Adam's Story by Jack Weyland

  “Yeah, sure, that’d be great.”

  “This is for being such a help to me today.” She gave me a hug. It was just her way of showing appreciation. Unfortunately, though, it occurred just as Kierra got home. She saw us through the kitchen window, then opened the sliding door and came outside.

  “All right, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Sierra said, smiling.

  “That’s not true. You two were hugging!”

  “I was just thanking him for mowing the lawn,” Sierra said, holding my arm.

  “You shouldn’t be hugging my sister.”

  “I didn’t hug her. She hugged me.”

  “You were hugging back. And that’s not right because she’s still in high school. You’re way too old for her.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You’re still in high school?” I asked Sierra.

  “I’ll be a junior.”

  “In high school?”

  “Yes, but I’m very mature for my age.”

  “You told me you were a junior at the University of Utah.”

  “I didn’t exactly say that.” She paused. “But, I guess I did want you to think I was in college.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’d never even want to talk to me if you knew I was in high school. I’m tired of high school guys. They’re so immature.”

  “Maybe you can help them become more responsible.”

  She shook her head. “Look, I don’t want much from you. Maybe if we could just talk once in a while, that’s all.”

  “What would we talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

  Kierra shook her head. “I don’t think you should spend time with someone who goes around saying I’m a pain in the butt.”

  Sierra scowled at her. “That’s what you’re being now,” Sierra said.

  “Sorry, guys. Hey, I know, let’s shoot baskets,” Kierra suggested.

  And that’s what we did. We played H.O.R.S.E. until suppertime. To be perfectly honest, it was the most fun I’d had since leaving for my mission. Even Kierra warmed up to me.

  Later that night, right after we finished eating dinner, my mom asked me to tell her about Sister Doneau. That’s when I knew the mother of the girl who was writing to Elder Russell had talked to my mom.

  That explanation took me an hour. My mom and dad believed my version of what had happened between Doneau and me. They even said they felt sorry they hadn’t known what a difficult time I’d been having the last few months of my mission.

  By the time we were done talking, I felt like I’d given my parents enough cause for concern since coming home. I didn’t want to cause any more problems, so I decided to give in. “Oh, another thing, I’ve decided to work for you guys this summer.”

  My mom burst into a big smile and kissed me on the cheek. “That’s great, Adam! Not just because we’ll be able to work together again, but also because it’s so hard to find anyone as good and as fast as you are. Besides, I don’t think you can earn better money than what we’re going to pay you.”

  In his formal way, my dad shook my hand. Then we had family prayer and went to bed.

  But I couldn’t sleep. Having been away for two years, I felt like I was seeing my family in a new light. It was very clear to me how important my mom was to our family. Most of what I’d been able to accomplish in high school in terms of grades or music or even earlier in Scouting was because of my mom. That is, Lara.

  In the past I’d never thought much about her not being my real mother because she was the only mom I’d ever known. But now, after learning a little about my birthmother, the one everyone called Charly, I had started to wonder what might have happened if my real mom hadn’t died. How would I be different? Or, another way of asking the same question—was the tension I felt between Lara and me due to our not really being connected by blood? I mean, maybe I got my basic personality from Charly, and Lara had always tried to make me conform to her way of thinking and doing things. What if all the time I was growing up, I was trying to fit into the pattern Lara had chosen for me, but deep inside, I was a completely different person?

  What if I’m more like my real mom? I thought. It was a question that, at that point, I couldn’t really answer, but one I couldn’t help asking.

  I knew that my dad could tell me more about what my real mom was like, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking him. It might seem to him that I didn’t appreciate the only mom I’d ever known.

  Don’t get me wrong. I loved Lara. She had always cared for me and loved me. It would be hard to imagine what my life would be like without her.

  But this wasn’t about her. It was more about me, and the haunting feeling that maybe I had never been true to who I really was. It’s a bad analogy, but it was kind of like a hawk that had been raised by a family of ducks. There would come a time when he would discover that no matter how hard he tried to swim in the pond, it wasn’t who he was—he wasn’t a duck but something entirely different. That night was when I first began thinking of the only mother I’d ever known as “Lara.” Lara wasn’t my real mom. She wasn’t the woman whose genes I carried.

  My real mom’s name is Charly, I thought just before falling asleep.

  5

  Two days later, the first Wednesday in May, I began working for my parents, designing Web sites as well as providing tech support. My dad was on the road most of the time, so my mom and I were together in the office all day. Sometimes it was hard to tell when she was being my mom and when she was being my supervisor. For example, on Friday of my first week, she sat down next to me. “Adam, we need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’re just getting into this after two years, but I’ve noticed a trend I think we need to discuss.”

  Whenever Lara said, “There’s something we need to discuss,” it really meant, “I’ve thought about it, and you need to do something differently.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You do your work very fast. Much faster than even Quentin. So, that’s good.”

