The Summer I Wasn't Me (7 page)

“Like Mr. Martin said yesterday,” Brianna says, “there will be periods of downtime where you will be able to participate in leisure activities. You may play board games or work on arts and crafts with the other members of your group, or you may read approved books or watch approved movies.” From what I can tell, the DVD shelf consists mostly of animated Disney movies and other innocuous G-rated titles, and the books all seem to have been published by the same company—one with a cross in their logo. “You may also spend time outside if you prefer, as long as you stay within sight of the rec cabin. During downtimes, your time is your own. But just remember that even if you are doing a solitary activity like reading, you should always be in close proximity to your fellow group members.”

Matthew raises his hand. “Sorry, I just want to make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re saying that we have to spend all our time together and only do the things you tell us we can do, even during our free hours.” He says it so innocently that even I wonder if he’s genuinely just asking for clarification.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Brianna says.

“So how, exactly, is our time our own?”

I can almost see Brianna’s brain jolting into overdrive as she tries to come up with an answer. But Matthew’s pinned her own words against her. He smiles benignly, waiting for her response.

“Because…well, because you get to choose which activities you do,” she says finally. “Now if you’ll all follow me…”

Brianna brings us past the athletics field and the nature trail, and then we all go to the carpet cabin. The chairs have been arranged in rows, and some of the props have been brought out into a stage-like area.

“Good morning, campers!” Mr. Martin says. “I hope you all got a good night’s sleep because today we begin the real work. The exercise we are going to be working on for the next several days is called Addressing the Father Wound.”

Matthew and I look at each other.
Father
Wound?

“We won’t be splitting you up for this one because you may find something in someone else’s story that will help you with your own, so we’ll be working through this all together, in one big group.” Mr. Martin smiles. “Now, do we have a volunteer to go first?”

Unlike yesterday’s session, no one volunteers. Not even Daniel. But Mr. Martin’s smile doesn’t crack.

“Perhaps it will help if I explain the purpose of the exercise a bit more,” he says.

Several of us nod.

Mr. Martin walks back and forth across the makeshift stage. “Despite what some pop singers and the mainstream media would have you believe, you were not born with SSA. You were born clean and pure, just as God intended you to be.” He stops walking and gives us a sad, almost pitying smile. “But somewhere along the way, someone or something corrupted you. It may have been intentional or it could have been unintentional. But something—your Father Wound—brought you into this lifestyle.” When he says the word
lifestyle
, his nose crinkles up like he’s smelling something bad. “You see, the SSA isn’t the problem; it’s the
symptom
. For other people with Father Wounds, it may have resulted in drug abuse or a tendency toward violent behavior. For you, it manifested into SSA. Once we are able to identify and address the deeper-seated problem, we can begin to heal it.”

I consider what he’s saying. I quickly flip back through a lifetime of memories, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what might have happened to make me gay.

“So. Any volunteers?” Mr. Martin asks.

Still no one raises their hand.

Undiscouraged, Mr. Martin scans the crowd. “Let’s start with the boys today.” He points to a boy with a round face and a crew cut. “Gabe.” He holds out a hand in invitation to join him.

Gabe makes his way to the front of the room, stumbling slightly on the leg of a chair as he maneuvers through the rows of seats. When he’s standing next to Mr. Martin, the difference in their height is striking. Gabe looks like a child; he’s probably not even done growing yet.

Mr. Martin drags a chair to the center of the stage and positions it so it’s facing the rest of us. Gabe sits, and Mr. Martin tells him to close his eyes. “Tell us about your childhood,” he says in a calming, gentle voice.

Gabe’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean? What about it?”

“Please keep your eyes closed. Just tell us whatever comes to mind about what it was like growing up in your family.”

Gabe sits there for a while, his eyes squeezed shut, the rest of us watching him. The room is deadly silent. At one point, the stomach of someone sitting behind me gurgles. I don’t turn to see who it is.

Then, finally, Gabe speaks. “I live in Orlando,” he says.

“The most magical place on earth!” Mr. Martin says, delighted.

“I guess.” Gabe shrugs. “I’ve never actually been to Disney.”

Mr. Martin’s face falls and he nods. “Who lives with you?” he asks.

“My father and my mother and my four younger brothers.”

“What does your father do for a living?”

“He works the night maintenance shift at the airport.”

“As the eldest son, there must be a lot of pressure on you to help take care of your family.”

“I guess,” he says again, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t mind it though.”

“Remember, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “This will only work if you are honest with us.” He gives Gabe a meaningful look, which is probably more for our benefit than Gabe’s since he can’t see it with his eyes closed.

Gabe takes a shallow, wavering breath. “Well, we don’t have a lot of money, you know? Even with my father working overtime and my mother cleaning houses. Sometimes my father goes drinking after work, and when he comes home and looks at the state of our apartment, he gets…”

“He gets what?” Mr. Martin nudges.

