Not of This Fold

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  Kurt and I used to make edible gifts for the neighbors in our cul-de-sac. That was before he’d become bishop and felt obligated to give the same gifts to everyone in the ward, so as not to be seen as playing favorites. With two hundred families in the ward, I couldn’t commit to making them all a plate of candy during the holidays. These would go to Samuel and whichever of the missionaries in Boston stuck with him for more than a few days.

  Then I thought of Gabriela’s children again, in need in a different way than Samuel, but with a fierce mother to protect them. I’d already left them some necessities, but they deserved special treats, too. So I saved half the candy for them, hoping I might see them again soon.

  I managed to get the egg whites to crest perfectly into stiff peaks, then slowly added the boiling hot sugar syrup. When the mixture was light and fluffy as clouds, I mounded them onto waxed paper just as the timer for the toffee went off. The kitchen smelled divine—a mixture of butter, caramelizing sugar, and nuts. I usually made divinity with chopped walnuts, but this time I only had pecans on hand—I’d been stocking up for pecan pie at Thanksgiving.

  I used the same chopped pecans on the toffee and already had them spread in the pan as I took the buttery mixture off the stove. I nearly burned myself on the handle before remembering to grab an oven mitt.

  There is a pleasure in seeing beautiful, golden toffee spread itself out, hardening as it moves and still shining like a liquid even after it has turned to a soft-crack stage. I dotted chocolate chips on top and waited a moment for them to melt enough to spread, then sprinkled more chopped pecans on afterward.

  When the boys were younger, they would fight over who got which pan to scrape at the bottom with a spoon. Now that they were gone, it was up to me. I licked at the toffee I’d collected in a spoon while it was still warm and liquid. It was delicious, but the real test would be if it broke up properly in the pan. Toffee was a precision art. If I cooked it for a minute too long, it would turn out too hard and tacky. If I cooked it a minute too short, it would be grainy and soft.

  And I wouldn’t find out until hours later, when it was too late to do anything about it. In the old days, the bad batches never went to waste because my sons hadn’t been picky about Christmas candy. That meant I’d had plenty of chances to practice until I’d become the expert I was now. I guess I’d have to serve in the capacity of toffee-taster this year.

  The caramel was waiting patiently for me, bubbling away. Caramel was a candy I could eyeball. It wasn’t that it was less finicky, but I could hear and smell and see when it was ready. I loved to watch the caramel thickening on my spoon, how it dripped slowly, like a candle, back into the pot. It would be another ten minutes until it was finished. I was glad I kept real cream in the house, because caramel was always better when made with cream instead of sweetened condensed milk. It was richer and its color darker, more auburn than golden.

  I poured it into a foil-lined, buttered pan—there was no such thing as too much butter! Then I left it to sit and sat myself down on the stool in the kitchen, relishing the ache in my muscles that came from spending hours over a hot stove. My mind had found peace somehow between the chopped pecans and the caramel, and I wasn’t quite so angry about my conversation with President Cooper anymore.

  Yes, Samuel was facing injustice from other companions on his mission. But he was strong enough to handle that. It was one of the reasons I loved him so much. He was courageous and honest, but also patient and loving. He wasn’t easy to anger, as I could be.

  I let out a long breath and thought about how much I missed him, this holiday season especially. And then I looked into the heavens and sent a prayer upwards. Something along the lines of: You’d better send me extra blessings in Samuel’s place this year, because otherwise it’s pretty unfair that he’s gone on a mission to serve You and we’re both suffering as a result.

  With that done, I could admit to myself that the real reason I’d been so upset about Samuel’s being treated badly on his mission was selfish. This was a reminder of how often I needed him around to help me deal with my own anger at the injustice in the world around me. And his being on his mission meant that other people were getting that blessing instead of me. Even if some of them didn’t see what a reward his presence was.

  Idiots.

  I was reminded, too, of how privileged it was for me to worry about Samuel, who would come home in a couple of years older and harder but largely undamaged. He’d have enough food to eat and warm clothes to wear—and he was an adult. Unlike Gabriela’s children, who might face far worse if their mother was taken from them.

  I started to work on the dishes, filling pots with warm water and soap suds and unloading the dishwasher. I filled it completely with big pots and a few breakfast dishes, then asked for God’s blessing to those I could not reach, and for His Spirit to guide me to those I could.

  Chapter 8

  Kurt and I were watching the late-night news together after our date night at La Caille, a fancy French restaurant a few miles away in Sandy that we only went to once a year. It had gone better than I’d expected; we’d talked about our children and grandchildren, making aspirational plans for their futures. But the breaking story was about the body of a strangled woman that had been found just two hours ago behind a dumpster at a local gas station in Draper. The police were asking for information from anyone who had been in the area during midafternoon, but they weren’t releasing any details about the victim.

  I didn’t think much of it until a few minutes after we’d gone to bed, when my phone buzzed. I was tempted to ignore the call, but saw that it was Gwen, so I got up and hurried over to answer it in the bathroom for Kurt’s sake, since he was already asleep.

  “Did you see the news about the dead woman at the gas station?” Gwen didn’t give me a chance to answer before continuing. “I think it’s Gabriela.”