  “I’m sure with a little practice I can get even faster.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Well, actually, I don’t need you to get faster. In fact, I’d like you to slow down. You need to make sure you’ve done everything that needs to be done. I’ve made a checklist, and I’d like you to use it each time you work on a Web site.” She handed me the checklist.

  I looked it over. “Okay, sure, I can do that.”

  “I just think you’ll be happier if you don’t have to keep going back over what you’ve already done. Do it right the first time, even if it does take you more time.”

  It was, of course, a reasonable thing to ask. And I did do better once I began using the checklist, but it also felt like I was being hovered over.

  It had always been like that. In grade school, my mom, that is, Lara, always checked my homework before I went to school. In junior high she mapped out what merit badges I needed in Scouts to get my Eagle. She had even helped me fill out my mission papers. And now, at age twenty-one, I was still being managed by her. I acted like I didn’t resent it, but I did, and it gave me another excuse to unfairly compare Lara to my free-spirited, fun-loving real mom.

  The truth is I didn’t take much satisfaction from my job. I mean, what did I accomplish? Nothing you could touch, drive, cook on, camp in, or fish with. I envied the people we serviced—Bait Man Bob, the man in Heber who ties flies, or the woman in St. George who makes fancy quilts, or the woman in Indianapolis who bakes Greek pastries in her kitchen and ships them around the world to her customers. At least they produce something you can hold in your hand.

  At home, when I went into the kitchen for a snack, Lara asked me for a hug. “I love you, Adam. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do. I love you too, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry if I come down on you sometimes at work.”

  “It’s okay. Sometimes I need it.?
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  After work the next day I got a phone call. “Adam, is that you?” It was Eddie, my grandfather from New Jersey. “How are you doing, my boy?”

  “Doing great.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. We’ve been missing you. What have you been up to? Are you working there?”

  I told him that I was working for my dad, and I guess he picked up on my lack of enthusiasm.

  “You want to come out here and work for me? I’ve always got more work than I can handle.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Mowing lawns, weeding, fixing leaky faucets, routine maintenance. I could teach you everything you need to know.”

  “Well, that sounds good, but my folks need me. I’d better stay here.”

  “I understand. But you’11 come and visit us before school starts, though, won’t you?”

  “I will, for sure, you can count on it.”

  After I hung up, I felt bad for turning him down. Doing maintenance sounded a lot more fun than what I was doing.

  Our home is located high on the east bench of Salt Lake City. We are well enough off to live in a house precariously clinging to the steep hillside. Everyone in our ward seems to do well financially, although I’m not sure what anyone does. I imagined most of the men also spent their lives in front of a computer monitor—buying, selling, moving virtual money from one location to another.

  My mom and I rode to work together. She always drove, so I felt like I was in junior high again, being chauffeured around from place to place.

  I wanted to buy a car, but my folks suggested I wait until I’d saved up at least part of what I would need for my freshman year of college. Since that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I bought a mountain bike instead.

  Instead of eating dinner with my dad and Lara, I began riding every evening. After we got home from work, I would change and ride up into the mountains to the top of a peak overlooking the city, where I would sit on a rock and watch the sun set over the mountains west of the Great Salt Lake.

  There, all alone, with my T-shirt still sweaty and my face caked with salt from my sweat and dust from my ride, I felt at peace with myself.

  Once, I stayed too long and had to go down the trail in the dark. After that, I began taking a flashlight with me. I would usually get back from my ride just before ten, eat leftovers from the fridge, take a shower, and go right to bed.

  Lara was serving as stake Relief Society president, and she knew lots of women in our stake and their unmarried daughters, often returned missionaries or girls who had graduated from college and were now working. Over the next little while, Lara lined me up with some of those girls. She would offer to loan me her car and even wanted to give me some money to pay for the dates. I used her car but wouldn’t take her money. It seemed too much like a bribe. Besides, the dates were mostly a disaster.

  In the middle of May, Lara came into my room after I’d returned home from riding up in the hills and showed me a picture of a girl. “Isn’t she adorable?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The picture really doesn’t do her justice. Oh, her name is Jennifer. She teaches second grade. She loves kids. Her hobbies are scrapbooking and sewing, and her mother tells me she’s a very good cook.”

  “Good for her,” I said with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I could only wonder what this girl’s mother was saying about me. Something like: “He’s a returned missionary. He’s going to BYU in the fall. He works for his dad.” And then a long pause. “He’s a very nice boy.”

  I pitied both Jennifer and me that our lives had come to this.

  Lara is very persistent, and so, on Saturday, I went out with Jennifer.

  Because our mothers had set us up, there was way too much riding on this. We both knew that when we got home, our mothers would be hoping we’d say, “I’ve met the love of my life. I’m sure this is the one!”

  “You must be an excellent teacher,” I said over salad at the Italian restaurant I had chosen.

  She smiled. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I do love the kids in my class.”