“Angry. But anyone would,” he says quickly. “There’s this broken window that won’t close all the way, so we have to stuff the hole with towels, and there’re always rats in the kitchen. And there aren’t enough beds for all of us, so we have these mattresses that we prop up against the wall during the daytime and then put on the floor at night.”

“What do you mean by ‘he gets angry’?”

“I don’t know,” Gabe mumbles.

“I think you do know.”

Gabe’s eyes are still closed. He doesn’t say anything.

I quickly glance around the room. Everyone has their eyes fixed on the boy in the chair. No one makes a move or a sound. Matthew’s eyes are cold and hard. I look away.

“Gabriel,” Mr. Martin says, “I spoke with your mother.” Each word is heavy and revealing.

Gabe sucks in a surprised, tremulous breath. “He hits me,” he says finally, reluctantly. “He gets drunk and he gets mad and he beats me up.”

Mr. Martin nods; he was expecting this all along. He
knew
. This whole thing has been choreographed. He purposely called on Gabe to go first because he already knew his story—the perfect illustration for the rest of us of what a literal and figurative Father Wound looks like.

What else does Mr. Martin know? I wonder what my mother told him about me…

“How long has this been going on?” he asks Gabe.

“For as long as I can remember.”

“Is that what this is from?” He touches a dark mark on Gabe’s jawline. I’d dismissed it as a shadow, but I can see now it’s a bruise.

Gabe nods.

“Does he hit your mother too? Or your brothers?”

Gabe shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tighter so that deep creases spread out from them like reaching fingers. “
No
. Only me. I won’t let him hurt them.”

“Are you saying that you let him hurt you so he won’t hurt them?” Mr. Martin asks.

“It’s the only way.” There’s a pause. “I’m worried about what he’ll do while I’m gone.”

“Don’t think like that, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “Your church is sponsoring your summer at New Horizons, as I recall?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then the best thing you can do for them right now is to let those worries go and instead focus on your work here and making your family and your congregation proud.”

Gabe nods. “Okay.”

Mr. Martin asks Gabe to open his eyes. He blinks several times, like he’s having trouble adjusting to the room, and then looks down at his lap. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling right now.

“Everyone, please give Gabe a round of applause for so bravely sharing his story,” Mr. Martin says. We clap for him, but there’s a solemn timbre to it. Mr. Martin stands behind Gabe and rests his hands on his shoulders. “Gabe’s Father Wound is the most straightforward kind,” he says to us, “because it has been inflicted by his actual father. Gabe’s father is the one person who was supposed to show him what it means to be a man, but instead, he has made sure his son remains a wounded boy with a confused sense of right and wrong.”

Tears are spilling down Gabe’s cheeks and landing in his lap, and his body is heaving with silent sobs. But I can’t shake the icky feeling that Mr. Martin did this to him just to make a point.

“This lifetime of abuse is Gabe’s Father Wound,” he continues. But suddenly his face brightens. “And now that we’ve identified it, we can move on to the second half of the exercise—Healing the Father Wound!”

It’s like he’s just said,
Guess
what
everyone! There’s free cake in the dining cabin!
But there’s a broken, abused boy sitting right in front of him—doesn’t he feel bad? Shouldn’t we take a break or something, so Gabe can have a moment to himself?

Mr. Martin gestures to Arthur, and Arthur drags out some props: a standup punching bag and a Nerf baseball bat. Mr. Martin calls on a tall boy named Ian to come join him and Gabe at the front of the room.

“One of the best ways to work through our Father Wounds is to use role-play,” he says. “Ian, you are going to play the role of Gabe’s father in this scenario.”

Ian’s face pales.

“Gabe, please stand up and face Ian.”

Gabe does as he says, and Arthur removes Gabe’s chair from the stage.

“You may begin the scene, Ian,” Mr. Martin says.

Ian looks at him, panicked. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Remember Gabe’s story. You’re his father, and you’re coming home drunk.”

Poor Ian. He looks like he wishes he could vanish into thin air or do anything or become anything to get out of this. Gabe doesn’t look much different.

“Please, begin,” Mr. Martin says again, firmer this time.

Ian starts walking around in a jerky line and mimes a swig from an imaginary bottle. “Hello, son,” he says, in a deep voice.

Gabe looks to Mr. Martin, and Mr. Martin nods encouragingly. “Hello, Dad,” he says, unsure. “How…uh, how was work?”

“Same as it always is,” Ian says. Mr. Martin makes a keep-going gesture, and Ian adds, “Don’t be stupid.” Mr. Martin points to the rest of the stage area, coaching Ian. Ian looks confused for a moment, but then his face clicks. “Look at this place! I work hard every night and have to come home to this dump? You need to start pulling your weight around here, boy!” Mr. Martin hands Ian the Nerf bat and nods in Gabe’s direction.

Ian’s face crumples like he’s in pain. He turns to Mr. Martin and speaks in his normal voice. “I can’t.”

