CHAPTER 6
The press conference with the Westons appeared on local television (on Mormon church-owned KSL, of all stations) at noon the next day. The two parents stood together in a picture of marital harmony in front of their local church, which looked much the same as ours. Aaron Weston did most of the speaking, as he had at our house. Kurt was at work, and I was sure he was fielding plenty of calls there, but within minutes of the end of the conference, I had to deal with the frightened women of the ward who suddenly thought Jared Helm was a danger to them.
The truth was, Jared Helm wasn’t a danger to anyone anymore, except perhaps his own daughter. The real danger to the women in the ward was the same danger they had faced yesterday and the day before that, and ever since they were married: their own husbands.
I am a happily married woman myself, but I acknowledge marriage can be a dangerous covenant. When both people are honest and good, it is still difficult to live together so intimately, day in and day out. But no one is perfectly good or honest. And so marriage becomes a dance over hot coals and metal spikes. We contort ourselves trying to disguise one habit or another, trying to pretend to love one part or another of our partner’s that we don’t. All so that we can get along.
Privacy cannot exist in a marriage, even when it should, even when it is healthy. And just as dangerous is the legal bind we are in. Shared finances may be fine when people have similar habits, but when they do not? And none of this begins to address the difficulty that is expounded when a marriage produces a family.
I know from personal experience that marriage can be a holy institution, blessed by God. I have felt moments of perfect bliss and contentment with my husband. I have been expanded in many ways by being yoked to someone who is so different, and I am glad for those chances. But there are twice as many occasions when I shake my head and wonder if we would be happier if we could only live together as friends. Or be business partners. Or share parental responsibilities. Does it always have to be marriage—everything shared and stirred together?
On television, Aaron Weston had said, “My daughter is missing. Her husband claims she disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving her five-year-old daughter behind. This husband claims that my daughter left no address for anyone to contact her. He claims that she took nothing with her, not a car, not her coat or purse, not even money from her checking account. I do not believe him, but the police refuse to do anything unless there is some evidence of foul play. My daughter may be in danger. She may be out of money, without food. She may be dead or lying badly beaten in a ditch. I need your help to help her.”
I found myself clenching my fists when he said the word “dead.” But it might bring more attention to the case, which could only do good.
The camera panned to Judy Weston, who was wearing a tailored pink wool suit and frilly white blouse, and far more makeup than she had the last time I had seen her. I wondered if she had chosen that herself, or if the television people had suggested it. Or if Aaron had.
She was looking down at a piece of paper in her hands. Aaron moved to the side so she could lean over the microphone. She read from Carrie’s letter.
“Jared told me that my daughter was his by blood and by right. He said that he could replace me as a mother if I left him. He said that Kelly would not remember my name or my face, that she would have a new mother, a better mother. He said that God would seal his new wife to him and to Kelly and would rip me from them, that I would live in the hell prepared for women who do not love their daughters and husbands naturally. He said that the whole world would remember me as a crazy woman and him as the wronged man. He said that he would be purified by any hurt I did to his heart, and that he would think of me as a trial that God had given him to prove himself.”
Then Judy looked up at the camera. Her face had blotches on it, clear marks of tears, but she wasn’t crying now. She had masked her pain so that she could do what had to be done. I felt like I was looking in a mirror. There was no peace in her expression, only terror of judgment. If she believed in God or in His mercy, she didn’t look like it now.
“That sounds very ominous,” said the newscaster, a woman in a bright royal blue suit. “Have the police seen that letter?”
“They’ve seen it and they said that it didn’t change their procedure,” said Aaron, moving in front of the cameras again. “If she had filed a police report or asked for a restraining order, that would be something else. But she was terrified of contacting the police. She only wrote this to us a few days ago, when she was so afraid that something would happen to her anyway that she didn’t think it added any risk.”
“And you, Mrs. Weston? Do you have anything you’d like to say to the police?” asked the newscaster.
Aaron put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, guiding her toward the microphone. Her voice sounded a little shaky now, as she moved off of a memorized speech.
“This is my daughter, my little girl. And she has been hurt by the very person she ought to have been able to trust the most, her husband. It is beyond my comprehension, beyond my ability to imagine—” She put her hands over her face, unable to continue.
Aaron spoke next, as if finishing what his wife had meant to say. His voice was more firm, and his expression vengeful rather than sad. “If she is dead, then Jared Helm must be forced to own up to his crime. He cannot be allowed a free pass. He cannot be allowed to raise my granddaughter as a prize for his reprehensible actions in his marriage to my daughter.”
“What would you like our viewers to do?” asked the newscaster.
“I want them to call the police and demand that they look into this case. And tell everyone you know to do the same.”
“What about volunteers to help search for your daughter?”
After Elizabeth Smart, this was a common question asked about missing children. The Mormon church could mobilize thousands of volunteers in a couple of hours if necessary. But a search was not often organized for a missing adult. The question set my mind running through possible scenarios. What if Jared Helm hadn’t killed Carrie, but was holding her somewhere against her will, punishing her for thinking of leaving? But where? How would he get to her, to bring food? After this publicity, he wouldn’t be able to leave his house. And that was my fault.
