Chapter

8

The rest of the session was pretty boring. I kept my answers short and tried to tell him what he wanted to hear, trying to remember how I would have answered as a teenager but still pulling hints from all those parenting books so that I could try to make him see that I really didn’t need therapy. Still, the entire time we talked, his question rang in my head. Why do you think you’re here?

I looked around at the stores and houses we passed as Mom drove back home, and I tried to find an answer to that question. Why was I here? Not just here, but now? Why was I living through this day as a sixteen-year-old? Was it so that I could right some wrongs with my mom or get closure with Sam? Was it to stop Corrie from the worst mistake of her life, or was it to see Mitch again?

We turned a corner, and suddenly there was the big white church. This was Mitch’s home ward until we got married, and then we’d attended here during our first year of marriage. Memories flooded through me, and I gasped out loud.

“Mom, stop,” I said. She glanced over at me and took in my stunned expression. They had torn down this church just a couple of years after we moved away—and there it was. I had to go inside. “Can we go inside the church, please, Mom?”

“Annie, I need to get dinner started,” she said.

“I’ll make dinner. Please?” I begged. She was going to pass it.

“You’ll make dinner? Honestly, Annie,” she laughed, but then she pulled over suddenly and parked in front of a blue house next to the church. It was Bishop Jamison’s house. He had been bishop during the time we’d lived here. I didn’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop. I opened the door and stumbled out, walking quickly toward the church.

The doors were unlocked, and I went into the foyer, taking in the familiar smell of dust and old wood. The walls were hung with pictures of scenes from the scriptures and posters announcing a fall social for the ward. To the left was a large photo collage with pictures of different church activities, and I was drawn to it like a magnet. The pictures were new, but I remembered them with just a little bit more age to them. There was the photo in the bottom left corner that I knew I’d find. It showed a dozen or so young men and women with their suitcases on the day they were leaving for South America. In the back row, towering over everyone else, was a serious-looking young man with sandy blond hair and kind blue eyes. Mitch had pointed this picture out to me the first time we attended church together. He’d said that going back to Chile was one of the happiest times of his life, surpassed only by the day he met me. At that point the picture was four and a half years old; now it was barely a year old. The picture had disappeared years ago. Along with the church. Along with Mitch.

My mom was trying to decide if she should come after me or not when I got back to the car.

“What was that all about?” she asked, irritably.

“I, uh . . . I’ve just always loved that church, you know?” I said.

She made a noise in her throat but just drove off. I was more determined than ever to see Mitch.

“Mom, can I borrow the car tonight after dinner?” I asked after a few minutes.

“Don’t you have homework?” she asked. Good question. I didn’t know.

“I want to study with Corrie,” I said, hoping that Corrie would be able to corroborate my story.

“Let’s just get dinner done, and then we’ll see, okay?” she said. I took a long look at her. She really was beautiful, but she was also very tired. With a start I realized that she was the same age as me. Well, as the real me. Was there something inherent in being a thirty-eight-year-old mother that made you worn out?

“Sure, Mom. I was serious about dinner, though. I can cook tonight,” I said.

“Since when are you interested in cooking?” she asked.

“Hey, I’m probably more proficient than you think,” I said. Mom was a great cook, but her style was simple, meat-and-potatoes cooking. I’d passed her up in variety and creativity ages ago. “Did you have something planned, or should I just wing it?”

Mom shot me another half-amused, half-annoyed glance.

“Well, if you’re cooking, you can make whatever you want as long as we have the ingredients, I guess,” she said. There was a hint of something in her voice that made me realize that she was just waiting to see what kind of mess I would make of dinner. I smirked a little to myself, thinking of her surprise when it turned out to be delicious.

Mom was surprised all right.

“Why are you getting out the ginger for a salad?” she asked me. “Honey, we use that to make cookies and pies. You’re not going to want to put that on the chicken.” She grabbed the little bottle of ground ginger to put it back in the spice cupboard.

“Mom, give that back. I need it. Trust me. This is going to be one of your favorite dishes someday. It’s an Asian chicken salad. The ginger is to season the chicken and to go in the dressing.”

Mom looked doubtfully at me but handed the jar back.

“Don’t you need a recipe or something?” she asked.

“Trust me,” I said again and shooed her out of the kitchen. It had been a while since I’d cooked enough food for this many people. My children weren’t very big eaters, so it took a little longer than I expected to cut enough chicken for my parents’ family into strips, and glaze it, and broil it, but the rest of the preparations were pretty quick. I had to improvise on a couple of the ingredients in the salad since my mom had never even heard of a dried cranberry, but I thought it all looked delicious.

And I was starving. I mean hungry in a way that made me surprised the entire world couldn’t hear my stomach rumbling. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, and it was obvious that my body was ready for food. Now.

“Dinner!” I called, and there was a stampede to the table. Dan was the first to arrive, and he immediately started picking chicken out of the salad until Mom smacked his hands away. He was distracted by Rachel, who insisted that he was sitting in her seat, and an argument ensued. Dad quietly took his place at the head of the table while Mom tried to break up the fight between her two youngest children. I sat down in my usual place, and finally Hannah arrived.

I hadn’t seen her yet, and I stared in wonder at my sister as Mom tried to calm everyone down for grace. Hannah was very deliberately not looking at me. Her eyes were red rimmed and her jaw was clenched. What was up with her?

