10. Maybe Levi
ten
My new upstairs neighbors liked to have very loud sex at 3 am. I’d never met them, but I knew her name was Taylor, and he was Mike based purely on the names they’d scream before climaxing. The neighbors below me had a newborn and a toddler. The guy in the apartment to the left kept pretty quiet. He only played video games until midnight on the weekends. The apartment to my right was unoccupied.
But at least my new place was close to work. I could walk in the springtime when it warmed up a bit.
This November felt unreasonably cold. A whole week before Thanksgiving, snow had already covered the ground.
Why did I come back to Cedar City? I should have quit my job and moved somewhere warm where I could hike daily—maybe when my lease ended.
My phone buzzed, and I still felt that embarrassing glimmer of hope that maybe Thea was breaking her silence. That hope was dashed to pieces when I picked up my phone and saw the message from my mother.
Brigham, please bring cheesy potatoes to Thanksgiving dinner. We all loved Gina’s recipe, so it would be appreciated if you could make them like that. I can text her to get the recipe if you need me to.
I rolled my eyes and replied.
Please don’t bug Gina. I’ll make the potatoes. I’m not completely hopeless in the kitchen.
Oh, and we’ll do our annual “Thankful for the Savior” activity before dinner. This is a lovely family opportunity to express gratitude for all the Savior has done for us. We expect you to participate even though you’ve distanced yourself from Him. He still loves you despite your recent choices. You still believe in Him, don’t you?
I groaned and tossed my phone to the other side of the couch. I’d asked my mom countless times not to bring up church and beliefs with me. It only ever led to her crying and me feeling like I would explode with rage. But talking to a Mormon with an agenda was like talking to a brick wall. She wouldn’t listen, and she’d never respect my boundaries.
My phone buzzed again. I knew my mom was still trying to reconvert me, but again, I hoped it was Thea.
I hadn’t spoken to her for eight damn weeks, but she lived in my head rent-free. I’d typed out hundreds of texts to Thea, explaining that I’d never had sex with that woman she saw in my hotel room. The brunette — I couldn’t remember her name to save my life— had kissed me and then giggled that she needed to pee after all those margaritas. While she relieved herself, I pretended to fall asleep.
I couldn’t have sex with her. I momentarily lost the ability to breathe at the thought of touching a stranger’s body. I didn’t lose my breath in the exciting way that Thea always stole it with her beauty. Instead, it felt like an elephant sat on my chest and something demonic squeezed my throat.
I had sex issues. Not all the discoveries I made on my new journey were good.
How could I explain that to Thea? On the off chance that she believed my story anyway, she’d think I was insane. She certainly wouldn’t be turned on by the psychological mess that might never be able to touch her.
Besides, she’d left my head spinning so hard and fast that I didn’t know which way was up. In 24 hours, she’d both laughed at the thought of being with me and blown up at the thought of someone else being with me. What did that mean?
What did she want from me?
Sometimes, I stalked her artist social media accounts. She never posted pictures or videos of herself, and the art she shared was tame. It wasn’t her, but it was the closest thing to Thea that I could have.
Okay, honesty time? I scrolled through her damn accounts every day. I also hung the painting she gave me in my bedroom so it would be the last thing I saw before falling asleep and the first upon waking.
I let out a frustrated sigh and picked up my laptop. I needed to grade some accounting assignments before the break. My inbox was full of emails from concerned students who needed to report passing grades to their parents.
Holy shit, I hated my job.
Instead of grading assignments, I opened a tab and searched for common career changes. My bachelor’s degree in education and master’s in accounting were useless unless I wanted to teach or be an accountant, and I didn’t want to do either. So weird.
I could take one free class a semester at SUU. I’d sign up for something completely different from accounting to find out what I liked. After an entire lifetime of doing what others expected of me, I sure as hell wouldn’t do another thing I didn’t choose.
I viewed course descriptions for UX design and then explored beginning C# and C++ coding paths. I even clicked on psychology. Maybe I could learn something useful and fix my broken self.
The buried artist in me chose graphic design. I enrolled for the next semester before I could talk myself out of it.
“Brigham, it’s good to have you!” My mom watched me set the pan of cheesy potatoes on the counter as if I were a three-headed shark instead of her son. That never got old.
My older brother, Matthew, breezed through the front door next, followed by his poor pregnant wife, Becca. Becca carried their two-year-old on her hip, held a pan of freshly baked rolls in her free hand, and begged their four-year-old to hurry up the stairs and come inside. Becca seemed to tremble under the weight of all she carried, but my asshole brother collapsed on the couch and switched on a football game.
Mormon Patriarchy at its finest.
I relieved Becca of the pan of rolls and the heavy diaper bag slung over her sagging shoulder. “Bex,” I smiled, “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be lifting so much stuff. Give me that.”
Becca gave me a weak smile but didn’t say anything. She and Gina used to be close. She held Gina while she cried over my apostasy. Becca couldn’t talk to me now. She’d get Ex-Mormon germs from me.
Cool.
My parents’ house continued to fill with siblings, spouses, and grandchildren. Even my youngest sister, Sariah, was already married and pregnant at twenty-one. Her tool of a husband didn’t believe in birth control and had proudly announced that a week before their wedding. “We’ll have as many children as the Lord wants us to have,” he’d said while draping his arm around my sister and kissing the top of her head like a condescending creep. Did I mention that he was ten years older than her, too? All the women his age had rejected him, but my poor, na?ve little sister stepped right into his slimy trap.
