17
To Keep It Holy
On New Year’s Day, Mother drove me to my new life. I didn’t take much
with me: a dozen jars of home-canned peaches, bedding, and a garbage bag
full of clothes. As we sped down the interstate I watched the landscape
splinter and barb, the rolling black summits of the Bear River Mountains
giving way to the razor-edged Rockies. The university was nestled in the
heart of the Wasatch Mountains, whose white massifs jutted mightily out of
the earth. They were beautiful, but to me their beauty seemed aggressive,
menacing.
My apartment was a mile south of campus. It had a kitchen, living room
and three small bedrooms. The other women who lived there—I knew they
would be women because at BYU all housing was segregated by gender—
had not yet returned from the Christmas holiday. It took only a few minutes
to bring in my stuff from the car. Mother and I stood awkwardly in the
kitchen for a moment, then she hugged me and drove away.
I lived alone in the quiet apartment for three days. Except it wasn’t quiet.
Nowhere was quiet. I’d never spent more than a few hours in a city and found
it impossible to defend myself from the strange noises that constantly
invaded. The chirrup of crosswalk signals, the shrieking of sirens, the hissing
of air brakes, even the hushed chatter of people strolling on the sidewalk—I
heard every sound individually. My ears, accustomed to the silence of the
peak, felt battered by them.
I was starved for sleep by the time my first roommate arrived. Her name
was Shannon, and she studied at the cosmetology school across the street.
She was wearing plush pink pajama bottoms and a tight white tank with
spaghetti straps. I stared at her bare shoulders. I’d seen women dressed this
way before—Dad called them gentiles—and I’d always avoided getting too
near them, as if their immorality might be catching. Now there was one in my
house.