“That is a secondary concern,” Aaron Weston was saying. “If we can’t get the police to act, then I will ask for volunteers to search for any sign of her. But first, let’s get the official channels working.” He looked directly at the screen. “If it were your daughter in this situation, what would you want the police to do?”
The newscaster let the moment draw out. Then she said, “And what do you say in response to your son-in-law’s comment, which he sent to our station early this morning when we asked for his response?” She looked down at a paper in her hands. “Jared Helm says that his wife was ‘sadly deluded and possibly mentally ill at the time that she wrote that letter. I hoped to get care for her and had asked her to see a psychiatrist on numerous occasions. She would not. Nor would she take the depression medication that our family doctor had prescribed for her. The records of that appointment are enclosed. She disappeared because she could not deal with the responsibilities of an adult life as a wife and mother. I pity her, and I hope the best for her, but I cannot allow her back into my life or my daughter’s.’ ”
The newscaster paused and the camera zoomed in on the Westons. I stared at Aaron Weston’s face and thought I saw a hint of anger, but he did not show any embarrassment or distress. His tone was precisely clipped when he spoke, however.
“And when his wife is missing, all my son-in-law thinks about is how it will look to the press, and making sure that he is protected legally? If my daughter did see a doctor about depression, it was depression he caused. And if she refused to take medication, it was because she was more concerned about her daughter than she was about herself. Taking pills when you are with an abuser is not a solution to the problem and may blind you to the real effects of the abuse. My daughter likely knew that.” He gestured emphatically at the end of each sentence, and I had the impression of a man who knew how to use force when he wanted to.
The camera turned to the newscaster. “Well, we thank you for your time. And viewers, if you feel strongly about this, we urge you to contact the number on the screen below. You can also give us feedback at our website, on Facebook, or on Twitter.” She smiled and I winced.
When Samuel came home, I asked him if he had heard anything. He shrugged and said that they had watched the news at school in his journalism class.
“What do you think happened to Carrie Helm, Mom?” he asked.
“I think she’s in danger,” I said carefully.
“Do you think she’s dead?” he said.
“I hope she isn’t dead,” I said. Samuel was old enough to hear the truth. “But I’m very much afraid she is.”
Samuel was in the kitchen, where he had started to get a snack. He stood in front of the pantry, frozen. “Then you think we have a murderer in our ward? Shouldn’t someone have seen the signs of something going wrong? What about her visiting teachers?” With each question, Samuel’s voice rose. “What about Dad?” he finished.
Samuel had every right to be angry at all of us. We told him that God would protect the righteous by warning us of danger, and then this happened.
“I wish someone had seen something. I wish I had,” I said, unwilling to point the finger at other people when I held equal responsibility.
“Is Jared Helm going to be excommunicated?” Samuel asked. “Or on a church trial or something?” This was more than just idle curiosity on his part, I sensed. But why was he asking the question? We hadn’t had a church disciplinary court in the year since Kurt had been bishop.
“I’m more concerned about whether Jared Helm goes to jail or not.” His eternal welfare, God could figure out later. “But first the police need to figure out what really happened.”
Samuel thumped the counter in frustration. “It’s not enough,” he said.
“Listen, why don’t we go visit Adam and Marie?” I said.
Adam, our oldest at twenty-six, had been married several years ago, and he and Marie lived south of us, in Provo, where they were both still going to college at Brigham Young University. They came up for our monthly family dinners, and they called occasionally, but we didn’t see them as often as I wished we could.
“Okay,” said Samuel.
“All right, I’ll call. Do you want to see Zachary while we’re there, too?” I asked. Zachary, twenty-one, had returned home from his mission a few months ago and was also at BYU. Joseph, twenty-four, our second oldest, lived in Ogden with his wife, Willow. He hadn’t gone on a mission, despite the cultural pressure. It had been a struggle for Kurt to deal with, but he hadn’t been bishop then, and we all made it through. Less than half of eligible young men go on missions, and the pressure to do so has decreased. Not everyone is ready to serve, and it can cause problems if young men go on missions when they are still dealing with problems socially, physically, or religiously.
Kenneth, at twenty-three, lived in Salt Lake City, where he enjoyed the city life. He had gone on a mission, but I wasn’t sure of his church activity since then. I saw him becoming distant from the church and had no idea what to do about it. I didn’t think Kurt had noticed yet, but he would, in time.
We drove the half hour down to Provo and caught up with Adam and Marie for a few minutes before they had to go to work and to study at the library, and then we stopped in and took Zachary out for some burgers. He told us about his latest prank on his roommates, which had been to switch the wiring in the apartment so that the hot water in the shower only worked when the kitchen sink light was on, and the freezer began defrosting as soon as anyone turned on the dishwasher.
Zachary had always been a terror when he lived at home. I hadn’t been afraid he would kill himself by accident, but I wasn’t so sure about the rest of us. He was studying engineering now, but it only seemed to give him better ideas for bigger pranks.
On the drive home to Draper, Samuel turned off the radio for a moment and said, “Thanks, Mom. I feel better.”
“Good,” I said. I felt the same.