Authors: Michele Paige Holmes
“Already did. Aunt Jane asked me to meet you in here.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “She did?”
“I did.” Jane said, right behind her. Tara moved into the room so Jane could fit through the door. She walked over to the bed and sat beside Jessica. They both smiled up at Tara.
“What?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips. “You two look about as innocent as a pair of crocodiles.”
“Snap. Snap.” Jane moved her arms, imitating a crocodile’s mouth. “
Actually
, we’re here to help
you
look innocent.”
“The first step in your personal makeover,” Jessica chimed in.
“I don’t want a makeover,” Tara said. She’d hoped Jane had forgotten the deal they’d made this morning, after the pre-church dress debacle, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Tara wondered if she could plead foul play, as Jane had unfairly caught her in an emotional state and a moment of weakness.
Anyone getting a much-needed hug from a friend would have succumbed.
“I didn’t mean the regular kind of makeover,” said Jane.
Jessica rolled her eyes. “You’re already gorgeous. You don’t need any help that way.”
“Thank you—I think.”
“It’s true,” Jane said, nodding her agreement with Jessica’s compliment. “Now that we’ve established this has nothing to do with your looks, let’s get busy. How you dress has the potential to help you have a more meaningful life, get a better job—”
“And to date some
nice
guys,” Jessica added.
Tara glared at her. “I don’t need a teenager telling me about dating. And I’ve had plenty of high-paying jobs.”
Not that I’d really classify them as
good
.
Ignoring the two of them, Jane continued. “Showing off,
revealing
your . . . assets . . . isn’t really the best way to attract the right kind of man.” She stood and went to the closet.
Tara groaned. “Is this about that head, shoulders, toes thing again?”
“It’s about you looking your best and treating your body—the body God gave you—with respect. If you show respect for it, others will too.”
“I respect it,” Tara said defensively. “I work out.”
“That’s good. That’s part of it,” Jane said. “But another part is the way you dress.”
“Or
don’t
dress.”
Tara caught the words spoken under Jessica’s breath.
“Listen, Miss Know-it—” She stopped, remembering that Jane had asked her to be nice to the teen.
And
, she admitted grudgingly,
Jessica
was
nice to me church
.
She’d answered all the questions from the nosy leader of the women’s relief meeting. She even introduced me as Jane’s longtime friend and a real answer to prayer.
Remembering her relief at not being given away as the imposter she was, Tara felt an inkling of patience for the girl in front of her. She grabbed a pillow from the bed and tossed it at Jessica. “Just because I don’t know the New Testament from the Bible doesn’t mean—”
“The New Testament is
part
of the Bible,” Jessica said in mock exasperation.
“Whatever,” Tara said. “You people have a lot of books.”
“You have a
lot
of clothes.” Jessica’s eyes were wide as she stared at the open closet. Jane had thrown back the doors, revealing the rod, crammed with hangers and all of Tara’s favorite things. Rows of shoes lined the bottom of the closet. “Wow,” Jessica said. “I’ve never seen so many pairs of high heels.”
“Too bad you guys have something against showing off your toes.”
Jessica giggled. “Toes are fine. See?” She lifted her own flip-flop-clad foot.
“It’s the ankles that are bad?” Tara asked. “In Jane’s case, completely understandable. Those things are disgusting.”
“Leave my cankles out of this, please,” Jane said, following Tara’s lead, her own voice lighter.
“Ankles are fine too,” Jessica said. “It’s when you start getting above the knee that you get into trouble.”
“I see.” And Tara did—kind of. How many times had she dressed according to the clientele she’d be dealing with? Too many to count. If she’d wanted a male client to be distracted and willing to spend a little more than he should, then she’d worn a low-cut blouse and tight skirt.
Playing up my assets
, was how she’d always thought of it.
Working with what I’ve got.
But thinking about the things Jane had said this morning put using her body that way in a different light. One she’d never before considered.
Tara studied her skirts hanging in the closet. She doubted there were any that came below her knee or even to it. How was she supposed to stop wearing everything in her wardrobe, to give up the few material possessions she’d chosen to keep?
