I Just Got a Letter from Allyson Pringle

by Anya Bateman

  I have to say that I lasted as long as I possibly could, constantly telling myself my knee wasn’t hurting as bad as it was. I did talk to a doctor who was president of one of the branches and followed some suggestions he gave me. I thought that with time, my knee would heal itself. But it had other ideas. Four and a half months into my mission it completely refused to cooperate. Basically, it went on strike, which meant my whole leg had no choice but to go on strike along with it. In other words, I couldn’t walk. Five months after I’d entered the mission field I was on a plane again—heading right back to the states, Michigan, and home.

  Those next few weeks after my surgery, I was one distraught elder. Even though it was wonderful to see my family, I felt like an unregistered foreigner. I wasn’t supposed to be here at my house in Kalamazoo! I was in the middle of my mission! I worried about what was going on out in the mission office and hoped that whoever was subbing for me wasn’t messing up the system I’d set up. I missed President and Sister Phillips and the other missionaries in my mission terribly and wondered what was happening with the DaSilva family and Barreto Marinetzo, people that my companion and I had been teaching in the evenings. I needed to get back! But recovery was far harder than I’d anticipated and I wasn’t exactly doing laps even a month later.

  I have to say, I did get some genuine comic relief when Arnold got his mission call. That was something to witness. Arnold raced all the way to my house and rushed in, shouting: “I’m going to Australia! I’m going to Australia! Perth! Perth, Australia!”

  He threw his outback hat into the air, caught it on his head, then pulled it off again and twirled it as he danced.

  I was as amazed as he was. “How’d you do that? You got connections or something? Man, you must live right! Hey, you even have a head start in the language!”

  “Can you believe it!? Can you believe it? Australia!” he kept shouting. At several points, he leaped even higher than I ever had.

  “Watch your knees,” I warned him.

  Arnold’s amazing news kept me going for several days, but soon he was busy getting everything together for his mission, and I was back at my job of being patient. I kept up on my scripture study and spoke Portuguese to Mom and Dad, my grandparents, my brothers and sisters, their babies, and even Lucky Duck. I continued praying in Portuguese as well.

  Then I got the bad news: I wouldn’t be going back to Brazil. The Church’s reassignment committee sent me a letter saying it had been determined that I should go to an area where I’d have easier access to medical help and to a car. Now I was as upset for myself as I’d been happy for Arnold. In fact, I decided to plunge into a slump and wallow there. Why was this happening? I wanted to go back to Brazil! I belonged in Brazil. I’d prayed like crazy to get better so I could get back there. It wasn’t fair!

  Those days following my reassignment notice to California, I lay around in my room downstairs with only Lucky Duck as company. “Don’t you need to do your exercise therapy?” Mom kept asking.

  It was a Saturday when Mom brought in the mail and handed me an envelope. She raised and lowered her eyebrows twice. “This one’s from New York.”

  I didn’t open the card immediately. I just studied the envelope carefully; it had a return address but no name. The handwriting was large, but I didn’t dare hope it was from Alysse. Then again, who else did I know in New York?

  Fearful of being disappointed, I finally opened the letter slowly, making sure I got just the envelope. Then I flipped open the card. “Hey, Archer!” I read. “You arched your arrow right into my heart!” I read on . . .”so when the guys on bicycles stopped near my apartment in Manhattan, what could I do? ‘I knew a Mormon once,’ I told them. ‘He was one Honest Abe and he helped me through a tough time. I’ve never forgotten him or the things he told me.’

  “Some people just get through to you, and you got through to me, hombre. And hey, you don’t see guys in dress clothes on bikes much. I told the missionaries that I wasn’t actually your religious type—that I wasn’t even your serious type—that I was a comedic actress. They said there was plenty of room for humor in your church. I told them I believed them because I had a pretty funny friend once. Then I told them that he and the seriously religious friend were one and the same. YOU! Anyway, I’ve got an appointment this Friday morning for what they call a lesson with some women missionaries they’re assigning to me. Don’t get excited—I’m pretty sure nothing will come of it. But I still thought you’d get a kick out of it. I mean, can you think of a bigger joke? Me taking lessons in Mormonism? As if I’d ever qualify.”

  I read the letter three times, rushed to get a piece of paper, scrambled to find a pen, then hurried instead to the computer downstairs, hoping I could locate Allyson’s old e-mails. After a good hour of trying to find her address, I finally shot off a note to her saying that her taking lessons wasn’t funny at all, but fantastic. Then I gathered pamphlets and information and sent her a fat envelope along with the same message. I was glad I sent the backup, because the e-mail didn’t go through. Alysse had apparently changed either her address or her provider, the way I had. A few days later I sent her even more information. Then I wondered if I’d overdone it because I didn’t hear from her again, even after I sent a third sorry-I-overdid-it letter.

