My Story (15 page)

I wanted to ask him why, if eating fruit was all it took to be in such miraculously great shape, they had abandoned the plan, but I didn’t want to prolong the conversation. All I wanted to do was eat!

Later on, after more begging that we be able to go to the top of the mountain to watch the fireworks, Mitchell suddenly unlocked the cable, allowing me to walk free. He didn’t announce anything; he just walked over to the padlock, pulled out the key from around his neck, and set me free. I still had the other cable around my ankle, but at least I wasn’t tethered anymore. “Don’t try to run!” he commanded after he had unlocked me. “I will kill you if you run. I will come and kill your family. You understand me?”

I nodded compliantly. I understood.

“Come on,” he said.

I expected him to gather up the water containers and start walking down the mountain toward the spring. But he didn’t. He started walking up. And for the first time, he didn’t hold the other end of my cable in his hand. Then I realized that he hadn’t given it the usual jerk just to remind me that I was an animal on his leash.

He started moving through the trees on the east side of our camp. Barzee followed him. She seemed … I don’t know, I don’t want to say happy—I don’t think I ever saw her happy—but she didn’t seem as angry as she usually did.

I watched them for a second, then started following them up the side of the mountain.

The forest was thinner above our camp, with occasional open meadows, or at least places where the trees were not as thick. The mountain dipped into a couple bowls where the terrain was not as steep. It wasn’t an easy climb, but it wasn’t nearly as steep as the route was toward the bottom of the canyon. As we climbed, I realized that we were not far from the route that Mitchell and I had taken on that first morning when he had led me into the camp. I flashed back to my red pajamas and white running shoes. I flashed back to my little sister lying beside me in bed. It seemed so long ago! A lifetime. Like it wasn’t even real. Who was that little girl in the red pajamas? What had become of her? Who was the girl who was now living in her place?

Then I realized it was the one-month anniversary of the night I had been taken. One day short of my “wedding” anniversary. The thought made me feel sick.

As we climbed, I thought of my family, wondering what they were doing on this Fourth of July. Had they forgotten me? Were they going on without me? Had they given up on the search? Surely they had. What else could they have done?

I remembered that in years past, we’d go to the Fourth of July rodeo up in Oakley. I used to dream of being a cowboy princess, with a glittering tiara on my cowboy hat. I dreamed of carrying the American flag around the arena on the back of my horse. I knew that, it being the Fourth of July, my family would have gone up to my grandparents’ ranch for a family party. I knew that the kids would be playing in the woods. I thought of my cousins. They’d be giggling in anticipation of playing night games, chasing one another around the huge yard. They suddenly seemed so young, so innocent and far removed from me.

I felt one hundred years old.

Surely my family would have mourned my passing, I thought. But just as surely they would have gone on with their lives. And they should have. It was the healthy and normal thing to do. My parents had other children they had to care for. It wasn’t fair to them if my parents were obsessed with my loss. It was important to bring normality back into their lives. It had been more than a month. To me it seemed like years. It must have seemed that long to them as well. And there was no reason for them to believe I was alive, no reason to believe that I was ever coming home. They couldn’t go on mourning my passing every day.

I pictured my mom again, still driving around our neighborhood and looking for any clues. I pictured my dad staring out the window every night. I thought of my family kneeling together to say their family prayers. Did they still pray for my safety? Did they pray that I’d return? Or did they pray now for acceptance and to get past the pain of losing me?

Whenever Mitchell went down into the city, he didn’t talk anymore about posters or blue ribbons like he had before. No more search parties. No more airplanes or calling voices or helicopters hovering over the camp.

No, they weren’t looking for me any longer. Everyone had moved on.

*

We walked up the side of the mountain. It took us about an hour, maybe a little less, to make it to the highest part of the ridge. There, the mountain opened up. It was an incredible view. I could see in every direction. The Wasatch Mountains continued to the east. Another canyon lay behind us, to the north. Looking east, I could see down into the city. Again, I was struck with how very close to home I was.

