A Pound of Cure

A Pound of Cure

Elizabeth Willis Barrett.................February 6, 2011

One might wonder how we ever got to the point of having a son living on the canal bank in an Oleander bush. I wonder, too. It wasn’t the first remedy tried, that’s for certain. Just for my own well being, I will tell you the things that we as a family tried to do for Jeffrey to help “cure” his addiction or at least detract from it. Some of these are hospital stays resulting from drug use.

The first serious drug incident came in the fall of 2001 when Jeffrey blacked out during an out of town football game and had to be taken to the Tucson Heart Hospital. We found out much later that that episode was caused by Jeffrey taking several ephedrines supplied by an upper class man. The pills were supposed to help Jeffrey play football better. He was an excellent player already and all that dosage did was take him out of the game and put us deep into our first drug related expense.

After that came Dr. Knighton, Counselor Johnson, Counselor Goldberg and an unnamed psychiatrist who said that Jeffrey was just fine. Jeffrey had a great ability to say just what he needed to say to stay in the drug scene.

When the time to go on an LDS mission came and went leaving Jeffrey in a state of unworthiness, we sent him to the Joseph Smith Academy in Nauvoo, Illinois, for a semester. Then to BYU-I for a semester and to UVSC in Provo, Utah for a semester. Drugs kept getting in the way of prolonging those stays so it was a waste of education opportunity. “Friends” sent him marijuana while he was in Nauvoo. The same friends drove all day and night to Rexburg, Idaho, to take him some weed and he ran into “friends” in Provo. If he couldn’t find drugs where he was, he could always count on his “friends.”

He attended the Banner Health Outpatient program and I watched him put stars on the white board to say how many days he had been sober. Everyone cheered. But he had lied. He hadn’t been sober any of those days.

We put Jeffrey in Chandler Valley Hope for a few thousand dollars and many real friends came to visit and support him. But he wouldn’t stay.

We even went to the time and expense of getting him orthodics for his flat feet because he said his back always hurt, thus the need for pain pills. He never wore them.

We were delighted when Jeffrey finally agreed to go to a drug treatment facility called Renaissance Ranch in Utah in October of 2005. What was a $15,000 sacrifice if Jeffrey could finally be cured? They kicked him out after a month, saying that he wasn’t buying into their program. Right after leaving Utah, he was again with his “friends” doing drugs and called an ambulance himself to pick him up because he thought he was dying. We wanted to leave him stranded at the hospital but our co-dependency kicked in.

We had heard that a Naltrexone tablet inserted into his arm would keep him away from heroin. We tried that for about $1500. Right when the tablet’s potency wore off, he got high on heroin and smashed his dad’s prized VW bug into the back of a parked trailer. That took an ambulance, a helicopter and a lengthy hospital stay to save his life. We were so glad to have him still with us that the $100,000 tab was insignificant. We could only pay a portion of that bill since, as my mom enjoyed saying, “You can’t get blood out of a turnip!” Incidentally, Brad misses his VW.

In August of 2006 we thought we had found the perfect place for Jeffrey: Narconon in Newport Beach. It’s fee was a mere $25,000 for four months with a chance to return if he relapsed after graduation. It was a great place. He got to go surfing every day in between his classes on how to get along without drugs. And in November, he graduated--a new person ready for life. That lasted until April when he couldn’t stay away from old “friends” and had to return, this time to the Narconon facility in Caliente, Nevada. He didn’t like Caliente nearly as well as Newport with its beautiful waves and refused to stay.

We firmed up our resolve a little and said he couldn’t live with us, but his sister welcomed him in Pleasant Grove, Utah, where he stayed for a few months. His ordering of pain pills over the internet ended that gracious hospitality.

By a series of miraculous coincidences, we heard of a village in Africa where some addicts had gone and were healed. We were right on it and off Jeffrey went to Africa in November of 2007. He went to a Pentecostal Church and was prayed over and urged to read the Bible and made friends with the natives. It was an experience of a lifetime and it worked. We went to Africa to pick him up in March and once again he was his old, wonderful, pre-drug self. We stopped in New York on the way back and enjoyed his gregarious and charming personality more than ever.

But after about four more months of sobriety, he was back to his “friends” and back to the drugs. He stayed with another sister in Show Low where we paid for a hypnotherapist. We also paid for another counselor who did eye patterning and character analysis. She made him feel better about himself but wasn’t able to stop the drug use.