  “If anything happens to come for me from New York, forward it straight to my area,” I instructed my mother as I got ready to head to San Diego. I was upset with myself for not sending Alysse my e-mail address in the previous letter. Why hadn’t I done that?

  It wasn’t easy to readjust for the second time to missionary life. California wasn’t Brazil and never would be. Even though I finally felt a confirmation that this was the place I needed to be, I still missed Brazil. Okay, San Diego’s weather certainly wasn’t anything to complain about, and the members were great to us and even gave us referrals. One afternoon my companion and I ran into a family from Portugal, and I had a chance to ask the golden questions in Portuguese. They wanted to know more! By concentrating on the work and praying, I adjusted. In fact, my companion, Elder Bonne, a native Parisian, and I began having some good success. In only a matter of weeks, however, I got a call from President Jackson assigning me to the office, where I was to perform the same duties President Phillips had had me doing in Brazil. It seemed I was destined to work with finances. Well, what can you do? When that’s what the Lord wants from you, that’s what you do.

  By the end of my second month in San Diego, I was reorganizing and updating and getting things set up on the computer. One afternoon President Jackson had me come into his office. “I just wanted you to know, Elder,” he said, “how nice it is to work with a self-starter who just goes ahead and gets the job done. If I’m giving you too much, will you let me know?” What could I do after he told me that? I worked even harder. In fact, in the evenings my new companion, Elder Sturgess, and I proselyted, and the time went by extremely fast. Because I was so busy, I didn’t have much time to think about anything but missionary work. But every once in a while, when I passed a high school or a park, I found myself wondering what ever happened with my old friend Allyson Pringle.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I’d been home from my mission several weeks and had been attending winter semester at Michigan State, saving up to go to school in Utah. One day, Mom called, catching me when I had run to my apartment to get some props and lunch. I had an hour or two between my Economics midterm and my presentation from Barefoot in the Park for my Basic Acting class. Yeah, even though I was going into accounting, I’d decided to take some acting classes just to add a little interest and balance to my life.

  I had the phone handy and pulled it out of my bag as soon as I heard it ring. Monica had been complaining of pains recently and I wanted to make sure she was all right. It was a little early for her twins to be born, and we were all nervous that they might come before they weighed enough. Rulon was doing an internship with Ford and they were staying with Mom and Dad for a few weeks—at
least until after the babies were born—so Mom could help. “Monica’s fine,” Mom said as soon as I answered. “The pains went away and no twins yet. I also called to let you know that you got three letters this week. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but with everything going on here, I just forgot. I can forward them to you if you want.”

  “Who wrote?” I asked.

  “It looks like you got your regular postcard from Arnold, and then there’s something from Elder Bonne in California, and then something else from an Hermana Adep, or something like that, from Ecuador. At least I think it says Adep. It’s hard to read.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure who I’d be hearing from in Ecuador, but I let Mom know I planned to come home over the weekend just to see if I could sleep for a change. My roommates enjoyed staying up until three or four each morning.

  For the next two days, in between tests, I wondered off and on who would be sending me something from the continent south of us and who this Hermana Adep could be. I’d met a girl at a big interstake dance not long after I got home who was going on a mission, but it was somewhere in Europe. I was so curious by the time I got home that as soon as I’d done some serious hugging and had swung around the little tykes who were visiting and greeted old Lucky Duck, I headed for the mail basket.

  Arnold’s card was upbeat: a picture of a kangaroo and the corny caption: “Hoppin’ you’re having a good day.” He said he felt sorry for me that I was home already from my mission, that he’d asked for an extension because he just couldn’t face leaving his “favorite place in the whole world.” He and his companion were teaching fourteen people, including someone who operated some kind of a kangaroo farm.

  The card from Elder Bonne gave me the good news that the Pirone family had finally been baptized—all six of them. Yes!

  I saved the mystery envelope for last. I couldn’t really figure out the name: something like Adepp, just like Mom had said, but with two ps. Well, if it was from Allyson, it had to be a joke. Hermana, huh? Then it occurred to me that the letters in the name could be her initials. They were capitalized, and she’d always claimed to have a lot of middle names: Delilah, Eleanor, Penelope . . . In a hurry now, I reached for the letter opener, sliced it through the envelope anxiously, then pulled out the letter.

  “Hello, Mr. Honest Abe,” it started out. “Look what you started!” I coughed out a laugh. “Sorry I never answered your letters, but I was super busy repenting. If you thought I fell off the end of the earth, you’re not the only one. In a way, I did.” I eagerly reread those first few lines, my heart pounding, my hand shaking as I reached for a chair. “Last year I sent a card announcing my baptism to an address somebody gave me for you in Brazil,” I continued reading. “But then I got it back, would you believe, six months later. I moved a couple of times after I wrote you, and I never could find your e-mail address. Well, anyway, here I am on a mission in Ecuador. Yes, you read that correctly!”

