Educated

taut and plastic; how his lips lacked natural roundness; how his cheeks
sucked inward at an angle that was almost skeletal. His right hand, which he
often raised to point at some feature or other, was knotted and twisted, and
when I gazed at it, set against Harvard’s antediluvian steeples and columns, it
seemed to me the claw of some mythical creature.
Dad had little interest in the university, so I took him into the city. I taught
him how to take the T—how to feed his card through the slot and push
through the rotating gate. He laughed out loud, as if it were a fabulous
technology. A homeless man passed through our subway car and asked for a
dollar. Dad gave him a crisp fifty.
“You keep that up in Boston, you won’t have any money left,” I said.
“Doubt it,” Dad said with a wink. “The business is rolling. We got more
than we can spend!”
Because his health was fragile, my father took the bed. I had purchased an
air mattress, which I gave to Mother. I slept on the tile floor. Both my parents
snored loudly, and I lay awake all night. When the sun finally rose I stayed
on the floor, eyes closed, breathing slow, deep breaths, while my parents
ransacked my mini fridge and discussed me in hushed tones.
“The Lord has commanded me to testify,” Dad said. “She may yet be
brought to the Lord.”
While they plotted how to reconvert me, I plotted how to let them. I was
ready to yield, even if it meant an exorcism. A miracle would be useful: if I
could stage a convincing rebirth, I could dissociate from everything I’d said
and done in the last year. I could take it all back—blame Lucifer and be given
a clean slate. I imagined how esteemed I would be, as a newly cleansed
vessel. How loved. All I had to do was swap my memories for theirs, and I
could have my family.
My father wanted to visit the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York—the
forest where, according to Joseph Smith, God had appeared and commanded
him to found the true church. We rented a car and six hours later entered
Palmyra. Near the grove, off the highway, there was a shimmering temple
topped by a golden statue of the angel Moroni. Dad pulled over and asked me
to cross the temple grounds. “Touch the temple,” he said. “Its power will
cleanse you.”
I studied his face. His expression was stretched—earnest, desperate. With
all that was in him, he was willing me to touch the temple and be saved.