The Summer I Wasn't Me (2 page)

As Brianna shows me upstairs to the girls’ dorm, we pass another camper being led downstairs by a counselor in a blue shirt. He seems about my age and has shaggy, dark-blond hair. His lips are pressed tightly together, but his eyes reveal a glimpse of something. Anger? No. Fear. He doesn’t even glance at me as we pass each other. He just looks straight ahead, following the counselor down the stairs and out of sight.

I suddenly feel strangely hollow.

I’m really here. This is really happening.

I run my hand along the polished wooden banister and drift back to the moment that led me here.

It was May, just about two months ago. I came home from school to find Mom balled up on the sofa, surrounded by used tissues, sobbing.

In the six months since Dad’s death, Mom hadn’t been doing so well. For that first month or so, it seemed like all she was able to do was cry. But I had days like that too, so I understood. We were both a mess. We spent a lot of time just hugging each other or holding each other’s hands and letting it all out. But then, slowly, I started to come out of it. I had school and work and a mourning mother to take care of. I missed Dad more than I could ever put into words, but I was starting to move on.

My mom’s grief, on the other hand, took a different turn. She stopped crying so much, but then she started doing this thing where every time something reminded her of him—which was almost always—she zoned out, unable to concentrate on anything happening around her. It was like instead of staying in the moment and being sad and working through the pain, she chose to live in her memories, in a place where the love of her life was still alive and everything was happier.

And I guess I couldn’t blame her. If I had been able to separate my mind like that, I probably would have too. The pain sucked. The memories were far better. The three of us used to have so much fun together. When I was little, we went to the beach every single weekend, swimming all day and burying each other in the sand and laughing at the tourists who seemed to bring everything they owned with them for just a few hours at the sea. On Saturday mornings, Mom would blast the country western radio station throughout the house, and Dad and I would make fun of her for her clueless taste in music, but she would just laugh and say that if she had to suffer through our music, we had to suffer through hers. After they bought me my first sewing machine, Mom and I made Dad an apron (he was the best cook in the family) that said
Real
men
bake
cupcakes
. He wore it proudly.

So yeah, the memories were better than the now. I got it. But soon, half a year had gone by and Mom’s spacing-out thing still wasn’t getting any better. One night she made us a frozen pizza for dinner but forgot to remove the plastic wrapping. I came home after work to a kitchen filled with smoke, an oven rack dripping with melted plastic, and a mother sitting in front of the TV, completely unaware of the wailing smoke detector. And another day I got a call from someone at the electric company who wanted to know why we had sent in a stack of supermarket coupons in our payment envelope instead of actual money.

The worst part of it all was that Mom never laughed anymore; she never even smiled. I missed her.

But it had been a while since I’d seen her crying so uncontrollably like this. I dropped my bag and went to pull her close, to try to console her. But she shrank away from me. That’s when I knew: whatever was wrong, it didn’t have to do with Dad.

“What’s going on?”

Mom blew her nose loudly. “Lexi,” she whispered, “do you have anything you want to tell me?”

I stared at her, my mind racing. Did one of my teachers call her about something? Did she find out Vinny Palmer’s older brother bought us beer on the weekends? Did I forget her birthday? “What do you mean?” I said hesitantly.

She picked up a book off the floor. I hadn’t seen it before now, because it was halfway hidden under the couch and I’d been distracted. But I recognized it right away—it was one of my sketchbooks,
the
sketchbook, the one with an adorned
Z
on the cover. The one I’d thought was safely tucked away in its hiding place in the back of my closet. But then I remembered that I’d been feeling particularly sorry for myself last night and taken it out for the first time in months. And I’d forgotten to put it away.

“What were you doing in my room?” I whispered, because I really didn’t know what else to say.

Mom didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped through the book. Sketches of Zoë filled every page—some in pencil, some in color, some full body, some just her eyes.

“This is Zoë Green, right?” Mom whispered, staring at a sketch of Zoë laughing.

“Yeah,” I whispered, but it was barely audible. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yeah.”

Mom nodded, her tears landing on the pages, causing the ink to run. She already knew it was Zoë, of course—everyone knows everyone in our town. Plus, I had stared at Zoë so much over the past year and a half and knew her face so well that every line of her was perfectly reproduced on the pages of the book.

“Are you…in…love…with her?” It took her a long time to get the question out between the sobs, and each word was like another knife being jabbed into me.

She knew. My mother knew. All I had to do was confirm it.

“Not anymore,” I said. Those two words said so much—I did love Zoë once; I’ve been hiding so much from you; I’m gay.

And once the truth was out there in the ether, an amazing calm came over me. There were no more secrets. Maybe her finding the Zoë book was actually the best thing that could have happened. Maybe she would understand. Maybe we could finally move forward.

The truth was, I had never felt sad about being gay. It was just another part of who I was, no different than my size-seven feet or 20/20 vision. The part I hated was the hiding; the pretending to be someone I wasn’t; the steady, tormenting harassment that came in the form of Bible scripture and church sermons; the constant fear that if people found out, they would hate me, ridicule me, possibly even hurt me.
That
stuff sucked.

But if Mom knew, and she understood, well…that would just be the best. The barrier between us would vanish, and it would be me and her against the world—instead of always me vs. them.

But then she looked up at me, for the first time since I came in, and my world came crashing down.

The broken expression she’d been wearing for the last six months was now completely shattered. That look in her eyes told me everything I needed to know: she was mourning my loss now too. I had just killed the rest of her family. Because Mom felt exactly the same way about gay people as everyone else did: gay people were abominations. Gay people went to hell.

The barrier between us hadn’t vanished; it was raised even higher.

“Why does God keep punishing me?” she said, her voice low and emotionless.

