Samuel had spent Christmas and New Year’s last year at the Missionary Training Center in Provo. He had been open about his sexuality with the mission president when he’d introduced himself on arrival in Boston, and with his trainer and his companion when they met and started serving together. So far, he claimed there hadn’t been any problems, but I wasn’t sure if I was hearing the whole story. Missionaries were instructed to write positive letters home, so if he was being harassed, I might never know of it. I couldn’t help but think of Kenneth’s companion Elder Ellison as I wrote, and prayed silently that if Samuel began to feel depressed, he’d get help.
I’d sent four of my five sons on missions now (my second oldest, Joseph, hadn’t gone), and as a mother I always worried about my sons dying in a car crash or bike accident, getting held up at a grocery store or kidnapped (though that happens less in the United States), or having a sudden allergic reaction to something they’d never tasted before. You felt so disconnected, far worse than when you were just sending them off to college, where you got to talk to them or even visit whenever you wanted.
The church quoted statistics that proved that missionaries were safer than any other population of young men and women the same age, but somehow that didn’t help me. The newspapers in Utah were always reporting on missionaries who died serving the Lord. It wasn’t something that a mother’s fervent prayer could stop.
Writing helped me feel just a little more connected, but I wanted to do more. I imagined that if I could just bake something delicious for Samuel, it would help him somehow—all my prayers for his safety packaged up in flour and sugar form. I wasn’t sure how well my baked goods would travel to Boston, but we would find out. I put on my apron and got to work.
I didn’t bake lemon Danishes often because they took a lot of time. But the work made me feel better—or maybe it was just a distraction from the pain of an empty house and a suddenly difficult marriage.
I kneaded until I felt the rich, sweet dough start to form a soft ball in my hands, then let it be. For Danishes, you don’t want to work the dough to death. Next, I grated lemons for zest, then squeezed them. Juicing the lemons, I discovered the hard way that I had a tiny cut on my left hand that I hadn’t noticed before. I rinsed my hands and patted them with a towel. The cut wasn’t even big enough to bother putting a Band-Aid on, so I left it and moved on to boiling water for the lemon sauce. When the lemon sauce was finished, I put plastic wrap over the top to prevent a skin from forming, then let it sit in the refrigerator to cool.
The dough wasn’t quite ready yet, so I put in a load of laundry and did some light cleaning in the upstairs bathroom. After that, I came back down and got started on rolling the Danishes out. After I put the trays in the oven, I went downstairs to our storage room and found a box that would survive the US Postal Service. I brought it back up, along with some pieces of foam for padding.
When the timer beeped and the Danishes came out of the oven, they were perfect, just the tips golden brown. I stood over them, breathing in the scent of butter and lemon. I couldn’t resist plucking a couple from the batch and eating them right then, when they were still hot and gooey. They fell apart in my fingers before I even got them to my mouth. I groaned with pleasure as the deliciousness burned my tongue.
I resisted eating a third until they had cooled down a little more, and this time I poured myself a glass of milk. This wasn’t what I’d planned for lunch today, but it had fruit, grains, and milk—three food groups, right? All I needed was some spinach on the side and it would be a well-balanced meal.
When they had cooled completely, I packed them in Tupperware, then in paper towels. Finally, I headed to the post office with my care package, the letter inside. I knew it cost me more to send my Danishes than it would have for Samuel to buy some from a bakery in Boston. But these were from home and filled with more than calories. They were made with a mother’s love, and as much as possible, I hoped that was a bulwark against life’s storms.
Chapter 5
Naomi came to the family dinner the end of June and was received well by everyone. Willow and Marie joked with her and told her a few ribald family stories that I studiously ignored. I found out Naomi hated chicken breast and always asked for the drumstick on Thanksgiving, which would be useful for me to know in the future, since I usually just put those in soup. Adam found a connection with a friend of a friend who had gone to college with Naomi at the U. And Naomi was very good with baby Carla, who spit up on her. Only Kurt seemed less than ebullient, but he was at least kind and welcoming.
The second week in July, on Sunday night, Kurt fielded the actual phone call from Stephen Carter, Naomi’s father, who invited us over to his family compound. After he’d hung up, I asked him what the man was like, but Kurt said, “I only talked to him on the phone. How would I know?”
“You can tell things from a person’s voice,” I insisted.
“Well, all I could tell was that he was well educated,” said Kurt. But we already knew that.
I texted Kenneth, who said that he and Naomi wouldn’t be coming for dinner, but they’d drive up and join us the next morning. “Did you understand that Stephen expects us to stay overnight?” I asked Kurt with raised eyebrows.