by Harry Cook
“No . . . I should go. I just . . . honestly, I’m not a bad person,” Mrs Whittle says, and I can feel every nerve in my body stand on end.
“I’m sure your son doesn’t think you’re a bad person either,” Mum says. “But I know that boy shouldn’t be there. He needs his mum to tell him he’s not a bad person, too. That he’s loved. That –”
“I have to go,” I hear Mrs Whittle say.
There’s a moment or two before I hear the fly screen shut and Mum lets out this long, hum-like sigh.
“I know you’re there, Rye,” she says, and I open the door as she walks through and sits on the rug next to Thelma.
“What was that about?” Isla says, her glue gun poised mid-air.
“A distressed mother trying to deal with her homophobia, ignorance and fears.” Mum sighs. “Something she’s clearly never been quite brave enough to challenge before.” She seems mad, which is odd because I didn’t get that vibe a minute ago when she was talking to Mrs Whittle.
“Did she listen at all?” June asks.
“Who knows.” Mum looks to the ceiling and shakes her head. “I will never understand parents who are not there for their children.”
I hear the catch in her voice. Mum is crying.
I walk over and put my arm around her. “Stop being a big baby,” I say, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Come on. We have stuff here that needs finishing. These bad boys won’t stitch themselves.”
*
When I wake up the following morning, I can smell coffee, Mum’s carrot cake waffles and incense. It’s unbelievably comforting. Like a hug.
I sit up and wipe the sleep from my eyes before stretching and heading out into the front hallway.
I’m about to follow my nose into the kitchen when I notice Thelma is scratching at something underneath the fly screen. She’s had this obsession with the door mat ever since we got it. I’m convinced she considers it a threat, but when I bend down to lift her up and away from her mortal enemy I notice a square of white paper tucked just through the space between the floor and the door.
Two words are handwritten on the front: Rye & Karen. I open the paper and read:
Please come for dinner tonight. We’d really like to talk.
Charles and Sally Whittle.
I barely make it to the kitchen before I’m waving the paper in Mum’s face and we’re both completely hysterical like it’s a letter from the Queen.
*
By seven o’clock – when we are finally standing outside the Whittles’ house, Mum clutching a bottle of wine like it’s a grenade and me with my best pressed shirt and jeans that have been ironed four times over – I feel like I’m about to collapse.
“You okay?” Mum asks.
I nod, taking a slow breath in and holding it for five like my meditation app tells me.
When Elliot opens the door, I finally breathe out to the count of seven.
“Hey,” he says with a smile.
“Hi,” I say. This happy-go-lucky vibe doesn’t match how I’m feeling but I’m open to it. If Elliot is mellow, then I’m assuming we’re not being entirely thrown to the wolves.
We’re led inside and I take a look around. There are a few photos on the walls of Elliot and Fin as kids and I can’t help but grin. Fin was such an adorable baby. He still has the same eyes and smile, and his nose is still cute as a button.
When we get to the kitchen Elliot takes the wine from Mum and pours her a glass as Mr and Mrs Whittle join us.
The atmosphere is more jittery than the NASA control room during the Apollo 11 disaster, but I stand up tall and wait for someone to speak.
Elliot keeps glancing between everyone and Mum seems like she’s ready to chug the entire glass of wine in one go when Mrs Whittle’s eyes light up.
“Wine!” she says. “I’m glad you – I was going to offer, but –”
“Brought some,” Mum says, with a tip of her glass to let Mrs Whittle know it’s all good.
“Here, Mum, Dad,” Elliot says, handing them each a glass.
“Thank you, that’s thoughtful of you,” Mr Whittle says.
Mum smiles graciously, and I look at Elliot. I’m silently pleading with him to say something to keep the conversation moving.
“Rye, would you like a coke? Water? Juice?” is his best effort.
“Water, please,” I say as Mr and Mrs Whittle lead us through some double doors and into the dining room.
