by Loren, Celia
“STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!” Now it was Chloe’s turn to stand. She wheeled on her older brother with tears in her eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you’re a filthy little heathen slut,” he said, in a voice more cruel and terrible than anything Ryder’s nightmares might have dredged up. “And you deserve to be punished.”
What happened next passed in a blur. Chloe left the table, trailing hurt. Mrs. Christiansen moved to comfort her daughter. It seemed for a moment that Elder Johannes would turn his column of steely, contained anger back to his son, for speaking out of turn, but instead he looked to Ryder. He didn’t even need the words that came next, as his host’s expression made them quite plain.
“You will leave my house,” the older man said. “You will leave this community. And you will never see any member of my family again.”
PART II
Chapter Fifteen
“Wonderful work today, Sister Chloe.”
“Yes—just a beautiful speech. Shame you won’t be able to speak at the next sacrament meeting.”
“Sister Greta!”
“I’m just teasing, she knows I’m teasing. Anyways. Lovely words.”
Chloe watched Sister Greta and Sister Denise cluck and skip their way across the parking lot, back towards their cars. Long before they were out of sight, she saw their heads bend together in gossipy consensus. You didn’t need a strong imagination to guess what they were so giddy about.
She walked reluctantly toward the van that was waiting to carry her home. Her father was already looking agitated, behind the wheel. Any moment now, he would honk the horn, indicating she shouldn’t dilly-dally. Not that it really mattered either way. Whether she went fast or slow, she was still bound for the same destination.
It was approaching fall in Provo, and the leaves were changing, and when one ventured toward the mountains you could see their snowy caps looking denser than usual. Chloe whistled a little as she walked. Her home was still beautiful, she reminded herself, as part of the ongoing cheer-up campaign. She still had all of her limbs. Things could be a lot worse.
She hadn’t even put on her seatbelt when her father spoke to her through gritted teeth. “I don’t appreciate the delay,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror but not into her eyes. “Relief Society meetings end at 2 p.m. Everyone knows that.”
“I was just speaking to Sister Denise and Sister—”
“No backtalk,” he growled, before peeling out into traffic. Chloe obeyed.
It had been three months since The Event. Three months since she’d last seen Ryder Strong. That morning that she’d thought would be the worst in her entire life had, unfortunately, only served as a prelude to the new regime. Though she was well into her twenties, after Johnny’s proclamation Elder Johannes had saw fit to discipline his oldest daughter like a child. “It’s me or the disciplinary council,” he’d told her that very night—the first night in her life when he hadn’t even been able to look her in the eye. “I think you’ll prefer this.”
Those eerie words remained to be proven, as Chloe had been existing like a prisoner for weeks now. She’d come home from sacrament meeting that Sunday to an emptied bookcase. When she’d asked Celeste and Marie if they knew anything about the whereabouts of her dearest friends—her Shakespeare, her Austen, her Forster, her Dostoevsky—they’d cast their eyes around and started muttering. Of course they knew where the books had gone, but they weren’t in a position to pick sides. Later, her father had explained his decision. “Those hedonistic stories have polluted your mind,” he’d said, over apple tart. “From now on, I’ll approve what you read.” And that had been that.
In addition to lockdown, Chloe had been made to take on several daunting new commitments. Her father had pulled some strings with the bishopric so Chloe could teach Sunday School, and take a junior leadership role at the women-centered Relief Society meetings. She was also lending her extra hours to several church-sanctioned charity groups. She wasn’t foolish enough to ask if they’d consider allowing her to go on a mission, or return to BYU for graduate study—though she would have done even the most Mormon-y of things to leave her silent fortress. It had seemed clear for a while that this was just the way life was going to be now. Chloe would cleanse and cleanse her befouled soul until she felt holy again, and God forgave her, and—most important of all—her parents forgot John’s terrible, truthful accusations.