If I could fly … if I could fly … I would flap my wings and fly home.

Mitchell had one of his sacks and he opened it up and pulled out a rubber ball. He and Barzee started tossing it around. They invited me to throw it with them, which was difficult because of the sagebrush and weeds. In addition, the mountain fell away on all sides of us, so we had to be careful not to let the ball roll away. Still, I joined in. We threw the ball in a triangle. Wow! Isn’t this great, I thought sarcastically. Here I am, playing catch with my new friends! I could have been down in the city, having a barbecue with my own family, looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, not worrying about getting raped that night. But instead, I got to be up here in a dirty white robe, throwing a ball around with two of the most evil people in the world.

Night came slowly. I was glad for that. I wanted to savor every moment that I wasn’t tethered between the trees. We had a simple picnic up on the mountain, then sat down and watched the sun go down. It was the first sunset I had seen in a month. The orange globe faded toward the Great Salt Lake on the west side of the city until it eventually dipped into the desert on the other side of the lake. It grew dark. We waited, sitting on the dry grass on top of the mountain. Eventually, we saw the first of the fireworks go off. They seemed so far away, little balls of sparks and fire. They were too distant to hear the sound, though if I listened very carefully, and if the wind was just right, I could hear the faintest rumble from the cannonballs that blew up in the sky.

Watching the fireworks, I felt more homesick than I had in weeks.

Once the last of the fireballs had faded, Mitchell was suddenly eager to get back to camp. He quickly gathered up what little he had brought up to the top of the mountain and started leading us down, his flashlight illuminating the way.

I felt like I had just experienced a glimpse of spring in the dead of winter and now I was being yanked back into the black of winter again.

Happy Fourth of July, I said to myself as I followed him in the dark.

*

After we’d made our way back down to camp, Mitchell stirred the fire pit to rouse the flame, then we sat around the fire. I considered it a real treat to have its comfort and its warmth. Barzee started cooking popcorn in a wok with olive oil and salt. As we talked, Mitchell seemed to watch me carefully, measuring the conversation as if he were waiting to say something important. I sensed that something bad was coming. After being with him in the most intimate of conditions for every moment of every day, I had a pretty good feel for his moods and intentions.

He stood up to throw a small log upon the fire, then looked at Barzee. “I think the time has come,” he said.

My heart sank. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I knew it wasn’t good. And I couldn’t imagine what could be coming that was worth the power of announcing
the time has come
.

Barzee started shaking her head. “Oh no, not this.”

“Yes, it is time,” he said.

My heart sank even further. I turned and studied his face. His dark eyes were sullen underneath his bushy eyebrows. His hair was long and greasy and parted in the middle, his beard full and powdered with tentacles of gray. It didn’t matter. He was repulsive and ugly. Wild. Evil. Dark and menacing. He had taken on the image of his master and he looked like a devil now. And Barzee was no better. Her hair hung in strings at the side of her head. Her face was blotchy from the constant sun. Thick lips. Puffy eyes. Her eyebrows were almost gone.

Mitchell looked at Barzee, his eyes seeming to pierce the dark. Though he kept his face toward her, he was talking now to me. “The Lord has commanded us to do something. It is so hard for me to tell you, but it is time for…” He named a certain sexual practice.

My mind raced in panic.
What? What is that?
I had no idea what it meant. Then it hit me, my heart slamming in my chest as the most disgusting image crawled out from somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind.

The words that he had spoken came again into my mind.
The Lord has commanded!

What kind of god is this, I had to wonder.

In my darkest nightmares, I couldn’t imagine anything that was worse than what I had been living through every day. But I guess that I didn’t have a good enough imagination, for I had not imagined this.

Barzee shook her head again but then seemed to concede, her head slowly coasting to a stop. Having convinced her—a battle that had taken all of ten seconds—Mitchell turned his attention back to me. The shadows seemed to flicker from the fire, dancing images against the trees. Mitchell’s face turned a shade darker. “Barzee and I are going down into the tent.”