Mr. Martin’s brow furrows. “Yes, you can.” Ian shakes his head, and a shadow crosses Mr. Martin’s face. “Don’t you want to help Gabe, Ian? He’s in your group; he’s your friend. Do you really want to let him down like this?”

Ian looks back and forth between Mr. Martin and Gabe, as if he’s trying to decide which is worse—hitting Gabe or defying Mr. Martin. Finally, he lifts the foam bat and brings it down onto Gabe’s head.

“Harder,” Mr. Martin says.

Ian repeats the action, with more force this time, swiping Gabe across the chest and arms and shoulders with the yellow bat. Even though the Nerf material couldn’t possibly cause real injury, the thick, dull sound of the foam meeting Gabe’s body over and over again makes me shudder. Gabe shrinks to the floor, cowering in the fetal position, wailing out, “No, Dad! Please, no.”

A cry sticks in my throat, and I know that the moment I unclench my jaw, it will fly out. This isn’t right. Gabe has been through enough in his life. He shouldn’t have to relive it like this. I look to my right—Matthew’s face is now red and severe. He’s gripping the sides of his chair as if to keep himself planted in his seat—much like how I’m keeping my mouth shut to trap my protest.

I look to my left—Carolyn’s face is smooth, unreadable, her eyes unfocused. She looks like she’s not even watching the scene at all—instead, she’s lost in some faraway memory of her own. It’s a familiar sight and makes me feel even more uneasy.

Daniel’s face is hidden behind Carolyn’s, but his hands are folded securely around a small wooden cross, his thumb steadily grazing the engravings.

“What do you want to do, Gabe?” Mr. Martin shouts over the wailing and repeated
thwack
of the bat. “Now’s your chance! You can say whatever you want! You can do whatever you want to do! You can tell your father what you think of him once and for all! Trust your instincts!”

Gabe lies there a moment more and then slowly pushes himself up to a sitting position. Ian is still hitting him, but there is a look in Gabe’s eye now that wasn’t there before. It’s something like determination. So quickly I almost miss it, Gabe reaches an arm out and snatches the bat from Ian’s hand. He stands up and pushes his shoulders back. His face and neck and arms are red where the foam touched his skin.

“I am not your punching bag!” Gabe shouts. “I am your
son
. You aren’t supposed to treat me this way! You aren’t supposed to hurt me!” He lifts the bat and hits Ian with it as hard as he can. Even though the foam is soft, Ian flinches at the impact. Gabe hits him again and again, and Ian cowers to protect his face. “You’re supposed to
love
me, Dad. Why don’t you love me?”

Mr. Martin slides the punching bag toward Gabe. “Use this, Gabe. Get it all out!”

Gabe drops the bat and begins tearing into the bag, punching and kicking it so hard that the sound it makes reminds me of thunder. Ian escapes to the far wall, as far away from the action as he can get. Gabe is lashing out at the bag, tears streaming freely from his bloodshot eyes, shouts and cries fleeing from him in a muddled jumble. He punches until his hands are raw and his knuckles are bleeding, and then with one final wave of energy, he tackles the bag so that it crashes over and lays defeated on the carpet.

There is a stunned silence as we watch Gabe stare at the obliterated punching bag, gasping for breath. “Screw you, Dad,” he whispers.

Mr. Martin steps forward and puts his arm around Gabe. “Well done, young man! Well done indeed! You did it. You took control and stood up to your father. You are no longer that helpless boy lying on the floor.” He gestures to the general place on the floor that Gabe had been curled up. “You are now a strong man, standing tall. How do you feel?” He beams proudly down at Gabe.

“My hands hurt,” Gabe says.

“Yes, we’ll get them fixed up right away. But how do you feel
inside
?”

“I don’t know. Different, I guess.”

Different.
Good
different
or
bad
different?
Mr. Martin doesn’t ask. Instead, he simply says, “Excellent!” and gives an accomplished grin. “You are going to be just fine, Gabe. You may return to your seat.”

Gabe makes a beeline to the back row of seats, where Barbara is waiting for him with a first aid kit, and we give him another hesitant round of applause.

What the hell did I just witness?

It was horrible. It was cruel. But…Gabe said he feels
different
. And he undeniably went through some sort of emotional transition; anyone could see that. Maybe Mr. Martin really does know what he’s doing.

But then he repeats the process with two other campers, and I’m less sure. Same as with Gabe’s session, it’s a mess of crying and screaming and violence. For hours, I am forced to be a spectator, and for hours, I have to fight to remain silent.

Gabe is the only one whose story involved physical abuse, but the other stories are just as painful to listen to—Chris’s father left his family out of the blue when Chris was six, never to be heard from again, and for years, Austin had to spend his days after school with a babysitter, a cruel old woman who called him stupid and ugly and made him do menial chores around her house. And when he told his parents what was going on, they refused to believe him.