"Mail's here."
Elders Price and Davis looked up from the dishes they were washing and drying to see a paler-than-usual Elder McKinley standing in the doorway, holding a small stack of envelopes. The pair dried their hands quickly as Elder McKinley handed them each an envelope, only to then place his hand on Elder Davis's shoulder. "Elder Davis, this one," he said, tucking a second envelope into the missionary's hand, "is for Elder Church. I recommend you let him read it alone."
Davis nodded solemnly and headed outside to find his companion. McKinley quickly doled out the rest of the mail, leaving envelopes on the beds of missionaries that weren't at home. He sat down on the couch with a sigh, soon joined by Elder Price.
"What was that about?" the brunette asked, leaning against the armrest.
Elder McKinley ran a hand through his hair and let his head fall back. "It was from his father," he said softly, referring to the letter for Elder Church.
Price cocked his head. "And? So was mine. So was everyone's, probably."
Elder McKinley tried to smile a bit, but it was weak and forced. "It's different for him. You probably haven't heard the story, or you were so stressed during your first week that it slipped your mind." Kevin looked at him expectantly and McKinley sighed again, closing his eyes. "Elder Church's father is something of an alcoholic. And when he's been drinking, things aren't pretty."
It took a moment, but Elder Price's face soon became solemn. "Oh. Yeah, I remember him mentioning that," he said slowly, his voice flat. "What did the letter say?"
McKinley shook his head. "I didn't read it; I wouldn't read someone else's mail without their permission. But his father has never written to him before, so I have a feeling it's something," his voice broke slightly at the thought of what might be contained in that small envelope. "bad."
Kevin nodded slowly. "I see. Well, we should stay positive. Maybe we're looking too far into things."
McKinley wanted to agree with him, to hope for the best. But he'd known Elder Church longer than Elder Price had, and knew that nothing good could possibly be written in that letter. "We'll just have to wait and see," he said, desperately hoping whatever it said, the young missionary would be able to take it.
James Church sat under a tree just outside of the mission center. His hands fumbled with the envelope, shaking as they tried to open it without tearing the letter. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to read it. But still his hands moved clumsily, unfolding the messily handwritten piece of paper. He took a deep breath as he began to read.
Son,
You're probably a busy man over there in Somalia or wherever, so I'll make this short. Your mother's dead. Happened a couple days ago. Well, a couple days ago from when I wrote this, God only knows how long it takes the post to get to that third world country you're in. I don't know how it happened. The doctors said she had a lot of stuff messed up on the inside even though she looked just fine on the outside, but you know doctors, always spewing that medical mumbo jumbo. That's all. Just figured you should know.
Edward Church
That was it. That was all he'd written. Not the tiniest bit of sympathy for his son, not the slightest hint of remorse for what he'd inevitably done. The letter was clean and white save for the handwriting, but James could see his mother's blood all over it. His mother's blood, sent to him in an envelope, by his father. His father; could he even call him that anymore?
He felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but none fell. His fingers silently traced over the thin remnants of scars hidden by his uniform, the spots where the bruises had been so bad that they'd still been sore even after they'd healed. James clenched his teeth and violently crumpled the letter. He made to throw it into the distance, to destroy the last piece of his father left in his heart, but he found himself smoothing the paper out and reading it again. And again. And again. Again and again until the words were burned into his mind.
James's head fell back and hit the tree hard, but he barely noticed the scratches the bark left, hidden by his hair. He was good at that, hiding his pain. He'd told the other elders about his mother's situation at home simply because he felt they deserved to know, but made no mention of how his father treated him. Of course, his father rarely went directly after his son, poor James usually just got caught in the crossfire trying to help his frightened mother.
Though the physical abuse was rare, the emotional strain weighed heavy on the young Mormon his whole life. Even to this day, his father couldn't even be bothered to ask 'How's the mission going, son?' or even sign off with 'I love you, Your Father'. He was so convinced that everything he did to his poor wife was justifiable, he couldn't even manage to feel even the slightest bit of remorse.
"I hate him," he muttered, staring at the wrinkled paper in his hand. "I hate him." He softly repeated the words over and over, having never vocalized them before. Usually when he spoke of his father, he'd voice no opinion of his actions, or try to justify them by saying he's got a disease. But now, he was free to, in Elder McKinley's words, let all his feelings out.