And as for her brother? Something had clicked in John’s personality, too. Though they no longer spoke to one another unless they were forced to (as in, unless they were under the surveillance of other church-goers, or their parents made them), John had also renewed his commitment to the faith—albeit, electively. He was attending Priesthood meetings. He’d volunteered to speak at area high schools about how his commitment to the faith had seen him through the worst of his wartime service. He now spent many an evening locked up in the study with their father, supposedly studying doctrine. He no longer grinned like a goofball, or played games with his little sisters, or cracked jokes.
But the worst part of the new austerity was the fact that Chloe had been forbidden to socialize with Gwen, whose own “tarnished values,” were thought to have contributed to Chloe’s falling from grace. Her best friend was smart enough to connect the dots about her friend’s abrupt removal from the social scene—and Lord knew Provo was gossipy enough; Denise and Greta in point—but it was still close-to-impossible to stay in contact under the current sanctions. Chloe’s cell phone had been taken away. She was only allowed to work on the living room computer, where other family members could monitor her internet activity. Short of passing one another secret messages at meetings, there wasn’t a ton they could do to encourage one another. And boy, did Chloe need encouragement.
“How was your meeting?” her father managed, after they’d driven several miles in silence. She recognized his occasional questions as little slivers of the man who raised her and loved her peeking out from beneath the terrifying dictator he’d become, but it was still hard to practice kindness toward her jailer. She answered him out of fear, not because she wanted to.
“Fine.”
“Looking after everyone’s spiritual welfare?”
“Sure, father. I mean—yes.”
They continued on, quiet again. Chloe watched her hometown flick by.
She wondered what Ryder was doing. Not that a minute, let alone a three hour meeting, ever passed without this happening. After he’d been practically tossed from the house with his duffel bag hastily packed, she’d watched his retreat from his bedroom window, where you could still smell traces of his body on the sheets. (That is, if you were super furtive.) His body had slumped with defeat. She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. And yet, he’d clearly got himself a ticket or hitched a ride out of town, despite minimal funds and connections. For all she knew, he was back in New York, at the mysterious aunt’s house. Or worse, back in the military’s clutches, awaiting the OK from doctors to go out on some other dangerous mission.
She missed his touch, his smile, and even his pretentious little asides so much that it was physical. Her stomach ached when she thought of his kisses. The way he’d looked at her. The way he’d made her feel like a body, and a body as lovable as a mind. The day her books had vanished, that had felt like losing him all over again—and in a more final way. Tears started to sprout at the corners of her eyes, just from thinking about all that she’d lost. A life’s worth of happiness. A hero. A companion. A peer.
“I’ve been speaking with Elder Eyring,” her father said suddenly. He sounded unusually chipper. “Do you remember Brother Frederick?”
Chloe snapped back to reality. “Frederick? You mean Freddy?” If memory served, Little Freddy Eyring had been the playground terror of her childhood years. He’d run around teasing the heavy kids, and had been especially cruel to Gwen when news of her father’s “scandalous” marriage had found its way to Provo.
“He’s just returned
from a mission. Kenya.” Something in the way her father said this filled Chloe with dread. And sure enough: “He’s grown into a very pious young man. An English teacher at the high school.”
This information was hard to reconcile with her memory. Freddy had been about as un-scholarly when they were kids as he’d been mean.
“That’s nice, father,” Chloe said, hoping this would end the conversation. But alas.
“I’ve arranged for the two of you to spend some time together,” Elder Johannes concluded. “Maybe on another skating trip. Or you could go to that milkshake place you like so much.” There was the edge of a teasing quality in his voice. She knew that, in his way, this was her father trying. But something about being set up on a blind date made her throat start to close up. She thought of the whole-milk man. The perfect Mormon life of her daydreams. If she didn’t do or say something, this life would just happen to her. It would wash over her like a tide, leaving her too heavy to swim for shore.