“Well?” Jane asked, glancing from Tara to the closet then back to Tara again.
“My clothes are my friends,” Tara said, her light tone gone. “You can’t really expect me to give them up. I’ll wear your skirts to church, but the rest of the time—”
“The rest of the time is important too,” Jane said gently. “And I thought
I
was your friend.”
Her simple statement stopped the protest on Tara’s lips. She remembered standing beside Ben, looking out at the Salt Lake Temple, talking about—and missing—her friendship with Jane.
Now, here I am with her again. And she called me her friend.
Tara also remembered the dream that had given her the courage to abandon LA and return to Washington. She thought of the last week here at Jane’s home—the chaos, the exhaustion, the talks late into the night. She had to admit, she was in a much better place than she’d been a month ago. Perhaps, in exchange for all that, she could give up
some
of her clothes.
She remembered the Sunday School teacher’s challenge.
I could
lose
them
, she thought.
I could lose my old life and trust Jane with my new one. I can do this for Jane. I can think of her instead of myself.
Tara ran her fingers across the skirts clustered in the closet as she considered.
It isn’t as if my old life is great, anyway.
She’d already decided to give it up, to change, when she moved here. So why not try Jane’s version?
After all, what
do
I have to lose?
* * *
About ten thousand dollars’ worth of clothes. That’s what I have to lose.
Forty-five minutes later, Tara stared dismally at the enormous pile on the bed and then at the few, sparsely populated hangers still in the closet. The remnants of her once-glorious wardrobe.
“Don’t cry,” Jessica said, putting an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “If you’d like, we can go shopping when I come back next month.”
Tara felt oddly comforted by Jessica’s sympathy. Maybe kids weren’t all bad. Maybe by the time they became teens, they could sort of be fun to hang out with. “I’d like that,” she said, meaning it. “And I’m pretty sure it’ll be necessary, because I don’t think being completely naked fits in with your standards, either. And that’s about where I’m at with what I’ve got left here.”
“This pink sweater is nice,” Jane said, holding up the pale-pink angora Ben had purchased at the thrift store.
“I’m rather attached to that one.” Tara took the sweater from Jane and held it close.
What was Ben doing right now? Had he gotten together with his ex-fiancée? I wonder if he’d be surprised if he could see me now and know what I’m doing.
Twenty-Five
“How was church this week?” Jane asked after Tara had settled the girls at the kitchen counter with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“Not bad,” Tara said. In truth, it
had
been a little better than the previous Sunday. During the past week Jane had taught her how to navigate the scriptures, so she hadn’t felt like a complete idiot during Sunday School. She also had to admit to enjoying today’s lesson on Jesus. She wasn’t certain about Him being the Son of God and all that, but He definitely had some good stuff to say. He seemed genuine, unlike the Pharisees who seemed to be all show.
Jesus certainly had that losing yourself thing down. She’d started a count to figure out just how many people He’d healed. From what she could understand from the scriptures, the healing business had been brisk, but the pay poor. Sometimes He didn’t even get so much as a thank you.
Kind of like me
, Tara thought, noting that no one had thanked her for taking the girls to church, fixing breakfast
and
lunch, and cleaning up the kitchen.
Then again, if Jane were to thank me for everything I’m doing around here, she’d be saying thank you all day long.
But a thank you once in a while would have been nice. This week Tara felt like she’d left any semblance of the houseguest status behind and moved full-on to being “the help.” Jane was spending an awful lot of time lying in bed, leaving Tara to spend an awful lot of time with the two kids, the washing machine, and the dishwasher. It would have been nice to be appreciated.
And they have their reward . . .
The scripture about the Pharisees came to mind again, making her feel uncomfortable.
Am I like that? Can’t I help Jane just to be nice—without needing constant thanks?
“Tara, you okay?” Jane waved her hand back and forth, trying to get her attention.