When we’re all seated Elliot helps keep the painfully awkward conversation going with anecdotes about his time in the tropics and the amazing people he met.
Mr and Mrs Whittle listen politely, even though they must have heard it all before. Every once in a while, I feel like they’re about to say something.
Until eventually: “And there was this one guy I met in the rainforest who was –”
“I’m sorry,” Mr Whittle says, cutting Elliot off mid-sentence.
Everyone sits still and I wonder who exactly he directed that apology to. I have a feeling it’s not about interrupting Elliot’s story.
“I’m going to cut to the chase here,” he says, looking down at his plate. “I’m having doubts about whether sending Fin to this programme was such a good idea.”
Silence. Everyone, including Mr Whittle himself, seems shocked by his change of heart.
“That’s a start,” Mum says, eventually.
I attempt a nudge under the table but miss and kick Elliot in the shin. He’s grinning. I can tell he enjoys the experience of another adult standing up to his dad, but this whole thing feels beyond excruciating to me.
“We asked you to come tonight because . . .” Mrs Whittle starts but then looks down at her plate and rolls her napkin. She seems to reboot her thought process a few times before settling on what to say. “Fin is . . .” She sniffs and I can tell this is agony for her. I wish I could feel some sympathy but every time I begin to, I think of Fin stuck in that camp and my mood turns to rage. “We love our son.”
Mum nods. “I don’t doubt that.”
“We just want what’s best for him and this lifestyle he’s choosing is a lot for us to under–”
“Wait one second,” Mum says, holding up her hand. “Excuse me, but being gay is not a lifestyle choice. Did you choose your sexuality, Mrs Whittle? No. We simply are who we are.”
Elliot grins, not bothering to hide his amusement at mention of his mum’s love life.
“I . . . Well, I know, but –”
“So, if you know, what makes you think Fin can choose? More to the point, why on earth should he?”
Slam dunk from Mum.
Mr Whittle sits up taller in his chair. “We invited you tonight because we are afraid. Afraid of making any more mistakes. I didn’t realise . . . I had no idea . . . No idea that . . . people have actually died.” He swallows, obviously still shaken by the news that Re-Souled really is as catastrophic as we’ve been telling him. Then he continues. “We want Fin to be happy and if this is his choice then we –” He stops talking at a single blow from Mum’s stone-cold glare. “If this is who he is . . .”
Mum’s glare softens to a small smile of approval.
“. . . then we want to show him,” he says, as Mrs Whittle squeezes his hand, “that we don’t want to lose him. Even if, even if he’s –”
“We’re here for Fin,” Mrs Whittle says firmly, interrupting her husband. “We’re willing to work on this –”
Mum claps and grins like a fourth grader. “Now that’s the kind of attitude I’m talking about,” she says, downing her wine in triumph.
Mr Whittle sits back a little in his chair. He seems wrung out, but proud of himself. I guess in some weird way, I’m a bit proud of him too. Angry as a whole swamp full of crocodiles still, but I know it takes a lot to admit you’re wrong.
“Right,” Mum says, all business and ready for action. “You need to get on the phone to that camp director and tell them you’re coming to collect your son.”
Mr Whittle�
��s brow furrows and the fluffy feeling I had in my tummy a moment ago vanishes as quickly as it came.
“I tried,” he says, his voice low. “He wouldn’t come to the phone last time I called. Apparently he’s refusing to leave.”
“Mr Whittle, with all due respect, that’s bullshit,” Mum declares, and I nearly lean across the table to take the wine glass away from her, but screw it. She’s right. It is bullshit.
“What can we do?” Mrs Whittle asks. She sounds genuine and I can tell she’s on board with getting Fin out of there, and probably has been long before Mr Whittle caught up.
“I’ll try calling them again,” he says.
I clear my throat and think of the best way forward.
“There’s no way Fin would ever choose to be there,” I say. “But we’ve promised to get him out, tomorrow night,”
That was the best way forward, Rye? Seriously? Insert eye roll here.
