Passage to Zarahemla Read online

  The emotions inside her were almost rapturous. When she was a little girl her cousins used to tell her that these woods were haunted, full of mysterious shadows and voices. But Kerra had never been afraid, not even when she first came here at three or four years old. In fact, it came back to her vividly that this was one of her favorite places in the world. But why? It was just a tangle of brush. Her feelings seemed so peculiar. Yet she felt she was almost slipping into a kind of euphoric trance as her eyes searched the darkest recesses of that mysterious wood. Then all at once she brought the car to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Brock.

  “I thought . . . I saw something,” said Kerra.

  Brock studied her for a moment. “Saw what?” His gaze now fixed on the trees.

  He started to say something about Bigfoot being in California, not Utah. But before he finished the sentence, the car was jarred by a tremendous thud. Something fell onto the Pontiac’s hood! Kerra shrieked, her stomach in her throat. Eyes were staring in at them through the windshield. It was a person! A boy! A young boy had fallen from an overhanging branch and landed directly on the hood!

  The child, about seven or eight, continued to gape at them for another moment, then scrambled off the hood and ran down the wooded lane toward a partially hidden farmhouse, yelling, “Someone’s here! Someone’s here!”

  Kerra—her nerves still recovering—pressed on the gas and rolled forward. Brock noticed that smoke was now seeping out from under the hood, but he said nothing, his mind captivated by too many other things.

  The house was an eccentric mixture of Colonial and Victorian architecture with gingerbread eaves and a wraparound porch. By the looks of it, portions of the house were still unfinished, although Kerra knew that it had been standing at least thirteen or fourteen years. Some of the porch posts were only half painted; sheets of siding still leaned against the rails, along with other building materials, all of it cradled by a decade of leaves. The rusted skeleton of an old Cadillac lay in the weeds beyond the driveway. Other ancient machines were scattered about, some appearing to be in working order, some not—motorcycle parts, farm equipment, and even an old, rusted front-end loader that Kerra remembered had been used to push back the hill that rose up sharply behind the house. It appeared that it hadn’t been used since that time.

  The front of the house was littered with evidence of children—dolls, Frisbees, Tonka toys, and an old, worn trampoline. As they parked the Pontiac beside an older

  Maxiwagon van, the boy who’d landed on their hood disappeared inside some large French doors facing the driveway. The curtain flicked in an upstairs window. In a garage that was separated from the main part of the house, two teenage boys in greasy overalls looked up from where they were leaning over the engine of an old car. Brock recognized it— a ’60s model Mustang. After all, he’d stolen one like it last winter.

  Before Kerra shut off the ignition, the Pontiac let out what seemed a final gasp, sputtered, and died. The smoke seeping out from under the hood became thick and black. Kerra and Brock hesitated a moment, but at last Kerra pulled the lever to the hood and nodded for her brother to follow her. They opened their doors and went around to the front of the car. Kerra unlatched the hood and raised it. A foul-smelling puff of smoke, like a nuclear mushroom cloud, belched into the air. Kerra coughed a time or two as her brother tried to wave it off. But then their attention was immediately drawn to the screen doors along the south side of the wraparound porch.

  Out stepped a middle-aged woman, stern eyes, moderately plump, with a head of bright red hair. She was wiping her hands on an apron, looking at the apparent strangers and their smoking car with more than a little curiosity. Behind the woman Kerra perceived several children of various ages. More young ones had their faces pressed to a window just right of the door.

  “Gracious!” the woman exclaimed. “Are you kids lost? Can I help you?”

  Kerra continued to gape as she recognized who the woman was. “Hello, Aunt Corinne,” she said shyly.

  The woman stopped wiping her hands. She squinted and seemed to be studying every curve and crease of Kerra’s face, and also of Brock’s. Her mouth opened a little, as if she might say something, but she seemed to change her mind suddenly and didn’t say anything at all.

