Charles was my first friend from that other world, the one my father

had tried to protect me from. He was conventional in all the ways and
for all the reasons my father despised conventionality: he talked about
football and popular bands more than the End of Days; he loved
everything about high school; he went to church, but like most
Mormons, if he was ill, he was as likely to call a doctor as a Mormon
priest.

I couldn’t reconcile his world with mine so I separated them. Every
evening I watched for his red jeep from my window, and when it
appeared on the highway I ran for the door. By the time he’d bumped
up the hill I’d be waiting on the lawn, and before he could get out I’d be
in the jeep, arguing with him about my seatbelt. (He refused to drive
unless I wore one.)

Once, he arrived early and made it to the front door. I stammered
nervously as I introduced him to Mother, who was blending bergamot
and ylang-ylang, clicking her fingers to test the proportions. She said
hello but her fingers kept pulsing. When Charles looked at me as if to
ask why, Mother explained that God was speaking through her fingers.
“Yesterday I tested that I’d get a migraine today if I didn’t have a bath
in lavender,” she said. “I took the bath and guess what? No headache!”

“Doctors can’t cure a migraine before it happens,” Dad chimed in,
“but the Lord can!”

As we walked to his jeep, Charles said, “Does your house always
smell like that?”

“Like   what?”

“Like   rotted  plants.”