wife and children. Just our little family gathered by the warmth of the stove, and Elder Justus, a towering, bearded presence, holding the bundled form of our baby as Nathan’s hand trembled on his shoulder.
“Heavenly Father,” the elder’s voice boomed, “we give this child over to you.” Soon after, he placed little Arlen in my arms, and as our front room filled with whispered prayers, my son fought for his final breath before passing into his first peaceful sleep.
I must have cried out, though I don’t remember making any noise, and I clearly remember not wanting any intrusion on this final moment. I simply sat, trusting the chair to hold me upright as I knew my own body never could, until little Lottie was standing at my elbow, reaching one soft, chubby finger to move the blanket aside from her baby brother’s face.
“Has he gone back to heaven, Mama?”
I couldn’t answer. Father God, forgive me for the lies I’ve taught this child. I felt the eyes of Elder Justus boring into me, and I knew if I didn’t say something, he would. Clutching the still form of little Arlen to me, I simply said, “Yes, Lottie. He is in heaven now. With Jesus.”
It was truth as I knew it, sufficient for now. Lottie nodded sagely and withdrew her hand.
By noon a funeral wreath hung on our front door, and all those people whom we’d invited to the blessing of our child came instead to minister to us in our grief. Our little table, laden with food, fed them through the day, but I ate none of it. I tried to be gracious at first, accepting the warm embraces of my sister Saints and the brothers’ attempts at spiritual comfort, but each word of condolence only tightened the wrench of my grief. I could never, ever explain that the solid rock of pain and confusion occupying my head had very little to do with the death of little Arlen, for I knew he was resting in the arms of Jesus. No, my trepidation grew as I listened to them speak, constant murmurings punctuated with words of Heavenly Father, of the prophets and Brother Joseph. All of it tainted with a falsehood I’d never heard before. I felt I’d been reborn with the birth of my son—my ears and eyes as new as his own. When I finally claimed the right of a grieving mother and slipped away, back to the room where I’d borne my child, I curled up on my bed and wept. My tears fell freely for the loss of my son, but the words I spoke aloud repented what I’d lost with my Lord.
“Father God,” I spoke into my pillow lest anyone hear me, “forgive me. I abandoned you, tossed away your truths. I see now what my father warned me about, and I ask your forgiveness for my disobedience. Lord, help me—”
The knock at the door was soft but insistent, and I found myself powerless to rise up against it.
“Camilla?”
That unmistakable voice pulled me from my depths, and I sat straight up.
“Evangeline!”
Seconds later my dear friend was in my arms, or I was in hers. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and I buried my face in that scratchy sea of red curls and sobbed as I hadn’t yet.
“There, there, sister . . .” When she whispered, the normally hard edge of her words softened, and she rocked me like she would a child weeping against her. “Rachel came too. She’s talking with Nathan now, but she’ll be here in a minute. It’ll be just like old times.”
I pulled myself away and looked deep into the face of my friend. The intervening years had not been particularly kind. The freckles remained, numerous as ever, but they sat on a canvas of sallow skin. The girl who had been petite and quick and lithe was now merely small and gaunt, her arms like sticks within her sleeves. All in all, she had the effect of a woman not so much growing up, but drying up. I feared she might crackle when she moved.
“How—how is your father?”
A shadow flickered behind her green eyes. “He passed. Finally.”
A new wave of sadness hit me, one we shared. “Oh, sister. I’m so sorry. When?”
“A week ago.” She looked up, calculating. “No, nearly two weeks now. Two weeks on Tuesday.”
“You should have sent word. We would have come.”
“I knew you were near your time. I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“But Nathan? He would have—”
“There really wasn’t much of a funeral.” She patted me, reassuring. “Only our closest neighbors even knew he was still alive. When we posted the notice in the paper, most people either had no idea who he was or thought he’d died years ago. To think I’ve been living all these years with a ghost.” The corner of her mouth had its same quirky turn, almost bringing her back to the girl she’d been. “Now it seems I’m to become one myself.”
“
Evangeline Moss!” The doorway filled with the silhouette of Rachel, her figure perfectly displayed in black silk. “Now is not the time to burden poor Camilla with our problems.”
