Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [64]
I don’t even remember who answered the phone when I called Uncle Warren the next morning. Usually it was one of Uncle Rulon’s wives or sons.
“I need to come up and see the prophet,” I told whoever was on the other end of the line. I was unyielding in my position that I would not get married unless I heard of the revelation from the prophet’s own mouth. After several moments, I was given an appointment for the very next day.
I tried to calm myself as I thought about everything that had happened in the last few days. By this time tomorrow, I would know whether I was getting married to Allen, but before that decision was reached I would get the chance to approach Uncle Rulon myself, to speak to him and tell him in person that I didn’t feel this wedding was right for me. While I was anxious, I was also hopeful that seeing me in person would bring him a new revelation from God, a revelation that I was too young, that I was destined for something beyond being a fourteen-year-old bride. I was destined to do other things, to learn, to grow, to get an education—possibly even become a nurse. I could see this destiny for myself, but in the end, the only thing that would matter was whether the prophet could see it as well.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE WORD OF THE PROPHET
Your heart is in the wrong place.
—WARREN JEFFS
Later that morning after I set up the appointment, Mom and Kassandra, under priesthood pressure to convince me that the marriage was the right thing, tried to excite my interests by taking me to prepare for the “fun part”—the wedding.
Together we traveled to St. George to the fabric store, where we browsed through various materials and patterns to assemble the look for my wedding day. What I didn’t know at the time was that even my sisters had gone to Uncle Warren with their concerns about my marriage—and had been directed to encourage me to go along with it. When our visit to the fabric store failed to elicit any enthusiasm in me, we walked around the strip mall, where we spotted a pair of gorgeous white crushed satin shoes in one of the windows. They were so pretty, with a delicate buckle across the ankle and a little heel. Kassandra said they’d be perfect with any wedding dress, but even the glamorous shoes couldn’t lure me into the store.
“I don’t need those shoes,” I angrily declared. It should have been an exhilarating time for me—planning my wedding, picking out materials for a dress, and getting those special shoes—but it felt like I was being asked to design an outfit for my funeral. I was bordering on rude by the time my mother and sister dragged me from the shoe store, where Kassandra had purchased the shoes over my objections, to the Chili’s restaurant. Eating out with Mom and Kassandra was bittersweet. With this terrible event looming over my head, it was hard to relax during what would turn out to be my last few moments as a carefree teenager. I was hurt that I was being pushed in this way, and that no one who could do something about it was listening to me. Most of my sisters had married young, but with the exception of Teressa, they had been allowed to reach the age of eighteen. I didn’t know if any of them could understand what I was going through. They tried to console and encourage me, but it didn’t make me feel any less afraid.
Aware that I would be meeting with Uncle Rulon the following morning, I went through my closet to pick out my best dress when we returned home. A meeting with the prophet, especially on a subject like this, was very important. I wanted to look both pretty and respectful—the image of a perfect priesthood daughter.
The next morning I settled into Mom’s old mustard-colored Oldsmobile and restlessly smoothed my dress. Uncle Rulon’s compound was too far to walk to, and I felt comforted by mother’s company during the short ride. She’d seemed a little withdrawn over the past several days, and while I believed that my situation had a lot to do with it, she had spoken little about what she was experiencing. She tried to assure me that everything was going