Chapter 6

I thought Mom would buck up and come out of the funk she'd plunged into when Sandy left, but she became more and more depressed. Dad busied himself tending the faithful in his flock and was essentially oblivious to Mom's deteriorating mental condition, mostly because Mom put up a happy front when he was around. A good Mormon wife's main job is supporting her husband's reverent works and being a superlative homemaker and mother. The church was patriarchal in its structure. Only men could hold the priesthood, which was two-tiered: the Aaronic and Melchizedec Priesthoods, the latter reserved for the faithful eighteen years of age, or older. At my age, I gave lip service to the Aaronic Priesthood and doubted I'd ever be ordained an Elder, the first title bestowed in the Melchizedec Priesthood. Women in the church assumed a supporting position, and they took the role seriously because they believed it was their only path to the highest level of Paradise where they would live for an eternity with their faithful husbands, children and family in the presence of God and Jesus.

Note that I mentioned faith a few times. To buy into the church and its plan required a lot of faith, which Sandy and I lacked. The plan smacked of the long con to me, a profitable one, too. The church required a tithe of ten percent of all gain from each of its members, in other words, an income tax.

One morning, I came upon Mother sitting at the kitchen table with silent tears streaking her pretty face. I sat next to her and took her into my arms.

She sobbed quietly for a few minutes. I felt so sorry for her. She was a product of religious conditioning from early childhood that forced her to reject Sandy for leaving the church, and Mom's rejection forced my sister to reject her family, except for me. It was a vicious, hurtful circle. I felt certain if only Mom and Sandy would talk that the rift between them could be healed. Oh, Sandy wouldn't return to house and hearth. She'd made her break, and the break would've taken place eventually anyway, but a peace of sorts could be fashioned.

I could read emotions and feel sensations from anyone within range of my empathic abilities, and I'd experimented with projecting emotions when confronted with Pearl's belief that Sandy and I were involved intimately. Could I lift my mother out of the depressed state she was in and instill a desire in the sad woman to talk with her estranged daughter again.

The problem, if I succeeded in projecting an emotion at all, was how to connect the projected emotion with Sandy. I could try to project desire, for example, but how could I project a desire for my mother to speak with Sandy? But even more was involved. The desire should include not only speaking with Sandy but also making peace with her and accepting Sandy's break with the church - complex issues to handle with mere emotions. Still, I'd believed I'd understood Pearl's attitude, and at the time, her attitude consisted of complicated issues similar to what I wanted to project. If I could receive and understand the totality of an attitude, could I project one?

While I held Mom in my arms, I visualized a reunion between my mother and my sister, a reunion of the happy sound of their voices speaking with each other on the telephone, and I added the healing of grievances. In other words, I created a bundle of emotions tied to events involving my mother and sister. I had bundled an attitude. I then concentrated and tried to project the bundle to my mother from my body to hers, from my mind to hers.

"Can you contact Sandy?" Mother asked me a few seconds later.

"Yes." My, God, did I succeed? "I have a phone number in London that will take a message for her."

"She's in London?"

"Yes."

"Is she all right? Happy?"

"Yes and no. I think she'd like to make peace with you and Dad."

"Oh, Josh! I want that, too, more than anything! I love her so, and..." She started to cry again. "And I miss her! I miss the sound of her voice."

"Yeah, I miss her, too."

Mom patted my hand. At a less emotional time, the pat would've been condescending, but Mom honestly wanted to comfort me.

"I know you miss her, Josh. The two of you were so close. May I have the number? I want to talk with her. I must talk with her and ask her to forgive me for some of the hateful things I said."

I shook my head. "No, I promised Sandy I wouldn't give anyone the number, but I will arrange for the two of you to talk."

Later that morning, I called Sandy and told her about Mom's desire to make peace with her. Again, I didn't mention my attempt to project an attitude. Mom's state of mind alone could've precipitated what happened.

Sandy did a little crying, too. Mom and my sister had a lot in common. Both were loving and compassionate.

"Is Mom home now?" Sandy asked.

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"In the kitchen."

"Is she alone?"

"Yes. Dad's at the church, and Cal's out somewhere with Cathy."

"I'll call her now. Go to the kitchen, answer my call, hand her the phone, and then hold Mom's hand while I talk with her. I might want to know how she felt about our conversation later."

When I walked into the kitchen, Mom asked, "Did you leave a message for Sandy to call me?"

"Yes, I spoke with her. She'll call you soon."

The phone rang. Before I could grab it, Mom answered.

"Sandy! Oh, Sandy, thank you for calling." Mom's eyes shined, and she stood as if rooted to the floor.

She'd need to relax a little, I reasoned, so I physically shuffled her to a kitchen chair, sat next to her and took her hand. She squeezed mine affectionately, and smiled, appreciating my supportive gesture.

"I miss you, sweetheart... I'm so sorry for... I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me. I didn't mean... Oh, I love you, too, so very, very much. Are you all right? Do you need anything? Money?... You know your father didn't mean what he said about not giving you a dime. He wants to help you, support you in any way... He loves you, too... I'll tell him, but I think you should tell him yourself... When will we see you again?... Try real hard for Christmas, Sandy. Spend some time with us during the holidays if you can."