We took him away for weeks at a time in the mountains, had him go to the AARP program in the LDS Church, got him on a very unfortunate Suboxone regiment (which later turned into a worse regiment of Methadone), took him to a few more counselors and finally got him arrested for possession of heroin. Then we paid for a lawyer to keep him out of jail and get him into the TASC program which requires periodic UA tests (urine analysis). When a client successfully completes the TASC program, he no longer has a felony on his record. It is a great way to keep someone clean. But half way into the TASC program Jeffrey was kicked out because of dirty tests. We paid a lawyer again to get him back into TASC. By the grace of Heaven and the opposing lawyer who, after we begged for an hour, graciously relented and allowed him back into TASC, he was again on track for getting rid of the felony. This second TASC try was after an unsuccessful stay at The Salvation Army, a short stint at Crossroads Half Way House, a few detoxes at Aurora and at Community Bridges and a $10,000 rejuvenating treatment at River Source.

I’d like to think that all of this “cure” worked together to bring Jeffrey to a point where he could seriously deal with overcoming his addiction. It at least reminds me that we tried to help and give him every chance possible. But maybe the end result would have been the same if we had done absolutely nothing. Who knows? One thing I am sure of, however, is that prevention is much more effective than cure.

Could we have helped prevent Jeffrey’s drug addiction? I will try to figure that out in my next essay: An Ounce of Prevention.

Expect a Miracle

Expect a Miracle

Elizabeth Willis Barrett.....................February 5, 2012

I was ready to post a new essay on my blog and call it “A Pound of Cure.” In it I planned to enumerate all the cures we have tried in order to bring our son Jeffrey back to his old pre-drug wonderful self. After trying everything we could think of and what the “experts” could think of, we simply ran out of options. Living with a drug addict makes everyone a bit crazy and we have been mired in this insanity for over 10 years. As his wit’s end parents, we didn’t know what else to do but ban him from our home. Thus, his stay on the canal in an oleander bush.

I still want to write that essay, but not just yet. In this essay I want to report a miracle. On January 8th, early in the morning, we received a phone call from a sad and frightened son. Jeffrey said, "Mom and Dad, come get me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I’m not sure why this time is immensely different from any other time when he has promised to work on his sobriety. But something has drastically changed in Jeffrey’s actions and in his demeanor. Maybe it was the one more prayer that someone sent to Heaven in his behalf. Maybe it was that one prayer that gathered all the previous prayers into an astounding critical mass. I know that Heaven listened and mighty changes are occurring. If it was your prayer that made the difference, I thank you profusely.

There are others that I must thank, too, who have gently nudged or shoved Jeffrey onto Recovery Road and walked along with him for a while. Our family friend and doctor has freely given Jeffrey hours of his time to counsel him and adjust his prescriptions. We could never repay him for the vital role he is playing in Jeffrey’s progression.

Our Home Teacher has held onto those medicines and followed Jeffrey around to dispense them properly. He, too, is very busy but has taken much of his time to help heal a soul.

There are other dear ones who have called and visited Jeffrey. They made sure he had food and something to sleep on and under, always offering their help and encouragement and reminding him of his true nature. Coaches, teachers, Priesthood leaders, family and friends.

I’m not inexperienced enough to think that this is the absolute end of Jeffrey’s drug addiction. I know he will have to be on the offense for the rest of his life just like when he was a football star running the ball toward the goal line. Instead of the ball, he’ll be running his life past many obstacles until he makes the final touchdown where there will be much rejoicing.

But I will celebrate this victory, this yardage gained and I thank you all for your interest, your prayers and your love. How could I as a mother ever repay you for what you have helped accomplish? “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.” A miracle!

First Oleander on the Right

First Oleander on the Right
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
December 9, 2011

I drive up Bunker and just past Lionel I make a left turn onto the canal bank where I shouldn’t turn at all. I don’t think cars are very welcomed on the canal roads. But this is where he lives and I have come for another visit. I pull up to the first oleander and get out with my feet feeling like they are trudging through deep, dark mud and with my heart slogging along above them.

“Jeffrey?” I call.

“Hey, Mom,” comes his voice from the middle of the bush.

