Mark and Lillian still had the daily pressures of juggling work, school, and kids, and we always feared repercussions from Dan Jordan or my mom, but the atmosphere in their home eventually began to change. The undercurrent of stress and fear gradually abated for me. After years of being Lillian’s right-hand girl who worked hard for her approval and made sure my consistent efforts secured my place in her home, I now realized I had become indispensable to her and Mark.
In the spring of 1983, at the age of fourteen, I starting “going with” David Heyen. I fell hard for his sweet smile and somewhat shy personality. My mind quickly turned to thoughts of marriage; after all, most of the females in the culture I’d grown up in were married by age fifteen. I began to wonder what it would be like to marry David —and more important, to be his only wife. Though it was a foreign concept from what I’d grown up with, and far outside the realm of my reality, I liked to imagine myself being special to someone, instead of just one of many wives. I let myself fantasize about a monogamous marriage —like Mark and Lillian had, or Jim and Kathleen, who had eloped when they couldn’t get permission from my mother and leaders within the cult to marry. I wanted the kind of love they shared.
THE MONTHS MOVED BY at an accelerated pace, perhaps because home, school, and work were comfortable places for me. Or perhaps it was because I had escaped the oppression of the cult. Now I got to make some decisions for myself, and my opinion mattered.
When I first moved in with Mark and Lillian, they had just welcomed their fifth child, Hannah, into their family. I enjoyed tending her and became a second pair of hands and eyes when Lillian needed to get things done, which was all the time. My older sister rarely lounged around. She busied herself constantly, accomplishing tasks on her to-do list or making sure others did. I developed my strong work ethic from being around her, watching her check off items as she completed them.
I certainly didn’t have a task-oriented personality. Instead, I enjoyed being around people. Still, my chameleonlike nature allowed me to blend in with those around me, so I mimicked Lillian when necessary to garner her acceptance and praise.
I didn’t like watching TV when she was around because we could never just sit and watch an entire TV show. Lillian used commercial breaks to get all of us kids to tidy up the living room or fold and put away the never-ending loads of laundry. I felt compelled to help, though I would have preferred to stay planted on the comfortable couch doing nothing but watching Little House on the Prairie, the only show Lillian approved of us watching. But with two adults, one teenager (me), and —after baby Calvin came along —six younger children, chores beckoned constantly. I quickly came to understand and embrace the phrase “No rest for the weary,” as it characterized my existence.
The tenuous nature of my situation plagued me. I felt tremendous, self-imposed pressure to graduate from high school as quickly as possible. Given the rapidly changing culture I lived in, I never knew if the proverbial rug might get yanked from underneath me, forcing me to live elsewhere. Someplace where I wouldn’t have it so good; someplace I wouldn’t be allowed to attend a private Christian school; someplace I’d have to work longer hours for far fewer dollars; someplace I wouldn’t feel as accepted, nurtured, and loved.
I constantly pondered what life might look like anywhere other than with Mark and Lillian. I never felt secure. I did everything they asked me to do without complaining, without exhibiting a single negative attitude. Mark and Lillian didn’t tolerate bad attitudes in their house, no matter the reason or excuse for them. Lillian was the one who would say something to me if I didn’t comply with her expectations.
Lillian took this so far as to question every expression on my face that wasn’t “pleasant.”
“What’s wrong?” Lillian would ask me regularly.
Even if something was wrong, I denied it. “Nothing.”
We repeated this conversation numerous times while I lived with them because Lillian did not tolerate ingratitude in anyone, least of all someone she was helping. Eventually, I learned to keep a pleasant expression on my face, no matter how I felt inside. Doing so made life easier. It meant I didn’t have to answer uncomfortable questions about negative feelings I might have —some of which I couldn’t understand myself, let alone explain to someone else. I accepted that Lillian had the right to require anything she wanted of me because it was her home.
When I first came to their house, I slept in the room just off of the dining room with Lillian’s girls, which afforded me little peace and quiet. I dressed in the main bathroom that we all shared, which meant I had to carry everything back and forth. During the time I was with them, some of my siblings who were teenagers, too, came to live with us, but most of them left when they couldn’t adjust to Mark and Lillian’s high standards. Lillian strictly enforced the rules, but my other siblings found ways to get around them —and eventually left or were asked to leave. Marilyn was one of them, eventually followed by Lillian’s full siblings, Pablo and Delia.
I toed the line without wavering. From the beginning, Lillian told me that any time I wanted to go back to Denver, they would buy me a plane ticket. I always had the option of going back to live with my mom. That ticket back to Denver became a double-edged sword of sorts, as they used it as a veiled threat to keep me from breaking their rules. The fear of messing up badly enough to be sent back would haunt me for years.
I didn’t know Lillian’s brother Isaac before he came to live with us. He was bipolar, so he would be depressed for a period of time, followed by manic highs. I got used to his mental instability and wasn’t afraid; he just seemed odd to me. He helped around the house and ate meals with the rest of the family, except when he was experiencing depression.
At one point, Lillian and Mark decided to send Isaac to an inpatient facility for treatment. I don’t recall how long he was gone, but when he returned home, he seemed okay for a while. And then tragedy struck. Isaac put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, committing suicide in his room. Because the room wasn’t in the main house, but rather an add-on at the back of the garage, next to the washer, dryer, and utility sink, no one knew what had happened until Mark and Lillian’s thirteen-year-old son, Brandon, found him. We were all shocked, but Lillian took Isaac’s death particularly hard. I’m sure she felt responsible for him.