“No, really, I don’t mind,” I said. And I didn’t. “Sometimes the best way to lighten the burdens of your own heart is to carry the weight of somebody else’s.” I patted the space next to me on the bed, inviting Rachel to join us.
“That’s beautiful,” Evangeline said. “What book is that in?”
“My own.”
“Still, my problems seem so insignificant compared to . . .” Her words trailed off as her eyes turned toward the empty cradle in the corner. “It must be the worst pain ever.”
“It’s the worst so far,” I agreed. “For me, anyway. But you, dear friend, your loss is no less significant. You’ve now lost both of your parents.”
Evangeline gave a sad, tight-lipped smile.
Rachel reached across me to grab Evangeline’s hand. “Now you can finally get on with your life.”
“Taking care of Father was my life.”
“And now he’s gone.”
I both marveled and trembled at the strength and finality of Rachel’s tone.
“I received a visit from Brigham Young the other day,” Evangeline said.
“Himself?” I could only imagine such a thing.
“No, that might have made the news easier to take.”
“What news?” Rachel’s brow furrowed, creating the only lines in her otherwise-smooth face.
“They—the church, I guess—have been allowing us to live in that house without any sort of contribution. On their charity, you might say. Our home and all our needs. Because of Father’s incapacity to work and my mother gone and the brothers so young.”
“But they worked in the mill, didn’t they?” I remembered a visit years ago; though twelve and thirteen, they looked like such little boys heading off in the early morning hours.
“Yes, but now they’re on mission in England. From there, who knows? And I can’t just keep the house.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“Brigham Young, of course.” Rachel made the name sound like a conviction.
“And he’s right to do so.” Evangeline was quick to the prophet’s defense. “I can’t expect to have food and shelter for the rest of my life at the Saints’ expense. I have to do something. Go somewhere. They’ll give me the winter, but after that . . .”
“Well, it’s terrible timing on your father’s part,” Rachel said, smoothing her silk. “A few months ago and I could’ve had Tillman marry you and bring you into our little household. But he’s not due for another wife for at least two years. That’s how long it takes for the novelty to wear off.”
Her words couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d shouted them through a blare horn. Evangeline recoiled from an unseen physical blow. “Sister Rachel! You mustn’t be so flippant about something as sacred as the celestial bond of marriage.”
“I’ll take it seriously when my husband does. Let’s see . . .” She ticked off the numbers with her fingers. “I was eighteen when Tillman married me. He was thirty. Wife number two, Joanna, was twenty—a bit old for his taste, but I’ll admit there wasn’t much choice in the early days. Then three years later, Marion, seventeen. And now sweet Tabatha, just sixteen. On second thought, if this one can keep her looks, he might be occupied for quite a while.”
“That’s blasphemous.” Evangeline hissed the word. “You’re taking a holy sacrament and turning it into something vile.”
Rachel’s reply was equally venomous. “What else do you call a man’s continuous rotation of women in his bed?”
“It’s the desire of Heavenly Father. The divine revelation of our prophet. The very basis for the Celestial Kingdom. Just last month the prophet stood behind the pulpit and urged us to recognize our duty to build large, strong families in this world to bring blessings to Heavenly Father in the next.”
“And my Tillman proudly obliged him by bringing home Miss Tabatha the very next week. Come to think of it, our Nathan was in that service too.”
I’d been sitting between the two, my head bouncing back and forth with the debate. Rachel’s question couldn’t have been clearer if she’d asked it, but it was one I was not prepared to answer, so I asked my own. “Do you think Tillman loves his other wives as much as he loves you?”
She threw her head back and let out a mirthless laugh. “That’s one question I never bother to ask him or myself. Remember, even though he married me first, I came into his life second. We’d only spent a few weeks together before he came out here and married Joanna. He had a whole year with her before I arrived. I never had a choice but to accept it.”
“Nor should you,” Evangeline snapped. “You don’t have any choice but to accept the teachings of the church. Baptism. Tithing. Why should marriage be any different?”
“Nathan and I love each other so much. I can’t imagine any other life.”