At least he’s alive--a good sign, I think. I walk up to the large overhanging oleander, and part the branches. There he is like he was the night before, wrapped in his sleeping bag and several blankets and looking very comfortable. I almost want to join him. Almost.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Good. Except for my hip. I think it’s broken.”

The first story is that he had jumped over a wall and landed on his hip. The next story is that he had hitchhiked and as he was getting out of the Good Samaritan’s truck, he caught the heel of his boot and fell hard on his backside. Truth has lost its way in his muddled head and doesn’t know how to get to his mouth anymore. Honesty used to be a valiant companion of this beautiful son. But she was so neglected that she left long ago. We have missed her.

Jeffrey is already dealing with a broken elbow that he acquired when his scooter failed to turn a corner. Scooters don’t miss garbage cans on their own. They need a sober driver and this one didn’t have one. Lack of sobriety was most likely the cause of Jeffrey’s hurt hip as well.

I never planned on any of my children becoming homeless. Homelessness is for people with no families, no opportunities and no one left to care about them. We have lots of room in a very nice home and plenty of food and love to share. We could easily keep Jeffrey for another 27 years. But the fact is, our keeping him was doing him harm, not good. We had enabled him too long or rather dis-abled him.

His father and I finally reached a decisive intersection where we stood together as adoring yet formidable parents. Although we had been at this juncture a hundred times before, this time we irrevocably meant it when we took a turn to the right and declared, “YOU CAN NOT LIVE WITH US ANYMORE!”

I used to wonder how people ended up being homeless. When I’ve encountered panhandlers on the edge of the freeway, I’ve questioned why they didn’t go get a job and pay for shelter. I’ve seen many “help wanted” signs. Surely those on the street have seen them, too, and could “inquire within.” But I understand now. They have “inquired within”--within themselves-- and the answer was, “Drugs. I need drugs.” Jobs cannot be sustained by those who need drugs. And standing on a corner with an outstretched hand can bring in as much as $25 an hour. That beats the wages for dunking French fries into oil at McDonalds. Since they don’t have any ambitions nipping at their heels, why not stand on a corner and beg?

On one occasion, a very kind and well-meaning gentleman gave Jeffrey $100 when he heard that he was homeless. That $100 nearly bought Jeffrey a permanent shelter measuring eighty-four inches long, twenty-eight inches wide, twenty-three inches tall and six feet under, since the entire amount was used to buy drugs.

When I had to take Jeffrey to TASC one day to get a court ordered pee test--more formally called a UA for Urine Analysis--to check for drugs in his system, we joined some rather questionable characters congregating for the same purpose.

“Do you want to be like these people?” I nearly shouted at him. I mean, who would? They all looked frightening and frightened, aimless and aimed at.

“No, Mom,” he said. “I wouldn’t be like these people. When I do drugs, I always know I have a home and a bed to come back to.”

I have to remember these words when I falter and want to gather him up and bring him home. In his case, home has kept him from growth and made using drugs way too easy.

So, I have allowed him to be a homeless beggar, choking back my motherly compulsions and desire to keep his natural consequences at bay. I don’t want him to be cold. I don’t want him to be hungry. I don’t want him to be alone.

As I leave him in his makeshift camp in the bush, I have become a beggar myself. I am begging that a change of heart will come, that truth will conquer, that the need for drugs will diminish. I am begging that another of the many people who love him will be able to influence him in a positive direction since his family no longer can. And I am begging that Jeffrey will finally be able to sustain a home much stronger and more stable than the first oleander on the right.

Another Rat--Another Race

Another Rat--Another Race
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
September 23, 2011

Janice slammed her palm to stop the screaming of her alarm clock that told her with insolence that it was time to begin again. Five o’clock had arrived. Janice clenched her teeth in an attitude of determination and sat straight up, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. Another day. Another chance. Another try at the race. She was ready. Her best running shoes were waiting for her and since she had slept with her socks on and had worn her running shorts and shirt for pajamas, she hoped for a head start this time.

A quick bathroom stop, a drink from the bathroom sink, a cursory brush stroke through her hair, a gargle of mouthwash, a breakfast bar in hand and out the door she ran, not stopping to pet the dog or take the garbage to the road even though it was Thursday.

She was off, past those who had stopped to water their plants or to kiss their children good-by. She was out and ahead. “Yea, yea, yea,” she thought as she made her way to the busy thoroughfare. She was going to win today. She was committed.