Another kind of father might have said, “Just think about it,” but Chloe knew her Dad well enough to recognize his commands. Her heart felt like a cold, hard stone in her chest. “Fine,” she said, tonelessly. If she couldn’t have Ryder, perhaps it just made the most sense to drown.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryder hunched against the wind, drawing the fleece collar of his bomber jacket up to his chin. He fumbled with his match-book, snapping numb fingers to spark warmth. After three, four failed attempts, he successfully brought flame to the end of a freshly-rolled joint. He inhaled deeply, then coughed a plume of smoke out onto the city street.
The city street in question was St. Mark’s Place—the original haven for New York City punkers and artists. It had been a surprisingly tough adjustment, returning to the clamor of metropolitan life after so many quiet weeks spent in Provo. He’d thought of New York as a place where he’d always feel welcome, but much had changed over the years. After all, he hadn’t really walked these streets since he was eighteen.
He was startled out of reverie by a light tap on his shoulder. Ryder turned, and saw Mirabel—the moon-faced hippie goddess who had just taught his yoga class.
“Nice work up there,” she said, her high voice coming out coy. Ryder assessed. “Any chance I can take a hit of that?”
Smirking, Ryder passed her the joint. She took it in her narrow fingers, and inhaled deeply. Grinned. Mirabel was certainly pretty, even if she was the embodiment of everything he’d once made fun of as a Navy SEAL. She was the wealthy daughter of obscure New York millionaires, but in lieu of doing something useful with her privilege, she taught a gentle yoga class and made derivative sculptures out of Barbie dolls. He had to keep reminding himself that it was cruel to pigeon-hole other people. So maybe Mirabel didn’t read books, or care about her family, like a certain Mormon princess he tried not to think about anymore. She’d been kind to him, a stranger, and only completely encouraging of his “road to recovery.”
Exactly twelve weeks ago, after he’d walked himself to a Greyhound station and fought with a hostile cashier over the veracity of his VA card, Ryder had begun the painful trek back East. He’d had an epiphany somewhere in the desert. Before combat, he’d known exactly how to nurse a broken heart: booze, fights, weed, late nights full of sin. Taking his fury out on his undeserving Aunt Tilde, who’d born each one of his evil moods with a smile. But after Provo, after Chloe, after John—he knew he couldn’t step backward. He’d showed up at his bemused Aunt’s door, all apologies. He’d immediately gotten to work on the dozens of small upkeep tasks her ancient apartment in Bed-Stuy had required, in attempt to make up for his long, unforgivable silence. Though he’d sent word for his one living relative right after being discharged, he hadn’t really faced her since before going to Aleppo. It was too hard. Lucky for Ryder, she wasn’t the type to hold grudges.
“I understand you better than you think you know,” she’d told him, over a recent breakfast. “The whole Strong clan is made of runaways. We get hurt? Off we run. Your uncle, your father...it’s in our blood.”
“You know, I didn’t run away from Utah, auntie,” Ryder had snapped back. What he didn’t say was, I was banished.
Tilde had merely raised her eyebrows, in a disbelieving way. Ryder had resolved then and there: he wouldn’t run away, not ever again. Nothing was going to drive him from this new and final chance at life.
Also off his aunt’s encouragement, he’d started exercising again—but not toward re-building muscle mass. He just wanted to feel better. He ran in the mornings, lapping a local park, and went to Mirabel’s yoga class every other afternoon. The final cherry on this self-improvement sundae were his weekly meetings with Dr. Janet Nabby, a VA-recommended psychiatrist who specialized in counseling trauma survivors. To his shock, it had felt great to open up about the war—even to a civilian. Nabby didn’t judge even his darkest confessions, and didn’t pretend like things were going to be instantly alright now that he’d finally decided to face his problems head-on. “It will be a long road,” she was fond of saying. “But I’ll be with you every step of the way. If you let me.”
His days had been mostly spent in solitude—except for yoga class. Mirabel passed the joint back, a lazy grin spreading across her face.
“You want to go somewhere and talk, Soldier Boy?” she asked him. Her words were unadorned, un-sexual. Ryder considered.