“And you don’t have to.” Rachel put her arms around me from behind and nestled her head on my shoulder. I could smell her perfumed lotion. Roses. “My brother is content. More than that. You make him happier than I ever thought he could be.”
“But he’ll never reach—”
“You hush with all of that!” Rachel squeezed me closer even as she scolded Evangeline.
“He so wanted a son,” I said, my eyes burning anew.
“Yes,” Rachel comforted, “and he’ll have one. You’ll give him one.”
Evangeline opened her mouth to speak; instead she crumpled under Rachel’s glare. But her words, though unspoken, were as present in the room as the three of us and the empty cradle.
Or another wife would.
Chapter 12
What can I say about the months that followed? In some ways they were much like any other winter. Kimana and the girls and I spent evenings sitting by the fire, carding wool. We didn’t have sheep of our own, but a few of our neighbors did, and sometimes we’d gather two or three families in a home to pass the time telling stories and singing, all underscored by the rhythmic combing. Snowflakes tumbled through the dark winter sky as our baskets filled with soft tufts of white wool. I never have developed a deft hand for spinning, so when the women gathered for those afternoons, I busied myself frying doughnuts and pouring cider. Anything to keep busy. Both of the girls had been born in the spring, so I never had the joy of a newborn in the winter. I’d been looking forward to long, dark, cold nights sitting by the fire. The muffled winter air made our house seem all the more quiet. Try as we might, we could not fill the void left by the life that ended all too soon.
For the first time in our marriage, Nathan was lost to me. He left our bed in the wee hours of the morning to tend to the livestock—chores that had been mine until the final days of my pregnancy. When I protested and offered to at least join him in the work, he’d touch me lightly on my cheek and say, “No, love. It’s cold outside. Stay here and sleep a little longer.”
But it haunted me, that room. It seemed the cold of winter seeped through the very walls. The moment Nathan and I stepped through the door, we ceased to speak, and the bed that had once been an island of warm refuge now gave all the comfort of a hard frost. We hadn’t been together as man and wife since before the baby was born, when we laughed at the awkward intrusion of my pregnant belly. A month after Arlen’s birth, when I knew my body had fully healed, I turned to him in the night, but he turned away. And the next night. And the next.
I found myself daily carrying the helplessness I’d felt when I held little Arlen in my arms. The love Nathan and I shared was dying every day, and I was powerless to breathe new life into it.
Whatever brightness and love we had in our home during those early winter months came from Melissa and Lottie, who simply refused to succumb to the sadness that gripped their father. Oh, Melissa, always the more solemn of the two, crept about the house for a while, burdened with the strain of trying not to be a bother to anyo
ne, but little Lottie simply refused to be sad.
“Baby Arlen’s in heaven with Jesus,” she’d say whenever the thought of him crossed her mind. She made such assertions without a hint of mourning—just a matter-of-factness that I envied.
Once, when she left her new doll in the baby’s cradle, I gave her a solid scolding. I gripped her arms and yanked her clear off the floor, screaming, “That bed is for the baby!”
Calmly, her big green eyes looking straight into mine, she said, “The baby’s sleeping in the arms of Jesus. He doesn’t need the bed.”
That very night Nathan took the cradle out to the barn, and I packed away the stack of tiny shirts and socks and blankets I’d made in the months of preparation. And for the life of me, I don’t remember ever talking about baby Arlen again.
* * *
One evening in early February, Nathan came to the table with the usual layer of sweet-smelling sawdust on his shirtsleeves.
“Elder Justus is coming to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Oh?” I ignored the shiver at the base of my neck and spooned boiled potatoes onto Melissa’s plate. “That’ll be fine. Kimana trapped a rabbit this morning. We’ll make stew.”
“He wants to talk to you, Camilla.”
“Really? I was just in their home last week cutting quilt blocks with Sister June. Surely he could have talked with me then.”
“Now, stop it.” I can recall very few times before this when Nathan had ever spoken to me in any kind of a harsh tone, and never had he done so in front of the children. When he said this, the words barely escaping his lips through his clenched jaw, I was startled to the point that I nearly dropped the bowl to the table, and my cheeks burned so that I was certain they were steaming along with the food. “You know very well why he’s coming. You haven’t been to a church meeting since—”
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