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I know it means my gut was right from last night, that he really is a nice person, but I can’t say I like it.
I try to evade his carefully casual questions. I’m sure he notices, but he’s not pressing. Neither is Pastor McDowell. He’s gazing down at his baby, and I start re-thinking my perceptions of a woman’s mothering instinct. These two seem like they’re doing okay.
I wonder if I could, too. The thought is out of my head before I can shove it back in. I drum my fingers on the table. Then I notice the baby’s sorta stopped drinking. She looks more sprawled out on the pastor’s arm, like she’s falling asleep. That’s funny. Luke hands her off to Vance, who snuggles her against his chest, looking smitten as he peers down at her.
Luke sits down across from me. There’s more shooting the shit. I tell them that my name is Miller, and I start to get the clawing feeling again. Like something’s ripping at the inside of my chest behind my pecs.
Finally, when I get the chance, when I feel brave—just for a second—I say what I came here to say. “I want to ask you something.”
Luke McDowell looks surprised and actually says, “Me?”
I almost ask him if he’s sure he’s a real pastor. Lots of them seem perfectly happy to become the sole authority on everything. The more I’m in the room with him, the more I think this guy is a blond Nordstrom model with a classically attractive face and hipster glasses.
I don’t know if I can talk about this at all…but if I do, I can’t handle Vance Rayne’s nice eyes on me. And anyway, the question I have is more for a pastor.
My heart pounds as I say, “Can I ask the question in private?”
Twelve
Ezra
We end up in their living room—the really nice one that looks kind of like a palace, even in comparison to my mom’s pretty nice crib.
Pastor McDowell sits in an armchair, so I sit on the love seat. As soon as my ass meets the couch’s cushion, my heart starts fucking racing. I think of getting up and bolting out the front door. I know I won’t do that—there’s no fight or flight for me today—so my head starts to go hazy. It’s dissociation. Learned about it during my first go ’round at Sheppard Pratt. This shit is pretty damn annoying.
I fight through it, even though I feel like I might get sick. My whole upper body starts to shake a little, so I have to swallow a few times and lock my jaw at other times to keep my voice steady. Not that I’m talking yet.
Pastor McDowell says, “You have the floor, kid,” and I look down at the real floor. It’s kind of impressive how my head gets so spacy. I feel like I’m high as I look up at him.
“I was wondering,” I manage to say clearly, “about conversion therapy.”
My voice goes raspy on those words, the way I figured it would.
I know I fucked up because his face goes startled and his eyes widen behind his glasses.
I look down at my feet. My throat tightens as if Paul has got his hands around it.
“Just…you know.” I suck a breath in as my eyes well up. Then I fucking force myself to look at his face. “What do you think about it?”
In the moment that his face goes solemn and he sits up straighter, my stomach feels so topsy-turvy that I really think I’ll puke on his rug. His eyes narrow on me, and I wipe my palms on my knees. I know he can see it—I can’t hide the way I’m breathing.
His eyes get slightly wider and his mouth twists like he’s angry. And he says, “I’m unequivocally against it, of course. Not only is it damaging—it’s abuse—but it’s ineffective, and most importantly, it goes against what I see as the will of God. Who makes no mistakes. There’s an anti-conversion therapy nonprofit called Born Perfect, and that’s what I would say about it. Every one of us is born perfect. Innocent like little Eden, my daughter. If something like that happened to you, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t needed, and it definitely wasn’t Christian.”
I’m nodding as tears drop down my cheeks and his face gentles.
“It’s something a lot of people went through.” His eyes get slightly wide again, and he takes a deep breath as he looks down and then back up at me. “Listen, kid.” He blows his breath out as I wipe at my eyes. “One weekend when I was about your age, I got sent off somewhere just like that.” His face is composed when he says it, but I can tell it bothers him because he swallows right after.
