“I don’t want him to go.” Go, Mom! You tell him!
In the same quiet voice he’d used to address Mike, his stepfather said, “I’m afraid in this, I must insist. I’ve already made arrangements. I’ll take him in the morning.”
What? No! Mike ran up the stairs to his bedroom, not caring who heard. Gay conversion therapy? He didn’t need curing. There was nothing wrong with him. His dad would’ve understood.
He locked his bedroom door, something he’d always been forbidden to do.
But his dad wasn’t here. Would never be again. He grabbed clothes at random, throwing them into a duffle bag. Too small! He pushed the covers off the bed and piled his belongings on the sheet, pausing to wipe at his teary eyes with the back of his hand. He didn’t know where he’d go, what he’d do, but he had to leave.
He tied up the four corners of the bedsheet and struggled into jeans, a T-shirt, and the first shoes he found, to the sound of knocking.
His desk drawer yielded up his truck title and a few awards he’d won for songwriting. The title he took. The awards he left.
The same spookily even voice from the office spoke. “Michael. Open the door. Your mother and I need to talk to you.”
Mike snatched up the keys to his Bronco and reached beneath the dresser for the handful of bills he’d managed to hide.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!Jumping from his window might hurt, but he’d live. He yanked up the glass and tossed his filled sheet through the opening, dropping his guitar cases on top of the mound. The door behind him popped open. Mike spun. “You’re not sending me to that place.”
His mother gave him a sad smile. “Don’t you want to get help? They can cure you there.” She took a step toward him. Like he hadn’t heard his stepfather talking her into this course of action moments before.
Cure him? Like who he loved was some sort of disease?
Mike took a step back, pressing his spine against the window frame. Giving up his fight for dignity, he scrubbed at his eyes, giving away his crying. “I don’t want to be cured. I don’t need to be cured. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Blinking hard didn’t soothe his burning eyes. A ball of hot tears formed in his throat. A hard swallow didn’t help him breathe.
“Then what will you do?” His stepfather put an arm around his mother, stopping her from approaching.
Mike wanted to punch his stepfather, anything to get him to raise his voice or speak in something other than those mild, rational tones.
Nothing about this moment struck him as rational.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Just away from here!” Mike would yell, even if nobody else did.
His mother gasped. “No! You can’t!”
“Keep your voice down,” his stepfather murmured. “Do you want your brothers to overhear?”
“I don’t care if they do. This is who I am. I don’t need changing.” Mike jingled his keys. “Now move. I’m leaving.”
“You’re not taking the Bronco,” the man who’d never be his real father said. “Your brothers—”
“My father left it to me! It’s mine! You can’t have it.” He might not own much, but no one, absolutely no one, would take what little he had.
“Baby, please…” Tears streaked his mother’s face.
“I’ll handle this.” Mike’s stepfather took a step closer. “If you leave this house, you won’t be coming back, do you understand? We’re trying to do what’s best for you, but if you insist on living a life of sin, you’ll not corrupt your brothers. I won’t have it. And you won’t besmirch the family’s good name.”
His mother finally found her voice. “Thaddeus, no. That’s my son you’re talking to.”
The preacher finally raised his voice. “You are my wife, this is my house. He’s not going to pollute my home with his vile nature.”
While the parental units faced off, Mike snatched his father’s Stetson off the dresser and darted between them, heading for the stairs. His mother’s screams to stop followed him into the night.
The reverend poked his head out of Mike’s bedroom window while Mike retrieved his things. “So be it. You’re never to contact your mother or brothers again.”
For a moment he stopped. Never see his brothers again? His heart ached. Then he recalled all the horror stories he’d heard about conversation therapy, though the tales had been “triumphs” involving lots of praise.
Mike saw the broken souls claiming to have been cured, a part of themselves missing.