The road was dusty. A few were ahead of her but she picked up speed. She knew she could stay in the lead. This was her day.

But as she looked over her shoulder, she was daunted to see Evelyn edging past her. “No, not Evelyn.” Evelyn the decorator. Evelyn--owner of the showpiece home. You could walk into any room in Evelyn’s house at any time of day and it would look like a model at Morrison Ranch. Janice thought of the stacks of papers that had gathered unbidden in each of the rooms of her own house. She thought of the unmade beds and the worn sectional in the Family Room and slowed to a jog. Discouragement had a way of slacking her speed. Evelyn was kicking up some dust that blew into Janice’s face so Janice shouted orders to her legs and she tried a little harder. She was still ahead of most of the runners.

Then over her other shoulder Janice could see another woman creeping past her--her stride impossible for Janice to match. It was Karen. Karen the cook. Janice had been the recipient of some of Karen’s cooking and Janice was certainly no match for her. Janice’s meals consisted of Panda Express and Taco Bell. More dust. Janice tried to keep up but her legs were cramping just a little. “Keep going,” she told herself. “You can do it. You’ll make it. This is your day.” But doubt was inching into her confidence like a growing mold.

Dust was rolling around Janice’s feet. “Take that,” she mused, aiming her vengeance at the people racing behind her. She kicked the dust a little higher on purpose.

Then on came three more. They weren’t sidling past her, they were bounding. Where did they come from? Where did they get their energy? There was Dionne, who could pick up a guitar and accompany anything from “Give Said the Little Stream” to “Perhaps Love.” And Nancy with her not-to-be missed catered parties. And Karley with her ability to walk into Dillards and come out looking like a fashion model. The dust was thick and Janice was re-thinking her ability to win at this race in any category. But she trotted on. Running was beyond her for a moment.

She took courage again from somewhere. From where does one take courage? A shelf? From another’s store of it? A bag that just happens to be sitting around with the label COURAGE on it? Well, from somewhere, Janice took courage and put a burst of speed into her faltering steps.

“Yes,” she said to herself. “I can gain speed from my outstanding ability to express appreciation. “Yep, I’m really good at that,” she said with conviction and she pulled out ahead of some of the other runners. But to her dismay, here came Phyllis--the queen of appreciation. She made beautiful thank you cards and always sent them out, even if it was just to thank someone for picking her kids up from soccer. Janice thought about sending thank you cards but they never made it from her mind to the mail box. Again Janice was left in the dust which was billowing in flourishes all around her.

“Aaaaaa,” she protested as the dust gagged her and the runners passed her. There went Jill with her computer expertise. She could upload pictures on Facebook, put her blog into ecstasy with backgrounds and extras that anyone would envy. And coming up on her left was Hannah who could out serve the best on the court and in life with her help with the homeless and bereaved.

Passing her on the right was Amy with her perfect straight and whitened teeth and who had botoxed her wrinkles into another decade. Finally, when Alicia passed her, Janice had to stop and wonder. “Alicia? Really?” Alicia had lost 30 pounds and was entering her 4th Triathlon. There was no hope.

Janice just stood there wondering how to take her next step. Family Home Evening? Yes, she was good at that. She started running again trying to just stay ahead of the stragglers. But it was no good. Here came Beth who never failed at holding an award winning Family Home Evening with her 6 kids and 20 grand kids every week. She used laminated visuals and made mouth watering refreshments. Why try? Janice stopped again. She put her head down and her hands on her thighs in an attempt to catch her breath and think. Think. What could she do? She could write. Yes, yes, yes. But just as she started to run ahead with that consideration, here came Paula. Paula had written 3 books already and had even got someone to publish one of them. Janice blew out her breath like a discouraged horse.

What? Ahh, speaking. Yes, she was OK in the speaking department. This rumination propelled her ahead for several meters until Brenda, the President of the Arizona Chapter of the National Speakers Association raced past her in a long strided sprint. Too much.

Janice thought of her grand-parenting achievements. Nope, they couldn’t get her too far. She was passed long ago by Margaret who took a Disney Cruise with her grandkids every year. Spanish? Nope. There went Karma who had taken three months out of her life to go to Peru to become fluent in Spanish.

