was the reason my ancestors had come to America. A twig snapped, my
parents appeared. They sat, one on either side of me.
My father spoke for two hours. He testified that he had beheld
angels and demons. He had seen physical manifestations of evil, and
had been visited by the Lord Jesus Christ, like the prophets of old, like
Joseph Smith had been in this very grove. His faith was no longer a
faith, he said, but a perfect knowledge.
“You have been taken by Lucifer,” he whispered, his hand on my
shoulder. “I could feel it the moment I entered your room.”
I thought of my dorm room—of the murky walls and frigid tiles, but
also of the sunflowers Drew had sent, and of the textile wall hanging a
friend from Zimbabwe had brought from his village.
Mother said nothing. She stared at the dirt, her eyes glossy, her lips
pursed. Dad prodded me for a response. I searched myself, reaching
deep, groping for the words he needed to hear. But they were not in
me, not yet.
Before we returned to Harvard, I convinced my parents to take a
detour to Niagara Falls. The mood in the car was heavy, and at first I
regretted having suggested the diversion, but the moment Dad saw the
falls he was transformed, elated. I had a camera. Dad had always hated
cameras but when he saw mine his eyes shone with excitement. “Tara!
Tara!” he shouted, running ahead of me and Mother. “Get yourself a
picture of this angle. Ain’t that pretty!” It was as if he realized we were
making a memory, something beautiful we might need later. Or
perhaps I’m projecting, because that was how I felt. There are some
photos from today that might help me forget the grove, I wrote in my
journal. There’s a picture of me and Dad happy, together. Proof that’s
possible.
—WHEN WE RETURNED TO HARVARD, I offered to pay for a hotel. They
refused to go. For a week we stumbled over one another in my dorm
room. Every morning my father trudged up a flight of stairs to the
communal shower in nothing but a small white towel. This would have
humiliated me at BYU, but at Harvard I shrugged. I had transcended
embarrassment. What did it matter who saw him, or what he said to
them, or how shocked they were? It was his opinion I cared about; he
was the one I was losing.