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Show in my father's house/ 60 willfulness could be regarded as "high spirits," she stopped bringing me treats from work -- perhaps because I grew to expect them. "Don't whine," she'd say. "Can't you be patient?" As she came upon me where I often sat on the top step looking out over the compound, her rubber-soled nurse's shoes muffling her purposeful step in much the same way she masked her purposeful manner with a ready smile, she would brush past me. "Move, Dorothy Jeanne. You shouldn't make people walk around you." In the office, she was a model of efficiency but had the gentle touch of one gifted with healing. Some of the patients preferred her even to my father for the massages and special treatments. She was briskly warm as autumn sun, always inquiring after patients' families and soliciting reports of their health. But she could be as impatient and opinionated as my father. When someone challenged the Principle or another idea she held dear, her eyes blazed, her nostrils flared, and she began to talk with her arms -- sharp, cutting movements, as if she was trying to divide the world in two. One night, when my mother accompanied my father to a group meeting, Aunt Helga read to us from The Book of Mormon. Much preferring fairy tales, children's novels, or even Bible stories to The Book of Mormon, I wriggled and hummed on the sofa. Aunt Helga stopped reading a couple of times to tell me to keep still I began thinking about my mother, and when my brothers went up- |