Sewing, knitting, crocheting? She was passed early this morning in those areas. What then? Janice was a friend. A good friend. But not nearly as good a friend as Marley who went to lunch every other day to keep her friendships in order.

She was kind of good at scripture reading, but Polly had bolted ahead of her with her finishing of the Old Testament. That wasn’t even on Janice’s to-do list.

Real Estate? No. Celeste had that one covered. Good neighbor? Again Janice snorted out the dusty air that had filled her lungs.

Genealogy? Janice raced for two whole steps when she remembered that all her genealogy consisted of was a disordered pile of papers oozing from a cardboard file box.

The dust was getting thicker as runner after runner sped by her. Janice looked on in an immobile daze. Another day. Another loss.

Why not rest right here? Yes, right here. She lay down in the soft layer of dust powder left in the wake of the day’s runners. It cushioned her body like a cloud as new layers covered her with the advancement of sprinting feet. Ah, peace. Janice lay with her eyes closed and her heart subsiding, waiting for tomorrow.

The Ears Have It

The Ears Have It
Elizabeth Willis Barrett
November 9, 2011

Listening to books has revolutionized my learning. Even though I used to enjoy reading the old fashioned way--sitting in a comfortable Lazy Boy devouring a bestseller while munching on carrots--I found that I was constantly interrupted. Those interruptions were so annoying. I would much rather read than take care of anything else, so it became easier to not pick up a good book in the first place.

My first encounter with book listening came when Brad and I were driving handicap buses from Murray, Kentucky, to Gilbert Arizona. Brad drove one bus and I drove another. I couldn’t have handled a long bus and wasn’t licensed for one of those, but a short bus was manageable. It was before the era of cell phones, so we used walkie talkies to communicate with each other. It was a glorious experience made even better because we listened to books on tape while we drove across the country. We could rent them from one Flying J gas station and then return them at the next.

The first book I ever listened to was John Grisham’s A Time to Kill. It wasn’t very cheerful but it was intriguing and kept me alert on the long drive. The reader was excellent as he gave each of the characters a different voice. Finally I could get through a book without interruptions except for the occasional crackling voice of Brad checking on me from the other bus.

I was definitely hooked. I came home ready to listen to some more books and went to the Mesa Library to see what they had. This was in the 1980’s and I was told by the stuffy librarians that “listening books” were only for the blind. Hmmmmmm. Soon--and I’d like to think that my prodding helped--the library started putting out a few books on tape for the general public. I listened to a lot of Sherlock Holmes since that was about all they had that sounded interesting. I got a good dose of him and Dr. Watson.

Then slowly the listening library got bigger and bigger. Nearly any book I want to read can now be found in listening form, performed by outstanding readers.

I like to listen to books because when you sit and read, that is all you can do. I suppose you could travel or eat at the same time or if a baby were sleeping, you could babysit at the same time or if you were waiting in a doctors office, you could read and wait at the same time. But when you listen to a book, you can also walk, ride a bike, stretch, lift weights, clean bathrooms, sweep, scrub, do dishes, water plants, drive--a multitudinous list of things.

Listening to books has opened up a wide world for me. I have learned to change my thinking from Wayne Dyer, stave off dementia from Dr. Amen, quit worrying from Norman Vincent Peale and focus my energy from Jim Loehr and Tony Schwartz.

Listening to books has increased my awareness and allowed me to discuss great books with others--especially Brad, who didn’t develop a listening ear like I did, but is an avid reader on his Ipad and Kindle. We enjoy delving into the writings of John Steinbeck, Charles Dickens, F. Scott Fitzgerald and other master writers. Brad even read Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre that I had already listened to so we could watch the movie together with more insight.

I would never take time to read wonderful classics in a conventional way because life has too many projects and appointments lined up for me. But listening allows me to do both.

For instance, I could never read a book while suffering in a dentist’s chair, but I can listen to Agatha Christie who is the perfect author to get me through a crown fitting (only if I have laughing gas and a whopping deadening shot, too). I put on my earphones and tell the dentist and his assistants that I am entering a sphere of my own and please don’t try to bring me out of it by talking to me. Since I need laughing gas just to get my teeth cleaned, this added incentive of sinking my mind into a Christie mystery helps pull my mind away from my extreme discomfort.

I know that I have perturbed many in my family because I have earbuds in my ears most of the day, but when someone wants to talk to me, out they come and I’m ready to communicate.