“I’m fine,” Tara said, wishing she were. “Just thinking.” She pushed the troublesome thoughts from her mind and concentrated on easing Jane’s. “I went by the nursery to check on Allison, and they were doing that head, shoulders, knees, toes thing. I can’t believe how early you guys teach this stuff. Like she even realizes she’s
wearing
clothes yet.”
Jane laughed. “I think the song they were singing was probably a little different, but yeah, we do teach modesty early.”
“Modest is hottest,” Tara said, mimicking Jessica. “No kidding. My other clothes had way more ventilation than these.” She pulled at her new blouse and pencil skirt. “It’s awfully hot for April.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Jane said, changing the subject in a nonchalant tone that cued Tara that something big was up.
“What now? Do I need to dye my hair a nice, respectable brown? Do I have to take out my extra piercings and wear more modest underwear?”
“Eventually,” Jane said, nodding her head.
What?
Tara worked to keep the milk she’d just swallowed from coming back up. “I was joking.”
“So am I.” Jane flashed her a grin.
Tara stuck out her tongue. “I hate you. Don’t freak me out like that. I like my red hair.”
“You can keep your red hair forever,” Jane assured her. “And we can talk about the other stuff later.”
“Hmm,” Tara said. “How many more weeks until Peter gets back? At the rate we’re going, I won’t be recognizable if it’s too much longer.”
“About nine weeks,” Jane said. Tara heard the note of longing in her voice. “Plenty of time for the missionaries to teach you.”
“Who’re they?” Tara took a bite from her own sandwich and kicked off her heels.
“They teach the gospel full-time. Most of them are young men, but some women serve too. They spend eighteen months to two years as full-time missionaries, teaching people who want to learn more about our church.”
“Oh. Do I want to learn more about your church?” Tara asked around a second bite of sandwich.
“Yes, you do,” Jane said emphatically. “You want to find meaning and purpose in your life, remember?”
“Vaguely,” Tara said with a wave of her hand.
Guess I did say something like that. But it was during another moment of weakness.
“So when do I meet with these guys? I do get the guys, right? I think I’d like them better. And how young is young? Any in their early thirties?”
“Try nineteen and twenty,” Jane said. “And you’ll get sisters if there are any in the area. They don’t like the guys teaching single women.”
“Well, that’s no fun.” Tara took a sip of milk and leaned back in the rocking chair. “I suppose I could do that. Maybe they could clarify some of the stuff I hear in Sunday School.”
“I’m sure they could,” Jane said. “Why don’t you make a list of questions, since they’ll be coming over after dinner.”
* * *
“Do you believe in God?”
Taken aback by such a direct question, Tara stared, dumbfounded, at the two young women seated on Jane’s couch. They’d been here less than five minutes, and Jane had barely excused herself to go into the other room to read to the little girls.
Leaving me on my own with virtual strangers.
“Maybe I’m misunderstanding, but I thought
I
was the one who was supposed to ask the questions.”
“Oh, you can. Anything you want,” Sister Ayer, the brunette from New Hampshire, said. “But if you can give us an idea of your current beliefs, then we know where to start in teaching you about the gospel of Jesus Christ. It may be that we already share many of the same convictions.”
“I doubt it.” Tara studied the women, trying to gauge their sincerity.
If they can be this direct, I can too.
“What made you choose to give up two years of your life to do this?”
“Eighteen months,” Sister Henrie, the blonde from Michigan, corrected. “But I’d stay for two years if I could. The men get to.”
Sister Ayer nodded in agreement. “The time goes so fast, and there’s so much to do.”
“Like what?” Tara asked. “And why do
you
have to do it? You could be in college or starting your careers or—”
“Starting a family?” Sister Ayer asked, a knowing smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“O—oh. I get it.” Tara nodded. “This kind of puts off the inevitable get-married-and-have-a-bunch-of-kids thing.”
“Only if we choose it,” Sister Ayer said. “And I’m very much looking forward to that stage of life too. My boyfriend still had six months left on his mission when I turned in my papers—when I applied to go,” she added, seeing Tara’s confused look. “And I really wanted to serve.”