I nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”
“And the bishop, like I said, was a very kind person, and he tried to bring me back, but I started to think I just wasn’t going to get there. And then one day I was sitting in a Starbucks in Provo, and these two missionaries came up to me, and I invited them to sit down. And they got out their pamphlets and the pamphlets had the Tom Lovell painting of Moroni Burying the Plates on the second page. Moroni’s on the Hill Cumorah, but it’s hundreds and hundreds of years ago, so the hill is covered with trees, and it’s winter and he’s dug this hole in the ground and he’s praying before he buries the plates, because he knows he’s about to die and he’s the last descendant, and this is the record of his people and how Jesus appeared to the Nephites, but it’s all going to be okay because someday God will send the right person to dig right here and that person will find the plates and translate them, and the Aaronic Priesthood will be restored and everything else.”
I made myself not say any of what I was thinking.
“And these two missionaries are getting to the point where they’re telling me I know this testimony is true, and You can know it too if you ask God sincerely, and I’d been hearing those exact phrases and looking at that exact same painting for four years by then, and I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it had never been true. And these poor guys are just staring at me because I’ve started to cry and laugh at the same time, right there in the middle of Starbucks with everyone looking at us, and I’m just crying and laughing and saying, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. And they actually ended up calling an ambulance for me because they were so worried about me, and I got myself hospitalized for a couple of days, which was not something I would have asked for but frankly it was the right thing to happen, because I was a complete mess and very much not capable of handling what was happening to me. And after a few days, when I went back to my apartment, I realized there wasn’t a single thing from there that I wanted. So I went to the airport and I came home.”
He stopped. He looked past me, up toward the top of the street, where someone else was now heading in our direction. Someone without a dog.
“And that’s it. That’s all she wrote.”
“Oh my God. Lewyn. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” He sounded surprised. “I had to find out what I believed. People need to. I learned that I cared more about art than anything else. And I met some truly good people. And I got my degree, only a couple of years behind schedule. I have no complaints.”
“I’m so glad you came home,” I told Lewyn. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
“My pleasure.”
The someone on the street was closer. I could hear the footsteps, and I turned to see. He was young, Black, carrying a Fairway bag. He was whistling. He was also, I realized, familiar.
“You know him?” Lewyn asked me. I had already gotten to my feet. I was already waving.
But he didn’t see me, not yet. He wore a blue parka over a blue shirt. The shirt had a ceremonial crest: yellow acorns on a shield of red and white. When he got closer I could read what it said underneath: Silliman College.
“Hi! Ephraim!”
Then he stopped. He pulled at one of his earbuds, then the other. He held out his arms. “Phoebe. Wow.” He scooped me up, somehow without letting go of his groceries.
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” He pointed to a house down the street from the warehouse, on the corner. “I live there.”
“That’s incredible! We own this building. I mean, warehouse. Neighbors!”
The young man, Ephraim, said: “Ah.”
“This is my brother Lewyn.”
“Hello,” said Lewyn, holding out his hand. They shook.