  “What? Why would it be her?” I asked. There had been no public clues given as to her identity.

  Gwen ignored my question, sounding on the verge of hysteria. “She’s dead and her kids are alone now. It’s my fault, Linda,” she sobbed.

  “How could it be your fault?” I asked. “You were only trying to help.”

  “All my fault,” Gwen went on as if she hadn’t heard me.

  “Gwen, calm down—let’s be reasonable about this. I’m sure it isn’t Gabriela. Let’s talk about this tomorrow, or whenever they release more information.” Some sleep would probably help us both think more rationally.

  “I’m going to the gas station now,” Gwen got out. “Come with me or don’t. I don’t care.” Her voice was the monotone she sometimes used when she was upset, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk her out of this.

  “All right, Gwen. Let’s go make sure it’s not Gabriela,” I said. “Will you come and pick me up on your way?” I’d have to get dressed without waking Kurt, but I was willing to do that for Gwen.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll stop by in a few minutes. Come out when I text you.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said.

  Gwen hung up and I went back to the bedroom. My clothes from the previous day were right on top of the laundry basket, so I just pulled them back on.

  Kurt snuffled and turned over, but remained asleep.

  I scooted out of the room and closed the door quietly behind me, then tiptoed down the stairs.

  Should I leave him a note? I didn’t want to chance the buzz of a text message waking him up. I also didn’t know when I’d be back. I ended up scrawling a message on the whiteboard in the kitchen that we hadn’t used since Samuel had gone on mission. Before that, it had mostly been for magnetic games of one kind or another.

  It was sneaky, I knew. I wanted to say I’d left a message and be able to point to it if Kurt got angry, but I didn’t really want him to know I was leaving in time to intervene. I’d promised Kurt not so long ago that I wouldn�
��t put myself in danger investigating murder cases, but this was different. How could I be in any danger? But I knew he’d still be angry if he found out.

  After that, I waited at the front door, staring outside for five minutes until Gwen arrived. I hustled outside the moment she pulled up. Gwen’s passenger door was unlocked, so I got in. I was less worried about Gabriela than excited for an adventure. But I also knew this was a bad idea. Sneaking around, getting in trouble—I guess I hadn’t gotten that out of my system as a teenager. I’d been too busy following all the rules that a good Mormon girl follows, at least until my twenties.

  “It’s chilly,” I said, tightening my coat around me.

  Gwen mumbled something back, then circled the rest of the cul-de-sac and turned back onto the main street that would lead down the mountain. From the occasional light of street lamps, I saw her face was still stripped of makeup and splotched with red. Her eyes looked puffy from tears. She wasn’t in a talkative mood. She had her brights on, which was fine since there were no cars for a couple of miles in each direction. All the good Mormons were home, asleep.

  She drove down to the Pro-Stop gas station I’d seen in the news clips. It looked like it was still cordoned off. There weren’t any flashing lights, but I could see a couple of police cars.

  Gwen hadn’t explained her rationale to me, but on seeing the gas station, my adrenaline evaporated, and I wondered if Gwen was right, if Gabriela was really dead. I suddenly wanted to drive off and climb back into my nice warm bed, but I knew it was a cowardly thought.

  I could see one of the uniformed policemen was directing cars away from the gas station, a halo of frozen exhalations around his face.

  “Gwen, I know you feel bad about what happened. But I still don’t see what this has to do with you,” I said as she pulled the car to the side of the road. “Even if it is Gabriela, we should let the police handle this.” Even as I said it, I was aware of how much I sounded like Kurt.

  She took in a jagged breath. “Listen to this.” She got out her phone. Her hands were shaking, and she didn’t have gloves on. One pink fingernail had been bitten to the quick, with dried blood around the cuticle. Her other fingernails weren’t in much better shape. She touched a button and pushed the screen toward me. The volume was already set to maximum.

  “Gwen? Hermana Ferris? Are you there? Please pick up. Please.” It was Gabriela’s voice, I was sure of it—her slight accent and cadence were unique. She sounded panicked, her voice all over the place—high-pitched, then quiet, then loud and then scratchy.

  “I need help, Gwen. Can you meet me at the Pro-Stop gas station by the freeway tonight at nine or later? I’ll wait there until you come. I really need to talk to you. I’ve made a terrible mistake, done something I shouldn’t have.”

  A pause and some scuffling sounds in the background. A beep, then, “Please, Hermana Ferris. I don’t care about myself. I only care about my children and their future. They’re so young to be alone in the world.” A choking sound, then weeping. “I know that I was rude to you, that I said I never wanted to speak to you again. But please, please come and meet me. If you don’t come, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  A few shallow breaths, and the call ended.

  Gwen’s hands were shaking so much now that I was afraid she might drop her phone and break it. I took off my gloves and put a hand over hers so she had some human contact. Her hands were ice-cold, and she looked like death itself.

  “When did you get that message?” I asked quietly. It wasn’t conclusive proof that Gabriela was dead, but a definite sign she could have been the body the police had found.