Mr and Mrs Whittle look at one another.
“We’ve had a plan since we realised you’d sent him there. And with your help it’ll be a whole lot easier for Fin when he gets out.”
My heart is beating up against my chest and I catch Elliot’s eye. I can tell he’s excited and nervous all at once.
“We never should have sent Fin to that place,” Mr Whittle says again, drawing his hand down over his face in a gesture of utter weariness.
I take a breath and steady myself. “It’s not me you need to say that to,” I say. “It’s Fin.”
There’s a silence that seems to last for eternity before anyone breaks it.
“What can we do?” he asks at last, his face pale.
Plenty, I think. “Was there anything Fin used to do as a kid?” I ask. “Anything cute that he’d know only you guys would remember? A family joke or memory?”
Mr and Mrs Whittle look to Elliot who smiles back.
“A few things actually,” Mr Whittle says, his eyes brightening a little.
“A ton.” Mrs Whittle smiles.
Elliot grins and starts scrolling through his phone. “I’d be happy to Cher them with you.”
43
Fin
This so-called chapel is dusty and dismal even as the sun rises on a new day. I roll over and smush the lumpy pillow I found in a supply closet over my face, reminding myself that this isn’t for ever. Soon, I’ll be out of here.
Someone’s unlocked the door, so I leave the stuffy chapel and head to the main building, taking deep gulps of fresh air as I go. It’s sunny, but even the surprising warmth on my skin does nothing for my mood.
My plan for the day is to retain as many details about this place as I can, to write everything down as evidence. The thought makes me shudder, but Re-Souled is my mission now. Game over.
I take another bite of my toast, gulp down some coffee and am standing to leave when Greg enters flanked by Taylor.
“Good morning,” he says to the room, in that fake friendly tone of his.
He gets a few desultory Mornings for his efforts, but not from me.
“How did you sleep?” Greg goes on, clearly throwing that one to me and my overnight stay. “I trust you’re well-rested, Mr Whittle, as I have an individualised therapy session lined up for you.”
I don’t blink. I don’t speak.
“And, can I remind you all, that this evening the Mountain Song Choir will be joining us. In order to make the most of tonight’s ceremony, I advise you to spend time with your prayers. Ask God for the strength to continue on your journey of transformation and healing.” He smiles his mild, creepy smile again and I have this daydream where I throw my plate across the room at him. “For tonight, you will renounce your sinful urges and be reborn ready to follow the true path to salvation.”
Everyone in the room seems to have frozen. None of us moves, speaks or breathes.
Taylor is standing to one side directing her vengeful icy glare at me and only me. I can’t help but give her one of my biggest and fakest smiles in return.
Bring it on.
Another day in paradise.
*
I’m shaking from the inside. Trembling. My throat is tight. I stare in the mirror but I barely recognise myself.
Why did they keep interrogating me like that? On and on, digging into my relationship with my parents when I was a child. Insisting that my attachment to my mum is “unhealthy”.
Why did they keep telling me I was damaged?
I step into the shower and turn the water on as hot as it will go. I don’t bother with the cold tap. Instead I just breathe and let the water sting my body.
I refused to answer them, shut my eyes, did everything I could to block out their endless words, but something inside me shifted today and fear seeped in like tar.
And now I’m scared. Really scared. Not of an eternity in hell. But that I’m starting to believe less and less.
I’m scared of a lifetime spent questioning myself.
They told me again and again how lonely and lost I’d be without my family.
They drilled into my fear, asking what made me imagine anyone would stay with someone like me. What would I do when my boyfriend deserted me – they spat the word out – as he surely would? Then, when we weren’t together, where would I go?
The trembling, the fear is too much. I make the shower pressure stronger and sink, slumped, to the floor as the water pours down, burning my back.
At last, I’m done with crying. I’m numb. Everything is numb.