His voice began slowly increasing in volume, each repeat of the phrase growing in intensity and anger. His whole body was shaking as he soon began shouting, his cries of "I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM!" ringing out through the village. Finally, he collapsed to the ground, head in his hands, as his tears finally began to fall in tortured, long-bottled-up sobs.
The other missionaries sat in silence in the living room. Elders McKinley and Price had their eyes closed, faces stoic. Elder Davis was visibly shaking, frightened and worried for his companion, while Elder Cunningham awkwardly rubbed his back in an attempt at comforting him. Elder Thomas sat by the window, occasionally peering out, straining to keep his calm.
"Should someone go talk to him?" Elder Price finally broke the silence. Everyone glanced over at Elder Davis, being Elder Church's mission companion and all, but the sudden attention just made him tremble even more violently. Nobody was expecting Elder Thomas's soft voice to pipe up.
"I'll do it," he said as confidently as he could. He could see a look of skepticism on Elder McKinley's face, but he raised a hand. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing." Nobody stopped him, so he took a deep breath and headed outside.
James had been so caught up in the sudden outburst of emotion that he hadn't noticed Elder Thomas approaching him, and jumped slightly when he spoke. "Elder Church?" the smaller man asked softly, kneeling down to be more on his friend's level.
James sniffled and wiped his eyes a bit, silently slipping the letter behind his back. "Poptarts," he said, his voice broken from the sobbing.
"You can call me Chris, James," Elder Thomas said, sitting down next to him, leaning against the tree trunk. "I won't tell Elder McKinley, I promise." He smiled at the other boy, but James's eyes were downcast.
"What do you want?" James asked, quickly reverting to his closed-off, bottled-up self he was so comfortable with. It was inevitable that the other missionaries heard his anguished screams, but that didn't mean he had to acknowledge anything happened.
Chris shrugged, turning his head to look at James. "Just to talk to you. Elder Davis is pretty clingy and never seems to leave you alone."
James rolled his eyes and remained silent. He saw right through the pale man, he knew exactly why he was out there. He was there to pry information about his father out of him and judge him for letting his mother die. James wasn't about to let that happen.
Chris waited for an answer, and when he got none, he continued speaking. "You know, a couple of years ago, I lost my sister." James stiffened. "I was seventeen. She was only fourteen. Her name was Emma. She had long, brown hair and big blue eyes. Her two front teeth were a little gapped but she had the sweetest smile." James glanced over his shoulder at Chris; how could he possibly be so calm about this?
Chris smiled and continued. "She was a great dancer. She mostly did ballet, tap and jazz as well, but she was most passionate about ballet. She was so graceful and elegant. Even when she wasn't dancing, she moved so effortlessly." He paused to let out a soft laugh. "Most of her ballet classmate's brothers all sat together in the back during their recitals, bored out of their skulls. But I was always right up front watching her dance.
"But then she came down with a bad cold, and mom took her to the hospital to make sure everything was okay." Chris's voice was suddenly softer, and had lost its nostalgic fondness. "It, it wasn't, I guess you could figure that much out. They came back and only spoke to my dad. They went back to the hospital again the next day, and the next, before they told me anything. It was Hodgkin's lymphoma, a type of blood cancer. They thought it would be manageable, that they'd be able to handle it." James was beginning to wonder if the other boy even had emotions, his voice hadn't broken once during his explanation. "But, it had to have been no more than a week later, they told us she was worse than they thought, and she'd only be around for about three more months."
James glanced over his shoulder again and locked eyes with Chris for a few seconds. "And then what happened?" he asked, his voice small but less shaky than before.
"And then," Chris continued, letting his eyes slip shut, "we did everything we could to make them the best three months of her life. She got real sick real fast, so she couldn't do much, and she certainly couldn't dance anymore. When she had to be moved to the hospital, I sat with her and read her stories until she fell asleep." He chuckled softly at the memory. "She'd get mad at me for not doing the voices right, and show me how they were supposed to sound." He left out the fact that after a few words she'd erupt in a fit of coughs. "After about a month, I'd finally saved up enough money to get the new iPhone, which was coming out in a few days. I promised Emma I'd only be gone for a day while I waited in line, and that I'd see her the next day." His voice finally cracked on the last word.