  “I’m Kerra,” she revealed. “I think . . . I’m your niece.” The woman’s mouth fell open again, but now with a

  very different expression. Her eyes were filled with wonder. “Kerra!” she declared, half in a whisper. “Oh, my word!

  OH, MY WORD!”

  She practically flew off the porch, eyes filled with tears, and threw her arms around Kerra’s shoulders. Kerra didn’t realize it at first, but her own eyes were also moist, mostly out of relief, but perhaps also because a secret hope that she had nurtured for twelve years had come true. Her mother had said that they would never be welcome here again. It wasn’t true. Her mother had been wrong.

  A few of the children also began emerging. The two boys in the garage watched the scene, their gaze still fixed on the blonde-haired beauty with sweltering blue eyes.

  One said quietly to the other, “Did she say she was my cousin?”

  “Yeah,” said his companion, smirking. “Too bad for you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I can’t believe it!” Corinne declared, her arms around both kerra and her brother as she led them, practically carried them, into the house. “Oh, I would have never imagined! Kerra, you’re so lovely. And you!” She was referring to Brock. “I haven’t seen you since you were a bundle of love in your Mama’s tummy.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind us dropping in?” Kerra asked again.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Corinne. “I haven’t seen my niece in twelve years and she thinks she might need an invitation?”

  Brock, who hadn’t yet said a word, overheard two young girls who were looking on from the bottom of the stairs. “Their clothes smell,” one whispered.

  “That’s just smoke,” the other replied. “Like people in Las Vegas.”

  There were no fewer than eight children in the Whitman household, ages ranging from eighteen down to two. Kerra could only remember three kids living here when she was little. She remembered the boy, named Skyler. She also remembered the oldest girl, who was a few months younger than herself and, as she tenderly recalled, her very best friend. This girl’s name had been Natasha. Another girl had been named Sherilyn. Kerra saw two strawberry-brunette teenagers who might have been them, but until they were reintroduced, she couldn’t have been sure who was who.

  For the past ten hours Kerra had carefully contemplated how best to approach this meeting with her relatives. Considering all that had occurred over the last twenty-four hours, it was obviously a delicate matter. The only solution, it was abundantly clear, was to lie. Later, as they sat together in the living room, Kerra explained, “Our mom got a new job in Florida. Brock and I are on our way to join her.”

  Corinne drew her eyebrows together. “You’re traveling by yourselves?”

  “Sure,” said Kerra, determined not to flinch in her eye contact, though she feared she’d already glanced away more than once.

  If Aunt Corinne suspected something, she didn’t seem interested in pursuing it. She glanced out the window at the Pontiac, which was still emitting a little smoke from under the hood. “It appears you’ll be a few days late. I’ll have Skyler look it over. He’s got a knack for cars and engines. When does your mother expect you?”

  “A few weeks,” said Kerra.

  The way her aunt and older cousins widened their eyes, she feared she should have given a shorter time period. Too late to change it now.

  Again, Corinne seemed to shrug it off. “Well, tonight you’re staying here. Skyler, Teancum, help bring in their luggage.”

  The oldest boy, along with another boy with bright blond hair and freckles, nodded and started for the door. Brock squirmed nervously. He thought of the leather bag inside his duffel bag. T
hough it was unthinkable that someone might dump out his clothes and discover it, it made him nervous all the same. Finally he got up and followed after them.

  At last one of the teenage brunettes presented herself. She was pretty, though shorter in height and not quite as stunning as Kerra. Thin-framed eyeglasses were perched on her tiny nose. “Kerra, do you remember me? Natasha?”

  Kerra smiled brightly. “Yes. I do remember you.”

  Another girl, this one about fourteen, with the definite air of a tomboy, spoke up next. “How ‘bout me? Sherilyn?”

  “Sherilyn,” Kerra repeated warmly. “The last time I saw you, you were only two or three years old.”

  The other children were also drawing closer, as if the actions of Natasha and Sherilyn had confirmed that it was safe.

  “Now, now, don’t everyone crowd her at once,” said Corinne. “Girls, show her where she’ll be sleeping. Brock can stay in Teancum’s room. He can sleep in the bottom bunk. Colter, you sleep in your old bed in the baby’s room.”