Sariah’s wedding took place last May at the Saint George, UT temple. I didn’t attend the ceremony, but Gina did. My wicked worldliness would have desecrated the holy house of the lord. Sariah had pleaded with me to get my life in order, pay my tithing, and believe again so I could sit in the stuffy, dated sealing room to watch my sister bow down to her disgusting new husband. Mormon weddings were weird as fuck.
I sat outside the temple that day like an invited but unwanted guest.
Did Mormons have any idea that they constantly made people feel this way?
This Thanksgiving left me feeling the same—invited but unwanted. My siblings and their families chatted with each other while I stood alone in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for this little slice of torture to be over.
“Oh my heck!” My oldest sister, Emma, cut through the chatter. “Gina is engaged!”
What? I moved through the crowded house to see what was on Emma’s phone. She turned it toward me so I could view the photo of my smiling ex-wife and her new fiancé. “We’ve been divorced for five months,” I muttered.
Emma read the photo caption aloud. “So blessed to be joining the McGary family in February! I could never fill the hole in their hearts left behind by the most loving wife and mother, but I truly believe that our Heavenly Father has a plan for all of us. He led me to Colton and his girls, and because of our righteousness through our trials, we can find joy together.”
I blinked and rubbed my chin. Leave it to Gina to turn her engagement into an opportunity to bear her testimony. Did she even love this guy? Did she even care if he loved her?
“Oh my goodness!” my mother said, placing a hand over her heart. “Gina gets to be a mother now! Oh, I’m so happy for her!”
Becca squealed and clapped, and my sisters and sisters-in-law gathered around Emma’s phone to look at the ring as if I weren’t even there. No one said a word to me. I was invisible, invalid, a reject. No one batted an eye at the oddness of the situation. Five months after our divorce, my ex-wife was engaged to be married again to a widower with children.
And this was normal, an event to be celebrated even.
Was I living in the twilight zone? Could no one see how messed up this all was?
Then my father entered the room, dressed in his usual perfectly ironed white button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his nicest pair of jeans. I knew my mom bent herself over backward to make sure his shirts were always clean. I’d heard him yell at her over them more than once. It bothered me so much as a kid that I never let Gina touch my laundry when we were married. What kind of man couldn’t wash his own fucking shirts?
I knew my dad hadn’t lifted a finger in the kitchen today, either. No, all that man did was work, complain about work, yell, and read scriptures. He nearly always had a Book of Mormon in his hands and rage in his eyes. Did he think the word of god would hide the ugliness inside?
Russ Thompson disgusted me.
He spoke, and the room quieted. “I’d like to thank you all for being here this Thanksgiving Day. What a beautiful family we’ve created, Lisa.” He smiled at my mother. “The blessings of the gospel are abundant, and our table is full.” He spoke like he was conducting a church meeting instead of addressing his family.
Then, my father’s cold gaze settled on me. “Let’s have the blessing on the food. Brigham, would you do the honors?” The challenge in his eyes turned my stomach.
“Please choose someone else.” I stood my ground.
“Son, I’ve asked you to say the blessing.” He pushed back.
“No, thank you.” I squared my jaw and clenched my fists. I’d informed him at least three times that I wouldn’t pray at family events. This was a blatant disregard for my wishes — a clear asshole move.
My father let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head. “Brigham, think of the poor example you’re setting for all your young nieces and nephews. Haven’t you done enough harm to this family? Turn your heart back to your Heavenly Father and speak to Him. Let the healing begin.”
To my surprise, I laughed. It suddenly all seemed so stupid. I suddenly had no idea why I stood here in my parents’ kitchen with every judging eye in my family on me. Why?
“I have repeatedly asked all of you to respect my beliefs and choices. If that can’t be done, I have no desire to be here.” My words tasted like freedom. I kept going. “And how dare you talk about the harm that I’ve done to this family, Dad, when you’ve been abusive our entire lives.” Gasps erupted around the room. I continued. “And mom, don’t you dare use your tears and manipulation and call it love.”
Right on cue, my mother let out a sob. Emma hurried to comfort her, shooting me a dirty look.
“The church is bullshit. This family is bullshit, and I’m done.” I sunk the final nail into my coffin and headed for the front door, ignoring my father’s shouts to get back there and apologize.
I practically floated to my car. The light, airy freedom of my broken chains felt more intoxicating than alcohol.
That was the tattoo I’d get— broken chains. And maybe a wolf. Mormons loved to use the analogy of wolves in sheep’s clothing to describe all those who would try to deceive and deprive you of the blessings of the gospel. But the wolves were the smart ones all along, and I’d rather be a lone wolf than a blind sheep any day.
I drove to a Chinese restaurant and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot. Fuck being grateful for Mormon Jesus in a room full of people who didn’t know me at all. I’d have my own Thanksgiving and be thankful for the courage it took to walk out of my parents’ house.
I ordered three kinds of chicken, chow mein, and fried rice all for myself. It felt fantastic. The only thing that could have made this moment sweeter would have been Thea laughing by my side, high-fiving me for telling off my family. I pulled out my phone and sent her a text. What did I have to lose?
Happy Thanksgiving, Thea. Thinking of you.