Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [149]
“Lesie?” Mom’s soft voice cut the silence. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” My heart was racing.
“Is it true what they say about the picture?”
“Mom, I know that you are not going to understand my choice. But no matter what anyone tells you, I am a good person and I love you very much.”
I was furious as I hung up the phone. Allen had found a photograph of me with Lamont in Las Vegas. The picture was a way to get rid of me, a concrete piece of evidence they could use to illustrate to the people, and to my mom and sisters, that I was the worst type of apostate.
I was instructed to meet William Timpson at an office in the center of town. But first I had to go and see Mom. She’d begged me to come and meet her at the trailer. In retrospect, I realize that Mom knew this could very well be our last moment together and had some important items to give me. She was sobbing when she got out of the car, and seeing her this way, I broke out in tears, too.
“Trust in God,” she told me. “He works in very mysterious ways.”
That afternoon she gave me an envelope. Inside there were letters from her and both of my younger sisters, each professing their love. Mom also gave me a tape recording of an original song for piano that Sherrie had composed for me. “Keep encouraged,” Mom said in parting. Leaving Mom that afternoon made it even harder to face the upcoming battle.
When I arrived at William Timson’s office, Allen was already there, wearing a smug look on his face as he sat in a corner of the room.
“What are you trying to do?” I asked him.
“Well, that’s for the prophet to decide,” he answered in a self-righteous tone.
As I took a seat, the bishop dialed the phone and clicked it into speaker mode. I could feel myself cringing as Warren’s methodic voice rang out from the desk. “Are we all here?” he asked. The fact that he wasn’t in the room was not surprising. His absence from the community had been accepted for months, and whatever he was doing away from Short Creek was far more important than dealing with me in person. In the months since Lamont’s grandfather and the twenty other men were ostracized by Warren, the mystery about Warren’s behavior had only grown. Over the summer, more individuals and families had started to disappear almost overnight. One day a man would be there, the next he and his family were gone. We started to call them “poofers” because like a magic trick they went “poof” and were no longer there. It was as though Short Creek and all the people in it were eroding right in front of our eyes. No one knew for sure what was happening, but rumor was that the worthiest families were being taken to Zion and leaving the rest of us behind. But it didn’t make any sense. How could the prophet and those worthy people have gone to Zion when there hadn’t been any destructions?
The meeting got under way with William Timpson confronting me with the souvenir photo of me with Lamont, Meg, and Jason at the Stratosphere Hotel—the four of us standing with a panoramic view of Vegas in the background and our arms around one another’s shoulders. There was nothing suggestive or romantic about the picture, but the fact that I was in Vegas with apostates and dressed in slacks and a T-shirt made the image pretty risqué. “Is that you?” the bishop asked, pointing me out in the lineup.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied indignantly, certain that he had expected me to admit wrongdoing and plead for forgiveness.
“Elissa, you need to tell us what is going on and why Allen has these concerns and accusations,” William asked.
I was surprised when Allen spoke up. “She’s involved with someone else,” he began. “And she’s associating with apostates and no longer being an honest, truthful wife.”
“What is your relationship with this gentleman?” Warren’s voice chimed in. Even though Warren was physically absent, his scolding