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