  “Awww,” complained the boy of eight or nine who’d fallen from the tree onto the hood of the Pontiac.

  Corinne couldn’t resist hugging Kerra one more time. “It’s so good to have you here.” She grabbed some keys off the table. “I’ll get your uncle from the orchard. Sherilyn, use a toothpick to check the banana bread in the oven. Tessa, Sariah—get these cats out of here.”

  That was another thing Kerra remembered. The Whitman household was always full of cats. A brightly colored calico was on the counter right now, licking a dirty dish.

  The memories swirled in Kerra’s mind like autumn leaves. So many sights, sounds, and smells. The fireman’s pole was still there; it slid down from a hallway on the second story, right smack into the living room. The pole had been the pride and joy of her Uncle Drew, who’d installed it way back when he first built their house, just before Kerra was born. The imbibing scent of baking banana bread was among the other odors wafting from the kitchen. The same massive portrait of the St. George Temple hung imperiously above the couch. Kerra had once imagined it to be the castle of a rich and mysterious prince. Even the complaining squalls of the two-year-old, as Corinne carried her out the front door, seemed startlingly familiar. When Kerra was five those cries had belonged to Sherilyn. Now it was little Bernadette. She was also introduced to nine-year-old Colter, a seven-year-old girl named Tessa, and a five-year-old girl named Sariah.

  Still, Kerra felt strangely uneasy, almost like a trespasser. Some of the memories associated with this place were sad and dark. It was here, in this living room, that she’d been told that her parents were going to be divorced. She’d lived with the Whitmans almost that entire summer while her mother and father fought and bickered about custody, money, and the other stuff divorcing parents fight and bicker about. This was also where she was residing when her father walked out of her life forever. She even identified the old chaise recliner where she had sat when her mother told her that Daddy was gone. Delia had explained that her father had left to pursue another life—a life without the complications and hassles of a family. She was a little girl of five, too young to understand. Too young to realize yet how much her world had changed. That was also the last day she set eyes on her aunt, uncle, and cousins.

  It surprised her how well she remembered that summer’s images and events. Surely human beings’ memories from early childhood weren’t normally so vivid. Then again, how many people had their lives turned totally upside down at the age of five? This, she guessed, was the reason so much of it was still so clear in her mind.

  Kerra glanced outside and saw Brock, Teancum, and some of the other cousins unloading luggage from the comatose Sunbird. Aunt Corinne was driving away in her Maxiwagon van. Teancum offered to help Brock carry in his duffel bag, but Brock insisted on carrying it himself. Kerra heard Teancum ask him enthusiastically about the folders of Yu-Gi-Oh cards under Brock’s arm. She smiled. At least the two boys would have one thing in common.

  Natasha led Kerra up the stairs to her bedroom. Skyler arrived at the doorway right behind them in his greasy overalls, toting Kerra’s massive trunk.

  He smiled awkwardly and asked Kerra, a little out of breath, “Where do you want it?”

  Natasha answered for her cousin. “Over there. She can have my bed.”

  “You’ve sure gotten tall,” Kerra said to Skyler.

  “Yeah. You too.” Skyler fumbled for something more to say, then settled with, “My friend Orlan wants to meet you. He’s, uh, the one who was with me in the garage—”

  “Not now!” said Natasha.

  She started to close the door on Skyler’s nose, but not before Sherilyn slipped into the room to join them.

  “Did you ever get my letters?” Natasha asked Kerra. “Letters?” Kerra repeated.

  “I must have written you ten times, back when I was seven or eight. But you never wrote back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kerra. “I never got any letters.”

  Natasha nodded, as if this confirmed an old suspicion. “My mom said that’s probably what happened. She said your mom didn’t like us much. Oh, but I’ve missed you! My goodness, Kerra! You’re so beautiful. You were always beautiful.”

  Kerra looked away and replied modestly, “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, don’t even!” said Natasha. “I bet you have hundreds of boyfriends.”