James slid his hand over to Chris's and held it tight, but his gaze was locked on the ground. Chris gave it a squeeze before continuing. "After hours in line and at least another one getting the thing set up, I had a brand new iPhone. You can imagine I was super excited. Just as I was heading home, my mom texted me, telling me that I had to get to the hospital as soon as possible." He felt James's hand begin to tremble, and he gave it another reassuring squeeze. "By the time I got there… Do you know what her last words were? 'Where is my brother?' Then she just slipped away."
There was a moment of silence shared between the elders before James spoke up. "I don't know what to say, Elder – Chris," he corrected himself. "How did you cope?"
"Well, at the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, I kind of ate my feelings," Chris said with a sheepish grin, explaining his poptarts addiction. "Everyone in the Church was there for us. But what really kept me going was that I knew Emma hated seeing me sad. Whenever I'd do badly on a test, or I'd have a fight with a friend, she'd tell me that when she sees me sad, it made her sad.
"That worked for a while. I just started turning off the bad feelings, like the Church told me to. And I thought I'd be okay. But keeping my emotions all bottled up like that was so unhealthy. I finally snapped in the middle of biology class senior year and stormed out, just because the teacher was giving a lecture about how cancer spreads."
James felt his cheeks tinge red as the thought about his earlier, for lack of a better word, explosion.
"That was when I realized that what I was doing was exactly the opposite of what Emma wanted me to be doing. She always talked to me when I was feeling down, and that always helped a lot. So I visited her grave whenever anything happened to make me feel sad." He rubbed his thumb over James's knuckles. "It helped a lot. Now I'm comfortable with the fact that just because my sister is gone from this Earth, doesn't mean she's gone for real. I can still talk to her and she still helps me with my problems, even if I'm supposed to be the strong older brother and she's supposed to be the sweet younger sister."
"I can't talk to her, though," James began, speaking softly. "I'm in Uganda."
"You can talk to me," the other missionary said reassuringly.
James took a few shaky breaths before even attempting to speak. "She was the bravest woman I've ever met. She didn't deserve anything that happened to her. Her life was a living hell when all she wanted to do was keep her children safe and happy. But he wouldn't let her! He took everything away from her!" His thoughts were disorganized and just poured out as his eyes began to well up once again. Referring to his father felt like eating something that hadn't cooled yet, burning his tongue.
Chris inched around the tree trunk to sit side-by-side with James, letting the other missionary lean against him. He put an arm around his and stroked his hair. "Keep going," he prompted.
"And I wanted to tell someone about what was happening but whenever I mentioned it she just got so scared and told me everything was fine, but I shouldn't have listened to her!" Chris could feel tears dampening his shirt where James was leaning on his shoulder. "And I didn't even want to go on a mission, I wanted to stay home and protect her, but she told me it's what God wanted me to do. And now look what's happened!
"If I'd just stayed home I could have held him off! I could have gotten her out of there and everything would be fine! I could've-" Chris firmly pressed a finger to James's lips to silence him.
"I thought exactly the same thing after Emma died. Maybe if I'd been there that day, she would have held on a little longer. My parents assured me that Heavenly Father's plan doesn't always make sense, but he knows what he's doing. I didn't want to believe them. I needed to have someone to blame, and it was so easy to make myself that person."
"But you weren't that person…" James finished Chris's thought after he dropped his finger. "And… I'm not that person."
"That's right. And you're going to hold a lot of hatred for your father after this, that's unavoidable. I'm not saying you need to forgive him, I know I'd have a lot of trouble doing that, but you can't just let this anger fester in your heart forever. You're too good of a person to ruin yourself over this."
Everything that Chris said was right; James knew that, even if he didn't want to believe it. Simply resenting his father would be the easy way out. Spending all that time thinking about how much he hated his father, and not spending any time focusing on how much he loved his mother would certainly be the death of him.
"She used to bake cupcakes on my birthday," he said softly, tears flowing steadily. "Not regular cake. I didn't like ruining the design on the icing by cutting it into slices. So she would make individual cupcakes with unique designs on each."
Chris smiled and rubbed James's arm. "Do you want to go back inside?"
James linked his arm with Chris's. "Not yet," he said with a smile. "I haven't told you about the summer she tried to set up a sprinkler for me to play in and ended up soaking herself through."