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"I'm sorry."
"Thank you. It felt very different when my father died."
"I can imagine."
It feels wrong to wish that my own father were dead, but I do.
"What are you thinking?"
"I was thinking that… it's sad that I want my father to be dead. But I wouldn't want my sister to die. That would wreck me."
"I love that you're so honest. I can tell that sometimes it costs you. You don't always want to say what's on your mind, you don't always want to answer what I ask you but you do your best. Thank you. Now tell me,” he says with that piercing gaze that gives me a glimpse of the tiger in him, “Why do you wish your father were dead?"
This is a long, long story, and I don't know if I want to get into it right now. I draw in a breath and then let it out, watching the trees on the side of the highway flash by as we drive past them. It strikes me as odd that something as civilized and industrial as a paved road with metal guardrails still has signs of life on the other side.
When Sergio doesn't push me to answer right away, I'm grateful. I have to think about it before I speak.
"We joined the fellowship when I was nine years old. Before then, we lived in a house in the suburbs, and we had friends. I’m the oldest child, and my sister is a few years younger than I am. My father was in charge and my mother did everything he said, never questioning him, but things were a little…freer. When we joined the fellowship, things changed."
"How so?"
I know he's unhappy because his jaw clenches, and his knuckles on the steering wheel whiten. But I keep talking. It feels good to talk about it. No one knows this side of me, and I didn't know how badly I needed to process it.
"My father became more heavy-handed, like yours, for one thing. We were only allowed to wear dresses, and modest ones." I laugh, and it feels a little uncomfortable. "I would be badly punished if anyone in the fellowship saw me wearing something like this." I gesture to what I'm wearing.
"We were very rarely allowed to watch TV, and only something that was deemed appropriate. We were not allowed to listen to popular music, only classical music. Women were subservient to men, and the older men in the community were the ones that made the rules. Mothers and fathers were the ones that dictated who married whom. Marriages were arranged, and when I married my husband, I was expected to obey him. Rules were very strict, and anyone who broke the rules was severely punished. Sometimes we were beaten, sometimes exiled. Sometimes we were given labor to do, but the worst would be excommunication from the fellowship."
My voice is a little choked when I finish this because I know I’m excommunicated. No one I knew in the fellowship would be allowed to talk to me at this point.
"And the reward for obedience?"
I shrug. "Salvation. The approval of the elders. The approval of your husband. Maybe you'd be allowed to have friends."
He doesn’t talk for long moments, and when he does, his voice is stern. “And were you obedient?"
“Sometimes but not always. I wouldn't allow them to hurt children. I would always speak out against injustice. I know that they tried hard to brainwash me, but I bided my time until I could escape. And even now…"
He waits. I try to formulate my thoughts before I continue. It's hard. It hasn't been very long, and some of the things that I was taught became very deep-seated beliefs. "Even now, I question some of what they told me. They ruled with fear, and I rejected that. But I lived in fear for so long, it's hard for me to understand what I believe now. I feel like I need to reject everything I was taught before I can accept what I myself believe."
Reaching for my hand, he holds it before he speaks."I could help you find someone to talk to."
I look at him curiously. "Isn't that what I'm doing now?”
"I mean a professional. Like a therapist. Someone who would help you sort through these experiences and thoughts and feelings."
I don't really know if that's something I would want. I shrug. "Maybe at some point. But it helps talking to you."
"But I'm not… a good man. I do terrible things.” He looks away. “You don't know me at all."
This isn't the first time he’s said something like this. I’m not sure how to respond.
He took me in. Saved his cousin. Changed his evening plans to visit with family. He even let me take in a stray. What part of that isn’t good?
"We're not far from my family home. We can pick this conversation up later. But I want you to know something. It doesn't matter what they say or what they do. Do you understand me?"
I do, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. A part of me wants to be accepted by a family so badly that I almost feel I do care what they think. But what if they’re like my family? Would I care what they thought?
One thing’s for sure. I care about whathethinks.