Brad especially dislikes it when I am in my book listening world. I have to remind him that for 40 years I have been subjected to his incessant sports games on the radio and TV and at least when I am listening to a book, I am not inflicting him with the distraction since it is going on in my ears alone.

Coordinating book listening and phone answering used to create a dilemma. I would have my cell phone connected to earphones in one pocket and my Ipod connected to earphones in another pocket. If my phone rang while I was listening to a book, I would have to whip off the Ipod earphones, then whip on the cell phone earphones before I could answer it. (I know that most people don’t bother with earphones on their phones, but I think they are a must because it keeps your hands free to fold clothes or chop onions.) I felt like a quick draw artist.

But technology has come to my aid and the problem has been solved. Now I can download a book onto my Iphone, put in my earphones and listen to a book. When my phone rings, I can push a button on my headset which causes the reading to stop and the phone to be answered. As soon as the call has ended, my book starts up again. Ahhh--progress!

I can’t say that I remember everything I listen to. Sometimes I can’t remember that I’ve already listened to a book until I’m halfway through it the second time. But I have been able to listen to hundreds of books that I never would have taken the time to sit down and read. I have ingested the main ideas, grown to admire the magnificent ability the writers have of expression, been educated in numerous topics and I could probably now answer a lot more questions in the game of Trivial Pursuit.

And when I’m not listening, I have lots more to talk about--if anyone else has the time to listen.

Elizabeth Willis Barrett

Betsy felt her façade go cold as though it were made of a very thin sheet of ice. The crack that had started creeping on the first of October finally reached her heart and the real Betsy emerged in a shriek: “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop! Stop! Stop! I can’t go on.” It was as though she and Monique had planned a little surprise for the ladies with their own playlet from the story. But Monique looked as startled as the rest and the stage belonged entirely to Betsy.

Betsy stood up with resolution in her bearing and a wildness in her eyes. “Follow me,” she croaked.

So the women of the 7th Ward Relief Society Book Club quickly put down their books, their purses, and their little plates—with a crème puff or two rolling to the carpet—and followed obediently. They were silent, but their looks said many things: “I think she’s a little bit crazy.” “Maybe she’s on crack.” “Whatever this is I am not going to miss it.”

They all followed Betsy down the hall and to the closed door of the guest room. Betsy put a shaky hand on the door knob and closed her eyes in an attempt to support her resolve. Had she belonged to another religion, she would have genuflected. As it was, she offered a silent prayer. “I prayed. I wearied heaven with my prayer….” But short of having the pile completely gone and the day’s events turning out to be a bad dream, she didn’t know quite what to pray for. She opened the door slowly as the women gathered behind her and rose on their tiptoes in an effort to glimpse whatever was in the room.

The catastrophic pile made each of them wince, and they took in their breath as one. Except Sister Lila Freeman who didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She had a heap rather like it in most of the rooms in her own house.

But the rest stood in quiet contemplation, each trying to process the scene in her own way. For instance, Sister Jepson focused on the makeshift marijuana pipe that was sliding down one side of the mound and realized that hers wasn’t the only family that had been infiltrated by drugs. Sister Anthony focused on the “What to Do if You Suspect your Child of An Eating Disorder” book sticking out from the bottom of the pile and thought that finally she and Betsy had something in common. Sister Adrian Peters’ eyes were drawn to the crumpled pink slip sent from the Town of Gilbert announcing that the Woodward’s water would be turned off if the bill wasn’t paid. Adrian recognized that slip because she had received several herself. Sister Salter felt the frustration and desperation that the room represented in its present state and realized that maybe Betsy Woodward didn’t have everything after all. And for some reason, Sister Jacobs wrapped her arms lovingly around Betsy and huskily whispered a tear-filled, “I love you!”

Betsy gave a wan, distorted smile. There was nothing she could say. One by one the Book Club women dispersed, some touching Betsy’s shoulder in a gesture of understanding, until Betsy was quite alone. It was over. The worst had happened. Betsy put her back against the door and let her feet slide out from under her until her bottom hit the floor with a bounce.