The hardest part of his recuperation so far had been being around women. Turns out, there were lots of women in New York City—and blonde hair, an anxious frown, an old song sung in a soulful-but-amateur voice...all these things could remind him of her. He volleyed between feeling stupid about how he and Chloe had been discovered in Provo (and subsequently, feeling stupid that he’d ever allowed their relationship to become sexual) and feeling wistful that he hadn’t fought harder to save it. At the time, Chloe’s silence as he left her family’s house had felt like a woman picking sides. When she hadn’t run after him, it had seemed to him that she’d chosen her family over him. And why shouldn’t she? Hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t he ruined their lives sufficiently?
“Anybody home?” Mirabel waved her pale fingers in front of his face, a gentle mocking. She didn’t remind him of Chloe exactly, which was nice. He appreciated her easygoing manner. If she was coming on to him, it seemed equally likely that she wouldn’t make a big deal out of things if he expressed disinterest. He was thinking way too much.
“Talking sounds great,” he said, finally, thinking of Nabby. “Coffee?”
“Only if I’m buying.”
She pinched out the joint in her fingers, and grabbed him around the wrist. Her grip was bony but firm. “I know a great spot,” she assured him.
He let himself follow, like a puppy.
Mirabel proved pretty good at coffee conversation. She laughed with her whole body as his meager jokes, throwing her head back so he could see all the teeth in her mouth. She also spoke at length about her own theories and opinions—ranging from her childhood in Manhattan to her plans for the future.
Like his therapist, Mirabel also didn’t make him feel freaky when he spoke about the war. She listened, calmly, then responded with her own zany interjections. Like:
“What about love stuff?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just—I mean, you’re a handsome, single guy. Getting back on your feet. Any ladies on the horizon?”
Just what he’d been afraid of. His yoga instructor batted her pale lashes, and he couldn’t tell if she was joking or flirting or what. But he decided to be honest. That was his new policy.
“There was a girl,” he told her, taking a sip of his black brew. “In Provo.”
“Provo? Like Mormontown, USA, Provo?”
“The same.” He smiled. Mirabel didn’t seem put off, so he kept going. “She was really something.”
“In like a virginal, ice-queen, creepy way?” Mirabel threw her head back and laughed. “I’m sorry, but you fell in love with a Mormon girl?”
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The old him would have joined in with the ribbing, but here in the coffee shop all Ryder could think of was something Johnny had once told him, in their bunk: “Mormons have actually been persecuted in America for as long as they’ve existed. You can call it weird, man, but we’ve struggled. And overcome. Just like everyone.”
This was what resonated, not the joke. He didn’t even allow Mirabel a smile. “Yeah, a Mormon girl. So what?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m insensitive like that sometimes. Tell me more about her.”
Her eyes were sincere. Ryder stirred his drink, for something to do with his hands. He thought of Chloe’s radiant eyes, and pale skin. Her firm, articulate ‘nos.’ Her greedy, loving ‘yeses.’
“She was just really weird and wonderful,” he said, after a lengthy pause. “I’ve never met anyone like that before.” Mirabel nodded. “She kind of saved me, a little.”
“So where is your lady?” His new friend leaned forward, so her knobby elbows hit the table. “If she’s so perfect, why’d you leave her out West?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Doesn’t sound complicated.” She stared at him meaningfully, forcing his gaze to meet her own. Ryder could think of nothing to say to this, so after a beat Mirabel re-directed the conversation.
“I just had my heart-broken, too,” she said, sounding almost proud. “My ex. Katy. Bitch almost destroyed me.”
“Katy?” Ryder sat up a little straighter. “Katy, like a lady, Katy?”
“Yes,” Mirabel said, cutting her eyes. But in another moment, clarity broke over her face. “Wait. You didn’t think I was hitting on you, did you?”
“Umm...”
This time, her laughter was so loud as to be disconcerting. Ryder watched her with mounting satisfaction—her toned frame, the bawdy sound of her voice. Was it possible that he, Ryder Strong, Navy SEAL, Corporal Badass, had just made a platonic woman friend? His seventeen-year-old self was rolling in his time machine.