  “I love kids, too,” I said. Long pause. But then I panicked. “Not that I want any of my own anytime soon.” I wiped my brow.

  After a painful lull in the conversation, I said, “You look nice tonight.”

  “Oh, thanks. You, too.”

  She was trying so hard to impress me that when she spilled her drink and some of it ran across the table and got my pants wet, she got all flustered. “I’m so sorry!”

  “No, it’s okay, really. Don’t worry about it. I spill all the time.” To ease her mind, I knocked over my water glass. “There you go. Now we’re even.”

  She started laughing. “You can probably see I’m a little nervous tonight.”

  “Tell me about it. I feel like we’re doing this for our mothers. I can imagine them on their knees right now, praying we’ll hit it off.”

  She laughed. “Are we hitting it off?”

  “Look, you’ve gone out on dates like this before, right?”

  She nodded. “Dozens of times.”

  “And nothing’s come from any of them, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So most likely nothing will come from this. So just relax, okay? We’ll eat. We’ll talk. We’ll go to a movie. We will have done our duty, then we’ll go home. Nothing to it.”

  Her lower lip began to quiver. I felt awful. “Look, going out with me isn’t exactly the chance of a lifetime. The truth is I’m not much of a catch. You can do a lot better.”

  “Really?” she asked, looking hopeful once again.

  “Absolutely. In fact, one thing you should know, I was a problem elder on my mission.” I said it as if it were something to brag about.

  She looked puzzled. “Thank you for telling me, I guess.”

  “No problem. Glad to help out.”

  She seemed to relax a bit after that. She even asked if we could have dessert. Of course I said yes. I looked over the menu and recommended cannoli, so we both ordered it.

  “So, you teach second grade, right? Let me ask you a question. When you have parent-teacher conferences, can you usually tell which parents go with which kid?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Because the kid looks like his folks, right?”

  “Yes, most of the time that’s true.”

  “Okay, but could you tell which mom went with which kid by the way the kid acts in class? I mean, like, if a mom is outgoing and friendly, would her son be like that too? Or if a mom is kind of a perfectionist, would her boy be like that?”

  “Sometimes, but not always.”

  “Could we go to your classroom?”

  “Sure. If you want to.”

  “I do. Finish up and let’s go.”

  A few minutes later I got a tour of her classroom. She spent ten minutes showing me the calendar and posters and pictures she had made to hang on her classroom wall, and she showed me her lesson plans. She talked with great enthusiasm.

  “You just light up when you talk about teaching,” I said.

  “I love it.”

  At my suggestion we sat down across from each other in the tiny desks.

  “I wasn’t a good student in grade school,” I said. “I was smart enough, but I was easily distracted. I found the people in my class more interesting than the textbooks. I guess I’m still that way.”

  I talked about my childhood, and she listened politely and even asked me some questions.

  An hour later I looked at my watch. “Oh, my gosh, we’ve missed our movie.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Me either, actually,” I said, standing up. “Let’s go. I’ve bored you enough for one night.”

  “Why did you tell me about when you were in grade school?”

  “Well, the truth is, and I know this sounds lame, but I’m trying to find out who I am.”

  On the way home, she asked, “Were you really a problem elder on your mission?”
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  I thought about it, then said, “I don’t know how to answer that. I worked hard and always tried to do my best. But I did get in hot water with my mission president.”

  “What did you do?”

  “One of the sister missionaries thought I liked her. That wasn’t true, but she called our mission president and complained, and he took her word and transferred me. After that I had a bad reputation.”

  A few minutes later we were standing on her porch. “If you told me now that you liked me, it wouldn’t get you into trouble,” she said.

  “I do like you, Jennifer, but there’s something you need to understand.”

  “What?”

  “Until I get things figured out in my mind, I’m not going to be much good to you, or to anyone.”

  She gave me a sad little smile and then quickly kissed me on the cheek. “Call me anytime you need someone to talk to.” And then she went inside.

  One thing was very clear to me as I drove home. I had no business seeing anyone until I got my life straightened out.

  When I got home, I told Lara I would not let her line me up anymore.

  “How are you going to meet other girls then?” she asked.

  “I guess that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you have to go biking every night after work?”

  “I have to. It’s the only way I can unwind.”

  I continued to withdraw into myself, and that led to another problem. On the last Thursday in May, after biking up the mountain and back, I ate, took a shower, then, instead of going to bed, I decided to get on my computer and check my e-mail.

  I sat down at the computer in my room and started to surf the Web, and, within minutes, by not being careful, I ended up at a porn site. Instead of immediately getting out, I decided to see how bad it was. It was very bad, and when I turned off my computer an hour later, I vowed never to do that again.

  But the next day, I couldn’t quit thinking about what I had seen, and late that night, after Lara and Dad were in bed, I found myself sitting in front of my computer, feeling guilty but unable to turn away.

  On Saturday night, I returned to the site again. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, and I felt guilty, and I once again promised myself I’d never go back.