*
It’s nearly dark outside when I’m shaken awake. While I was “spending time with my prayers”, I fell asleep in the recreation room. It takes me a second to realise where I am again – this place is so much like a living hell it’s hard to tell when you’re awake and when you’re having a night terror.
When my eyes focus they settle on Clare who is standing next to me, her face haggard.
“It’s time for the choir,” she announces.
“Urgh, do we have to go,” I say, shutting my eyes again.
“Yes,” Clare says, impassively.
“Clare, please. I’m not going.”
But she sits down next to me. “I don’t want to go in there on my own,” she says, with an honesty that stabs me right in the gut.
I let out a long, slow sigh and sit up.
“Okay, but I’m not doing a thing. And neither are you. They can’t make us get up there and renounce shit,” I say, forcing myself to feel badass. Poppy swears like a sailor, but I save it for when I’m really pissed. Like now. I’m really fucking pissed.
*
We make our way along the various gloomy corridors and then head across the asphalt through the double doors to the assembly room. The stage is set up and it is so tacky and amateurish that it looks almost laughable. Someone has stuck up the letters: r e – s o u l e d across the top of the stage curtains but half of the U is faded which means I can’t help but read it as re-soiled. This whole place has left me feeling so painfully immature that I giggle to myself and then sit towards the back with Clare.
The room smells of dollar-store candles that can’t disguise its unbearable, musty atmosphere. I shut my eyes, mentally taking notes, as people arrive, our sorry little band plus some others that Greg must have invited.
Taylor is sat up the front and Greg is off to the side wearing a double-breasted shiny suit he must have found from some eighties dress-up store. It even has proper shoulder pads.
“We’re waiting on the choir now,” he says, beaming idiotically.
Taylor scans the room. When her eyes meet mine, her lip curls and I throw her another one of my over-the-top grins.
“And I trust we’re all clear on how tonight will run?” Greg asks.
Nobody speaks, but he must have gotten the answer he was looking for because he turns slightly to look at the stage.
Time crawls by and I’m wondering how much longer we have to wait before this sad bunch of Sister Act wannabes turn up when we hear a van bumble outside.
&
nbsp; Greg’s eyes light up and I can’t help but groan at how painful this entire thing is. Is he for real? Honestly, how can anyone be so invested in this insanity?
The double doors open to reveal a scrappy white van parked directly outside. It sits, solitary, with nothing to distinguish it but a handwritten sign that reads “Let’s Party” sticky-taped across the sliding door.
I roll my eyes. This group is clearly about as hardcore as Martha Stewart.
Taylor takes a few steps away from the stage, I’m assuming to let the choir make their entrance, and I look across at Clare who sits nervously, her hands twisted together in her lap. She’s been through this before; she knows the choir is the least of our worries this evening.
Greg stares out at the van for a moment and I notice his smile slip and a look of confusion roll over his face.
“Uh . . . uh,” he says, taking a concerned step towards the doors. “Hold on.”
He’s moving with the caution of someone stepping through a minefield when the van’s sound system crackles to life. Some tame hymnal chords are unleashed, followed by what sounds like a gospel choir warm-up.
Greg’s face softens as he makes his way back to his post and I turn around to get a look at whatever it is that’s actually happening.
From within the van, someone is singing about life being a mystery. The tune sounds vaguely familiar – maybe it’s one from church back home – and then the van’s door slowly opens. Its interior is dark and I can only see a few robes, all white and holy-looking, people’s faces covered with big white hoods.
There’s the sound of chanting about how we all must stand alone . . . a song about someone calling my name?
Wait a sec.
The robed choir file out of the van and towards the stage.
Greg looks like he’s about to go into meltdown and Taylor’s face is clenched in panic.
And then the choir runs down the aisle and up onto the stage.
One by one they fling their arms aloft and whip off bits of robe to reveal spectacular costumes underneath. It’s one hell of a striptease.