“Thanks to Annie for our dinner tonight. This is, uh, a real treat,” Dad said, and I could tell he was as worried as Mom, just trying to put on more of a brave face. I smiled in reassurance, knowing they were going to love it. Dad said the prayer, and Mom started dishing salad onto plates and passing them around the table.

“Is there any ranch dressing?” Dan asked.

“You don’t need it. It’s already got the dressing on it. Just go ahead and try it,” I said.

He eyed his portion warily, then poked it with a fork, sorting the lettuce from the chicken and the fruit.

“Mom, there are oranges in my salad,” Rachel whispered.

Mom just shook her head and bravely picked up her fork. I watched as she took her first bite. Her face cleared, and a small smile appeared on her lips as she chewed.

“Mmmm, Annie. This is really good. What did you call it again?” she asked.

“It’s Asian chicken salad. It’s one of my favorite recipes,” I said.

Hannah rolled her eyes next to me and muttered under her breath. I thought I heard something like “show off,” but I wasn’t sure. Dad ate his salad and quietly asked questions of family members, inquiring into each one’s day. I was too busy shoveling salad into my mouth to be interested in what everyone was doing. I was shocked to discover that I’d polished off mine before anyone else. I looked in the bowl. There was still enough for seconds for at least a couple of people, so I took a little bit more.

“Well, Annie. We’re ready for the main dish, now, it looks like,” Dad said.

I stopped chewing. Main dish? Surprisingly, it was Mom who jumped to my rescue.

“This is dinner tonight, family. So eat up. It’s good for us to have more vegetables and eat a little lighter.”

Dan groaned, Hannah glared, but Dad just smiled and took seconds. I was going to have to remember how to make heavier dishes if I was going to be staying here. That thought made me lose my appetite. I laid down my fork.

“Mom, did you think about my borrowing the car tonight?” I asked.

Mom didn’t look up, just pushed her food around on her plate for a minute. You could feel the tension in the air, and Hannah looked up with interest.

“Annie, I don’t think tonight is a good idea. Your father and I still haven’t discussed what limits you’ll be living under for the time being.”

“Mom, please. Just for an hour? I’ll be quick. I just really, really need to study with Corrie tonight. It’s important,” I begged, knowing I sounded far too desperate for the excuse I was using.

“What is so important that it can’t wait?” Mom asked.

How could I answer that?

“Uh,” I managed.

“If this is about that guy,” Mom began, and I started, thinking of Mitch. “He’s too old for you, and he’s not interested, Annie. Can you understand that? Please?” Her voice was rising in volume and pitch.

“I’m sorry. Who are you talking about?” I asked, a knot in my stomach.

“Sam, Annie. Who else would I be talking about?”

Dad cleared his throat loudly and looked significantly at the other three children at the table. Mom got the hint.

“Annie, let’s talk in my room,” she said. It wasn’t a request.

I glanced apologetically at Dad, and he mirrored my expression, winking at me. At least I had one ally. I got up and followed Mom out of the dining room and upstairs to my parents’ room. She closed the door firmly behind me.

“Maybe this is way overdue, but we need to talk about girls and boys, Annie,” she said.

I couldn’t help it. The tension of the day, all of the crazy ups and downs, came crashing in as I realized that we were about to have The Talk. Again. I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop.

“Annie, this isn’t funny. It’s just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you,” Mom said.

“Mom,” I gasped out. “You really don’t have to do this. I promise.” The look on her face was such a comical blend of worry, determination, and embarrassment that it set me off again. She tried to talk over the noise I was making.

“Well, when a boy and a girl really like each other, it is natural to want to . . . well, they sometimes feel like . . . well, boys can try to get you to . . . Annie! Can you please stop laughing, I can’t hear myself think!”

“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just your face,” I said, but I couldn’t keep from laughing at her expression. She stared at me as I held my sides and collapsed onto her bed. A hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Honestly, Annie. I just don’t know what has gotten into you today,” she said, trying to sound annoyed, but that smile was still there.

“I don’t either, Mom,” I said truthfully, my laughter calming into a chuckle. “I’ll tell you this, though, being a teenager isn’t at all how I remembered it.”

“What?” she asked.

“What I mean is that it’s harder than I thought it would be. Still, I get what you are trying to say. I need you to believe me that I’m not in danger of doing anything stupid with a boy. I’m saving myself for someone special,” I told her. He’s very special, I wanted to say. You are going to love him, more than you love me, I think, and he’s going to take this crazy, overly emotional teenager and help her to become a mature and caring woman. I hope.

I don’t know if it was the words I said or if maybe Mom could see a hint of the thoughts in my mind, but she sat down next to me and put her arms around me.

“Annie, you know I’m so hard on you just because I love you, right?” she said.

I hugged her back, breathing in that floral scent that always clung to her. In this moment there was no competition or confrontation. She was Mom, and she made me feel better.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you,” I told her as she let me go. “I’d better go clean up dinner,” I said, still kind of hoping that she’d let me use the car.

“It’s Hannah’s night for dishes,” she said. Hope flared within me for a second. “Maybe you better get started on your homework.” It died again.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll, uh, be in my room,” I said.