Rhys
Immersion [ih-mur-zhuhn] n—Concentrating on one course of instruction or subject to the exclusion of all others for several days or weeks
Jen looks at the baptismal font and then turns to me. “You’re a moron.”
Supe bumps me with his elbow. “That’s what I said.”
“Me too,” Mom says.
“I think the word you’re all searching for is Mormon. I’m a Mormon.”
Jen rolls her eyes.
“Don’t worry; they’re commonly confused,” I reassure them.
Mom shakes her head as Supe wheels her to the front of the room.
Jen huffs. “First of all, you’re not Mormon yet. And second, you are a moron for not inviting your girlfriend to your baptism.” Jen reaches into her purse and pulls out her cell. “I don’t care what you say. I’m calling Emmy. She should be here for this.”
I place a hand on top of her phone. “Don’t.”
“I know you think your GF is going to forgive you, but this will hurt her. You’ll be RIP’ing instead of DTR’ing. Trust me.”
Jen might be right, but getting baptized isn’t something I’m doing for Emmy. “Getting baptized is something I have to do for me. Regardless of how she may feel or whether or not we get back together.” I want to be the man she wants me to be, but more importantly, I need to be the man God expects me to be.
I can tell by the way Jen’s forehead scrunches that she still thinks I’m a moron. Maybe I am.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to Jen. “Even if you think I’m a moron.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
Elder Marsden and Elder Barnes stand on either side of the font, ready to serve as witnesses, and Supe leads me through the door to the font. Gripping the metal handrail, I step onto the submerged stairs. Even though we’ve practiced how the dunk will go, Supe still has to place my hands correctly on his forearm.
“Ready, Brother Solario?” Supe asks.
I nod, and he raises his right hand to the square and utters the first words of the baptismal prayer.
My heart races. Pounds. And my brain fuzzes out. This isn’t right. Brother Clark would have referred to this as a stupor of thought. Not right. Get out now. “Stop.”
Supe’s words cut off, and the whole room seems to hold its breath.
“Somebody’s missing.”
Supe releases my arm, and I climb the stairs out of the font. Water drips down my pant legs and pools at my feet on the tile bathroom floor. My hands shake as I grab my keys off the counter next to my folded clothes. I pick up my jacket and stuff my arms through the holes and then dash outside to my truck.