Yes! Yes! That’s good. You two! Do whatever! I thought. Just please don’t involve me!

“Then tomorrow we’re going to demonstrate. And after that, you and I…”

I lowered my head and closed my eyes. I had never been to a slaughterhouse before, but that’s exactly how I felt. I was nothing but a sheep being led to the slaughter. I wanted to die. I shook my head in despair.

Mitchell and his wife stood up and disappeared into the tent, leaving me to sit by the fire.

I felt as if I was completely alone in a world that had been turned on its head. I felt as if I didn’t have a friend. I had reached a point where I wasn’t able to fight them any longer. Whatever they told me, I simply did. I had lost every ounce of dignity. Every ounce of pride. Every sense of my inhibitions.

But not this … please, not this
… I was praying in my mind.

Eventually they emerged from the tent. Mitchell looked at me hungrily. I shivered in my soul. “Go to bed,” he told me.

I stood and walked toward the tent, my head down. Mitchell followed me into the tent to rape me.

It turned out to be a long night.

*

The next day, Mitchell got up and announced that he was going down into the city.

I knew what was going to happen to me when he got back. All day long I waited, feeling as if a guillotine were hanging over my head. I didn’t eat at all that day. Not a thing. I knew from sad experience that the effects of alcohol would hit me much quicker if I drank on an empty stomach and I wanted my stomach completely empty when he came back.

Mitchell came stumbling back into camp about midafternoon. He brought food, and the regular assortment of alcohol, all of it the hard stuff.

“Drink this!” he commanded, handing me one of the bottles. “Then we’re going to do that other thing.”

I drank willingly. I desperately wanted the dulling effects of the alcohol to numb my senses before the nightmare began.

He watched me drink, then smiled. I don’t know if he wanted to get me drunk, but I suppose he did. I think he knew it was the only way I was going to be able to do what he intended.

We finished half a bottle. He and Barzee started the demonstration. Then he forced me to do the same.

During this experience, the same words kept rolling around in my head:
Think about your family. Remember that they love you. Do whatever it takes to protect them. Whatever it takes to survive.

*

Sometime later, I don’t remember how long, it might even have been the same day, I finally got the smallest chance of revenge. He tried to kiss me and I bit his tongue. Bit it hard. He jerked back, furious. I thought he was going to hit me. He held his mouth and screamed in rage. Then he stared me down, his face contorted in pain. “If you ever do that again, I’ll never have sex with you! You understand that, Esther? If you hurt me, I’ll never have sex with you again. You’ll be the most miserable woman in the world!”

I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.

But that pretty much describes Brian David Mitchell’s mind. That pretty much is a peek into his soul. In his opinion, I was the one who was getting the good end of the deal. I
owed
him for what he was doing to me. I was the luckiest girl in the world. I had the great pleasure, the great distinction, of having him abuse me every day. And if I ever did anything to make him reject me, I would be the most miserable woman in the world.

I can’t even begin to tell you how messed up that is to me.

“Why did you do this to me?” I once asked him after he had just raped me.

Mitchell looked at me, taking his time to answer.

“What did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

Mitchell remained quiet, thinking, which told me that a “prophetic” announcement was coming. I knew the routine now. When the prophet spoke, he spoke with authority, and it took a little time to generate an appropriately somber weight to his words.

It was early in the afternoon, mid-July, the hottest and driest days of summer. We were sitting around our camp doing pretty much nothing, which was pretty much what we did every afternoon. The air was calm and it was hot, the sky a reflective silver-gray. Dust and dandelion seeds floated through the trees. It was quiet. It seemed even the birds were too tired to chirp or move among the branches. I kept my eyes on him. I wanted an answer.

“I didn’t deserve this,” I said in a low voice, almost talking to myself.

“It wasn’t me,” he finally said.

I stared at him, defiant.
Of course it was you!
I wanted to scream.