  Okay, now I was sure this was a joke. It was all a joke. But there was more. “Like I told you in my first letter,” she continued, “I met some missionaries in New York, and I ended up taking lessons. I’m sorry to say I was a little concerned about it for a while and I didn’t make the progress I should have at first. That’s why I didn’t let anyone know and I didn’t even tell you for a while. I should say I thought I told you about my baptism until the card came back. After that I didn’t write again because I was still a little afraid I wouldn’t be able to be a good member of the LDS Church and that it wouldn’t take. Okay, I’m being honest with you. You have to admit it’s not your piece-of-cake (or torta) church.

  “But then it did take. It really took—the Word of Wisdom, the whole thing. I found out I could get help if I’d just start relying on the gift I’d been given: the spirit of truth. And just like a former homeless guy in my last ward used to say, ‘God’s large and in charge.’ It’s so true. I finally let go and allowed myself to lean on the Big Guy and I just kept listening and living according to the LDS rules day after day. Pretty soon I found myself making progress. So I’m not keeping it a secret anymore. In fact, just a few months ago I had to decide between Broadway and a mission. Ha, like Broadway wanted me! Actually, I had started getting bit parts, but by that time I was a little disillusioned at the quality of the comedy. Too often I found myself reading lines that were in bad taste or raunchy. I’m not sure why people think garbage is funny. Then, get this, I turned down a final audition for Billie Dawn because, well, you should have seen what they wanted me to wear. Anyway, I put in my papers, as they say, and then I got a call to serve in Ecuador, and here I am.

  “Kendall-Wendall, I gotta tell you that I feel like this is the best ‘part’ I’ve ever played—only I’m not playing a role. And who’d have guessed I’d someday actually be using the Spanish we learned in Alvarez’s, huh? So, anyway, thank you for all you did for me but most of all for getting me interested in the gospel of Jesus Christ, mostly by just being who you are. You saved my life—literally, pardner. Have a happy day!”

  I folded the letter, then unfolded it again. I checked the stamp on the envelope, still wondering if this was bogus. This was Allyson Pringle, after all. Was she really on a mission? I read the letter again, then again. No, I decided, this wasn’t a joke. There was no way it was a joke. This was real!

  At last, after reading the letter the third time, I was slipping it back into the envelope when I noticed a P.S. on the back of the last page that I’d totally missed before. I eagerly unfolded the letter again, turned it over, and read: “Since you had a lot to do with starting me down this road, or should I say up this road, I’m hoping you’ll let me write you or e-mail you every once in a while with updates. I’d also like to get updates from you on how your life is going. Yeah, dating is definitely against the rules, but as far as I know updating is fine.” I chuckled, then pulled the letter closer because there were a few lines that had been swirled through. I wasn’t sure how honorable it was to try to read something somebody had tried to cross out, but something told me it was okay, and I studied those two lines carefully. Some words I couldn’t make out at all, but I could read enough that I could tell it said something about her having written me many letters that she’d thrown away. I lifted it up to the light and read the words scooped up as well and realized she was telling me that if I wasn’t “scooped up” before she got home, she would tell me more. Then I figured out that the last part read: more in a position to do this.

  By the time I got the rest of the P.S. figured out, I was grinning so widely that it was a miracle my mouth didn’t split in two.

  “You okay?” Monica asked. I still wasn’t used to my tall, skinny sister looking like she had a bed pillow tucked under her shirt.

  “I’m so okay, Sis,” I told her. “I’m so okay you wouldn’t believe it. I just got a letter from Allyson Pringle—Alysse, an old high school friend. It’s Hermana Pringle now. She was baptized and she’s on a mission in Ecuador!”

  ”Are you talking about that girl you went to a dance with—the real character?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “And she’s definitely a character. But there’s way more to her than that. Way more.” I could tell that Monica wanted to know everything—all the details. Sisters are like that. But I honestly didn’t know where to begin.

  “Don’t worry, I have the feeling you’ll be meeting her someday,” I heard myself say. “In fact, I have this really strong feeling you’ll be seeing quite a bit of Alysse Pringle.”

  “No joke?” said my sister, her eyebrows lifted.

  I smiled and moved my own eyebrows up and down several times in a row. “No joke!”

  About the Author

  Born in the Netherlands, Anya Bateman came to Salt Lake City as a child and discovered early how much she enjoyed language, words, and writing. She attended both Brigham Young University and the University of Utah, graduating from the latter with an English degree and a creative writing emphasis.

  Anya’s stories and ar
ticles have appeared in the Church magazines as well as national magazines such as Reader’s Digest. She is the author of several books for youth, including, most recently, The Makeover of James Orville Wickenbee. Looking back on things now, she feels grateful for her difficult and awkward teen years, as they have given her plenty of fodder for her writing.

  Anya served a mission to California for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and she has served in several auxiliary leadership positions in the Church. She and her husband, Vaun, are the parents of four children and grandparents of seven.