The next day—Saturday—Sister Harris called to invite all the Woodwards over for a barbecue that night and Sister Jacobs called to invite them all for Family Home Evening on Monday. On Sunday the Woodwards were too late to claim their regular pew which was just fine with the kids and just fine with the Johnsons who were sitting there smugly. But as if to make up for losing their spot, there were many genuinely friendly smiles and in Primary several women stole moments away from sharing time and song practice to ask Betsy about where she used to live and how she felt about the election coming up and what books she would like the Book Club to choose for the following year. And Monique grabbed Betsy after the block to tell her that a group of friends was meeting at Applebee’s for lunch on Thursday—could Monique pick her up?

After lots of pleasant conversation with those that seemed to ignore her in the past--except for Sister Poltice, who seemed to hang onto her envy like a dripping ice cream cone-- Betsy drove home, humming a cheerful ditty this time with genuine feeling. As the un-veneered, far from perfect Betsy walked into her far from perfect home with her far from perfect children, she almost tenderly picked up The Selected Writings of Edgar Allan Poe from where she’d left it on the entry table.

Opening it at random, her eyes fell upon the words, “it was hope—the hope that triumphs on the rack—that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition…”
She smiled and carried the book to the badly misused guest room and set it respectfully on top of the disorderly pile. Her life wasn’t perfect, but thanks to her exPOEsure, at the moment she was nearly perfectly content.

Part Five: exPOEse'

Elizabeth Willis Barrett

The doorbell rang again and “I went to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear?” In came a group of rather young moms from the ward, headed by gum-chewing, phone-texting Lisa Wilde—her blond, streaked hair pulled into a skimpy straight out ponytail with more hair hanging out than in it. Why did young women wear their hair like that? It made Betsy think of Olive Oyl from “Popeye.” There was nothing attractive about it. But in spite of
hair-dos, this was a very confident group. Youth always seemed confident around those that had a little age on them.

Betsy had all the ladies go to the kitchen to fill their plates before the actual Poe discussion started. She heard lots of nice comments like “What a gorgeous home,” “Betsy is so good at decorating,” “I wish I dared ask her to help me do something with our guest room.” At that last comment, Betsy almost choked on the carrot she was munching for nerve control. “She’d love to see what I could do with a guest room!” was Betsy’s cryptic thought.

She also heard some muffled remarks like, “Betsy doesn’t look quite as great as usual, do you think?” and “If I’d known this was all Betsy was going to serve us, I would have eaten dinner at home.” and “I was expecting a lot better food than this.” These last two observations were whispered quietly but Betsy heard them. “And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over–acuteness of the senses?” They were said by the second and third largest women in the group—Sister Pines and Sister Hasbrow who seemed to go together like peanut butter and jelly. You seldom saw one without the other and vice-versa.

Betsy felt like shouting, “The way my month has gone so far, you’re lucky I didn’t just serve you water and crackers!” Which reminded her that she had totally forgotten to provide something to drink. She wondered if anyone would be offended if she suggested that those who were thirsty could stick their heads under the faucet. Probably.

Finally, the Book Clubbers were settled back in the living room and Sister Harris stood up to give some background on Edgar Allan Poe: “Born to an unfortunate heritage, orphaned , unsympathetically raised…………”

“Ta dum, Ta dum.” Betsy looked around to see if anyone else had heard that superfluous sound. Nope. Just she, it seemed. She tried to sit calmly with her hands held in her lap as Sister Harris finished up and Sister Barnes started a discussion on “the Pit and the Pendulum.” But Betsy couldn’t concentrate on any of the words because “meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased.”

“Ta dum. Ta dum.” It was definitely coming from the direction of the guest room. “It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant.” “But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed.”

By the time Sister Barnes sat down and Monique Jarvis started her part of the Poe discussion which happened to be “The Tell-Tale Heart,” Betsy had a very difficult time sitting still. She sat on her hands in an effort to keep them from rising in a grotesque choke-hold on her own very fragile neck.

“Ta dum. Ta dum.” What a noise! “And now a new anxiety seized me…the sound would be heard by a neighbor!”

As Monique went on and on about the old man and his blue glazed eye and the mad man watching him and ultimately killing him and hiding his body under the floor, Betsy could hear her own “ta dum, ta dum” growing louder and louder.

Then Monique invited more discussion of the whole story and of the policemen who came to the madman’s house. “But the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder---louder! And still the (women) chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? NO, no? They heard! They suspected! They KNEW!...They were making a mockery of my horror. I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again hark! Louder, louder! Louder! LOUDER!”