  “Nope. No boyfriends,” said Kerra.

  Natasha sat on the bed, patting the blanket for Kerra to sit beside her. “Tell us everything about California. Have you been to Disneyland?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Have you swum in the ocean?” asked Sherilyn.

  “I’m asking the questions,” Natasha snapped. Then back at Kerra, “Do you know any movie stars?”

  Kerra sat on the bed, a little overwhelmed. “Yes, I’ve swum in the ocean and no, I don’t know any movie stars.”

  “Are you serious?” said Sherilyn. “Haven’t you even seen any?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Next Natasha asked, “Do you still talk to the Donny-Kid?” The smile faded from Kerra’s face. “Who?”

  “The Donny-Kid. Don’t you remember? When you were younger you used to spend hours talking to the Donny-Kid, your imaginary friend. You’d make up the wildest stories about him.”

  Kerra turned away, unlatching her trunk. “No. I don’t do that anymore. I made all that up.”

  “Well, of course you did!” said Natasha. “I never thought you really believed he was real.”

  “The Donny-Kid?” repeated Sherilyn. “You mean like Donny the Kid? Was he a cowboy?” She giggled at an image of Donny Osmond wearing a ten-gallon hat and six-shooters.

  Natasha answered. “Nah, just a little boy. A magical little boy. Isn’t that right, Kerra?”

  Kerra continued to look uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” said Natasha. “Did I embarrass you?”

  “No, no,” said Kerra. “It’s just been a long time since . .. since I’ve thought about any of that. It used to make people ... upset.”

  It was an understatement. Kerra was sure it had made people think she was downright crazy. Kerra had made up Kid Donny, or the Donny-Kid, shortly after her parents had separated. Whenever she was lonely, Kid Donny was her playmate, her protector, her best friend. Kerra never felt she’d had any problem distinguishing fantasy from reality, but people around her weren’t so certain. Some time later, when her mother threatened to send her to a psychiatrist, she promptly tucked her imaginary friend away and never pretended again.

  “I still thought it was wonderful,” Natasha persisted. “It inspired me to create my own imaginary friend. I called him King Cory.”

  “Ohh,” said Sherilyn with a knowing grin. “You mean like Cory Miner?”

  “No, stupid,” said Natasha. “He had nothing to do with Cory Miner. Cory is a sleezoid. Anyway, I wanted my imaginary friend to protect me, like yours did. Never worked, though. I got frightened anyway. I guess
I wasn’t as creative as you.”

  “Frightened? What frightened you?” Kerra wondered. “The usual. Dark closets. Bumps in the night.”

  “The Whistlers,” added Sherilyn.

  Kerra was taken aback. “Whistlers?”

  Natasha scolded her sister. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherilyn. You never heard a Whistler in your life.”

  “I have so.”

  “She’s lying,” said Natasha. “Nobody has heard them in practically forever.”

  Something jarred loose in Kerra’s mind. “I remember now. The Whistlers!” She got up and wandered over to the bedroom window, overlooking the woods. “Oh, it’s been so long. You really don’t hear them anymore?”

  “Nah,” said Natasha. “Not since I was really small. Mom doesn’t like us to talk about such things. She says it scares the little kids. Anyway, she used to say it was just the wind blowing through the hollow in just the right way, like holes in a flute.”

  “Why did it stop?” asked Kerra.

  Natasha shrugged. “No one knows.”

  “Did you ever hear any Whistlers?” asked Sherilyn.

  “Yes,” said Kerra thoughtfully. “I-I think so.”

  The memory was vague, but Kerra did seem to recall ... something. Curiously, she didn’t remember it being associated with wind.

  “What did it sound like?”

  “I thought you said you’d heard it!” Natasha challenged. “I did,” said Sherilyn. “I just wanted to see if she heard the same thing.”

  Kerra tried to remember. “It was like . . .” Natasha and Sherilyn waited. Kerra gave up and shook her head. “I don’t know.”