“He’s not,” I whispered.

“He is.”

“But…” I didn’t know how to finish the thought. I wanted to talk to her about it, to have a conversation, to tell her that I was still her daughter, that I still had all the same likes and dislikes and opinions as before, that nothing had changed. But I’d known I was gay since I was nine years old. (I mean, I’d definitely had certain
feelings
before then, but the first moment I was actually fully cognizant of what those feelings probably meant was the day I begged Mom to take me to see
The
Devil
Wears
Prada
so I could look at all the pretty clothes—and realized about halfway through the movie that I was paying far more attention to Anne Hathaway’s eyes than the costume design.) I’d had eight long years to live with that truth in this town, in this church, in this school, in this family. And I knew that, for my mom,
everything
had changed, and there was no point in trying to convince her otherwise. So all I said was, “I’m sorry.”

For the next few days, Mom spent a lot of time at church. She went there early in the morning and came home in the evening. She wouldn’t even look at me.

I tried to go on with my days as usual, but all I could really do was turn the whole thing over and over in my mind. Amid the endless, shapeless swirl of pain and confusion and worry and regret, there were two distinct thoughts that kept circling back to me.

One:
“Why does God keep punishing me?”
That was how my mother saw me now: as a punishment. In her mind, I was unholy, worthless. I would never see Dad again in heaven.

Two:
Thank
God
Dad
never
lived
to
learn
the
truth
about
me.
I hated myself for even thinking it. But the thought of hurting
both
my parents in this way was incomprehensible.

If only I’d kept that book hidden better. If only I hadn’t admitted the truth when she’d asked. Because of my carelessness, my selfishness, Mom had no one.
I
had no one. There were no grandparents anymore, no aunts or uncles, no siblings. I had friends, but no one I was really close with. Not since Zoë anyway.

I was all alone. And it was all my fault.

And then, three days after Mom learned the truth, everything changed again. She came home, sat at the kitchen table where I was failing miserably at focusing on my homework, and said, “Go to the church tomorrow. Speak with Pastor Joe. He’s expecting you at three.”

Not only was she looking straight at me, she was actually…was that a
smile
? Her eyes were alive. My muscles began to relax. “Does this mean…are we okay?” I asked.

“We’re going to be,” she said confidently, and for just a half second, I saw a flicker of the woman she used to be before Dad got sick. I didn’t know what Pastor Joe wanted, but I knew there was no question of where I would be tomorrow at three.

I do believe in God, no doubt about it, but going to church had changed for me since Dad’s death. I hated listening to all that “God needed another angel” crap the church people were always spouting. It was such a cop-out, a convenient way for them to avoid the reality of our tragedy while puffing themselves up and convincing themselves that they were being oh-so-supportive. And it was getting harder and harder to listen to everyone talking about me like God didn’t love me quite as much as he did them. They didn’t know they were talking about me, of course, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

None of that was on my mind though as I marched up the church steps and entered Pastor Joe’s office; that day, I had bigger concerns.

The pastor paused the YouTube video he was watching of a guy giving a sermon about graduations.

“Lexi, welcome,” he said. His bushy eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, and he looked at me appraisingly over the top of his glasses. There was no doubt that he knew. Mom had told him everything.

Yesterday, there’d been only two people in the world who knew the truth about me: Mom and Zoë. But now Pastor Joe made three. Would the whole church know by the time Sunday morning rolled around?

Don’t think about that right now
, I told myself.
Think
about
Mom
.

“Um, my mother said you wanted to see me?”

Pastor Joe crossed his arms, deep in thought. So much time went by in silence that I began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open or something. But finally he said, “Yes.”

He rummaged through a drawer in his desk and came out with a brochure. He pushed it across the desk toward me.
New
Horizons
Reparative
Therapy
Summer
Program
.

“What is this?”

“They call them ‘ex-gay camps,’” Pastor Joe said. “They teach young people to resist
those
kinds of urges.”

I gaped at him.

“Marilynn Chaney’s grandnephew in Little Rock had a similar…problem. He went to this camp, and they fixed him up right.”

Problem? Fixed him?

“The feelings you’ve had for other girls don’t mean anything,” he continued. “You’re young, Lexi. You don’t know who you are yet. The only thing set in stone is that you are a child of God. Everything else is a matter of choice.”

My heart was racing so fast that I was starting to get light headed. “I don’t understand…” was all I could say.

“You will. Read that,” Pastor Joe said, pointing to the brochure in my hands. “And think about it.”

Apparently that was my cue to leave. I sat in my car in the church parking lot and read the New Horizons brochure cover to cover. There wasn’t much in there about
how
the de-gayifying actually worked, just that it did. But how could you change someone’s sexuality? The whole concept seemed crazy. Ridiculous.

But when I got home, Mom was waiting for me on the front porch. She was practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

In the time it took to walk up the porch steps, it all finally clicked: she hadn’t been able to fix Dad, but now she believed she had a chance to fix me, before it was too late and she lost me forever too. She needed me to do this. She wanted me back, just like I wanted her back.

And what do you do when you’ve lost everything? You either give up, or you fight.

I had to fight for my family, for my mother. It was terrifying and confusing and completely surreal, but I knew I had to at least try. I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

Mom watched me, waiting.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

She didn’t ask anything more—not if I
wanted
to go or
why
I was going or if I thought it would work. I was going, and that was all she needed to hear. She pulled me close and held me tight. “Thank you, Lexi.” She took my hand and led me into the house, where dinner was waiting—hot dogs on the grill, sauerkraut, and a homemade salad. It was the first real meal she’d made since Dad’s death, and there wasn’t a single sign that the smoke alarm had gone off. New Horizons was already changing our lives.