Mom laughed, actually laughed, the first sign of joy I'd seen in her since Sandy left. I wanted to hug her.

"The Maltese Islands!" Mom exclaimed. "My, you're becoming a world traveler, Sandy. I'll have to look them up in an atlas... The Mediterranean. My, my. Send us a postcard showing some scenery of the islands. May I write you?... Just a second. Let me get a pad and pen."

I motioned for Mom to stay seated and grabbed paper and pen from the counter.

"Go ahead," Mom said and jotted down an address, probably the same mail-drop address Sandy had given me. Because Sandy and I talked once or twice a day, we hadn't written to each other.

"Yes, he's sitting beside me, holding my hand... I'll tell him. He's been missing you, too... Goodbye, sweetheart. Please call again soon. I miss hearing your voice so much you can't imagine. Call collect. We'll accept the calls from wherever you are in the world." Tears streaked Mom's face, but they were happy tears. "And call your father... Oh, Sandy, whether you follow the teachings of the church or not, you're still our daughter, and we want you to be a part of our lives... He's at the church... Of course, you can call him there... I'll call him and tell him... Goodbye. I love you, too."

Mom handed me the phone. I checked for a dial tone and found one before I set the phone on its cradle. I then took Mom in my arms again while she cried. She felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her - an attitude. I was sensing attitudes now! Before I would've only sensed relief. A few minutes later, she asked me to hand her the phone again, and she called Dad.

"Stuart! Guess who just called?" she said excitedly.

I left her so she could talk privately with my father. All was well - for the moment. Yet again, love had prevailed over anger and animosity. Or... no, love did it, not me.

Pearl sat next to me in the noisy cafeteria of our high school. She leaned to my ear and whispered, "I want to kiss you silly."

I chuckled. "Go ahead."

"Later, when we're alone," she said, her eyes twinkling with happiness.

Years ago, I'd started the bad habit of classifying those around me as either basically happy, or basically unhappy. I avoided the latter and spent my time with the former. It was a bad habit because my first impressions were frequently in error. Pearl, however, was one of the happiest girls I knew. I enjoyed being with her.

A few minutes later, a couple of attractive girls walked by our table. One of them, Tanya Owen, smiled at Pearl and said hi. Pearl's sudden sexual arousal when she saw Tanya shocked me.

"That girl's hot!" I said without naming names.

Pearl blushed. A more normal response would've been to berate me for thinking and commenting that another girl was attractive. Yup, some girls could sexually excite my girlfriend as much or more than boys.

"Why are you blushing?" I asked to press the issue, and then chuckled. "Ah, you thought she was hot, too. My, goodness, you're turned on."

Her blush deepened. "No, I'm not."

My built-in lie detector declared her denial a lie.

Paul Gomez walked up to our table and plunked down his tray, his drink sloshing over the rim of the plastic glass. Paul was one of my mistakes. At first, I'd believed that he was basically happy, and I'd cultivated a friendship with him a few years ago. Later when my empathic power increased, I uncovered a mean streak deep inside him and had since unsuccessfully tried to distance myself from him.

"Hey, lovebirds," Gomez commented.

"That's us," Pearl said brightly.

Gomez leered at her cleavage, which took an effort because Pearl didn't have much cleavage.

"Jeez, Paul," Pearl said with a wan smile. "Leave my clothes on when you look at me."

He laughed. "Sorry."

He wasn't sorry; he was turned on. And angry. Was he angry because Pearl had rebuffed him or just plain angry all the time? Both, I concluded.

Hal Owen, Tanya's brother, joined us next. Hal wasn't one of my mistakes. Happy-go-lucky described his attitude most of the time. I liked him and counted him a friend.

"Hey, Josh, Pearl. Do you mind if I break bread with you?"

I thought it curious that Hal didn't ask Gomez.

"Not at all," I said. Hmm, Hal turns Pearl on, too, not as much as his sister, but I felt a twinge or two in Pearl's pussy.

"Are ya goin' ta the game tonight?" Hal asked.

He was referring to a high school basketball game, the first of the season. Hal was an avid basketball fan. He knew every statistic about the Phoenix Suns and was prone to spout some of them at every opportunity.

"Yes, Josh and I are going together," Pearl said. "Will we win or lose, Hal?"

"Win, big time. What about the dance after the game?"

"Yes. I told Pearl I had two left feet, but she insisted anyway." I looked at Pearl. "So, expect some bruised feet when I stomp on them."

"I'll be there," Gomez said. "And I can dance up a storm. They call me Freddie Baby, after Fred Astaire. Save a dance for me, Pearl."

Instantly nervous, Pearl glanced at me.

"I don't think so, Paul," I said. "Pearl's dance card is filled with my name."

As I felt red-hot anger flash in Paul, I felt relief flood over Pearl, and she gave me a pretty, thank-you smile.

Later as I walked out of the cafeteria with Pearl, she said, "I don't like Paul Gomez. He gives me the willies."