  I’d been close to violent death too many times in my life. I felt sick at the thought of the beautiful dark-haired mother I’d known never going home to the lively children waiting for her. The sound of fear in her voice as she’d spoken to Gwen was heartbreaking. If only . . .

  Gwen said, her voice cracking, “A few minutes after I saw the news about the body at the gas station, I checked my phone. I’d been meaning to call Gabriela, but I was busy all day at work, then out shopping, so my phone was set to silent. I hadn’t thought to check it. And now she’s not picking up.”

  I kept hold of her hand, though it seemed there was no warming her more deeply. “This isn’t your fault, Gwen,” I said. “And we still need to make sure it’s her.”

  Gwen pointed across the parking lot, and that was when I saw the familiar twenty-year-old Honda parked across the street. My hope for Gabriela’s safety sunk to nearly zero.

  “They’re probably going to call it drug-related,” Gwen said bitterly. “That’s what they always call crimes against people who aren’t white and rich.”

  I winced. “That’s not true,” I said, hoping it wasn’t.

  “No one cares if someone like Gabriela dies. They think she should have just been deported anyway. To most of them, she’s not a real human being.” I wasn’t sure to whom she was referring—the police, Mormons, or the entire white population of the United States?

  “They’re not all like that,” I said. But Gwen didn’t seem to be listening. “Let’s say a prayer for Gabriela and her children.”

  Gwen still didn’t answer, so I closed my eyes and bowed my head to voice the words for both of us.

  “Dear Father in Heaven, please comfort us and bless Gabriela and her children, wherever they are.”

  Gwen let out a gasp at the end, then yanked her hand out of mine. She slammed her left fist into the steering wheel twice. I could see the guilty tension in every inch of her.

  Before she slammed her hand again, I caught it and tried to get her to look at me. “Gwen, this isn’t helping. Maybe we should go check on Gabriela’s children. Maybe she’ll even be there with them.” I didn’t have the best feeling, but couldn’t tell if that was a spiritual confirmation or not. Why not be sure about this before we decided on our next steps?

  “Are you going to pray for a miracle?” Gwen asked, her voice as sharp as my carving knife.

  Fine. That hadn’t been helpful for her. “Look, Gwen, we’re not getting anything done just sitting here. The police aren’t going to let us walk around a crime scene. The best thing we can do is stop by her apartment. You heard Gabriela on that call. She was concerned about her children—first and foremost. She wanted them safe.”

  “Because that’s what the church tells her,” Gwen said scathingly. “That she’s a mother, and that’s all that matters about her.”

  It stung a bit that she was so disdainful, but she was hurting, too. I wanted to tell her that she was loved, that there was still a place for her within Mormonism, but at this moment we needed to focus on protecting those small, vulnerable little ones. I guess it was hard for me to stop being a mother, too, because I couldn’t stop thinking about making sure the little ones were all right.

  “Let’s go,” I pleaded again.

  “Fine,” Gwen said. Her pale, shaking hands put the car into gear and we lurched off toward the other side of the freeway.

  Chapter 9

  A few minutes later, we came to an abrupt stop in the parking lot of Gabriela’s apartment building. There were lights on in her second-floor apartment, but that was true of several others as well.

  We walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. I desperately wanted to see Gabriela’s face, but instead, a young Hispanic woman appeared through the narrow crack when the door opened. She looked about sixteen years old. “Hello?” she said nervously, but without an accent.

  “Is Gabriela home?” Gwen said.

  The young woman hesitated, looking nervously behind her. I felt enormous relief that the children weren’t alone. This young woman must be the hired babysitter for the children, safely asleep inside. She must not be Mormon or she and Gwen would already know each other.

  “We’re friends of hers,” Gwen said. “From the Mormon church. We were helping h
er get her papers for citizenship prepared.”

  The young woman hesitated another moment.

  Then Gwen added, “Maybe she’s mentioned me—my name is Gwen. Hermana Ferris?”

  No response from the young woman.

  Gwen went on, “Gabriela called me a few hours ago, worried about her children. I just wanted to make sure they’re all right.” The last words came out in a rush of muddled guilt and fear.

  At this, the young woman undid the chain on the door and stepped out. She closed it behind her, but continued to speak quietly. “I’m Alma Rodriguez. Gabriela asked me to watch the children for a few hours, but she was so upset when she left, and now it’s hours after she said she’d come back. I’ve got school tomorrow. But I can’t leave the children here by themselves.” She maintained composure as she spoke, but I could hear the undertones of fear in her voice. Poor girl. She was just a teenager, and stuck in the middle of all this.

  “Gabriela didn’t tell you anything about where she was going or why?” I asked, since Gwen seemed unable to speak at this point.

  Alma shook her head. “I babysit for her all the time. My parents live just downstairs. They know her pretty well—my dad works with her.”

  I considered telling her that we’d take over with the kids, but with one glance at Gwen, I realized I’d better plan to follow her so she didn’t get into trouble.

  So I said as gently as possible, “Can you stay here and we’ll see if we can find out what’s happened to Gabriela? We’ll try to be back before you have to head off to school, but at this point, maybe it’s best if you sleep on the couch?”

  “Maybe I should call my mom,” said Alma.