The Summer I Wasn't Me

by Jessica Verdi

  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.

  At first it’s shocking to me that everyone who has been called up for a Father Wound session so far has such specific incidences of abuse or trauma in their past. But the more I think about it, the more it doesn’t seem so strange. Everyone has something, right? I have my dad’s death and my mom’s mental instability and my broken heart. None of those things has anything to do with me being gay because they all happened after I already knew I liked girls, but still. Everyone has something.

  I think about how Mr. Martin mentioned that some people who’ve experienced trauma didn’t become gay but instead turned to drugs or violence. The idea of all of this stemming from a tragic or damaging place in so
meone’s life makes sense when you think about it.

  And if Gabe’s and Chris’s and Austin’s stories are any indication, maybe most people’s “something” happened a lot earlier in their lives than mine did. Maybe they’re not the exception. Maybe I am.

  But still. There’s got to be a better way to go about all this.

  The midday lunch break is just as uncomfortable as the Father Wound sessions themselves. The dining cabin is quiet, and no one will look directly at the three boys who were forced to give away their most painful memories and beat their caretakers to death in effigy.

  Matthew, Daniel, Carolyn, and I sit together, but we are worlds apart, adrift in our own distant thoughts.

  Since it’s so quiet, it’s not hard to hear what Gabe’s saying when he goes over to Mr. Martin’s table and asks to speak with him.

  “Of course, Gabe,” Mr. Martin says. “How can I help you?”

  “I know you said we should come to you if there’s anything we need,” Gabe says softly.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Well…I know we’re not supposed to use the phone too much, but I’d really like to call my mother if that’s okay. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

  Mr. Martin says he understands completely and asks Counselor John to bring Gabe up to the main cabin so he can use the phone. Fifteen minutes later, Gabe and John return, and Gabe’s face looks a lot more relaxed than it did before he left. Guess everything’s okay at home. Even I feel happy knowing that—I can’t imagine how relieved Gabe feels.

  We reconvene in the carpet cabin after lunch, emotionally and physically exhausted. But Mr. Martin shows no sign of slowing. “Now that we’ve all refueled,” he says, patting his oversized stomach, “let’s give a female camper a chance, shall we?”

  What? No! He said today was the boys’ turn! I inch down in my seat and try to hide behind the girl in front of me. I know I’ll have to go up there eventually, but I’m hoping my turn will come later rather than sooner.

  “Lexi!” Mr. Martin’s voice booms. “Why don’t you go next?”

  Chapter 9

  I’ve never hated the sound of my own name until this moment.

  I slide further down in my chair and pretend I didn’t hear him. I’m staring at the floor, but even without looking, I know that there are dozens of pairs of eyes on me. My face burns.

  “Lexi,” Mr. Martin says again. “Don’t be scared. Gabe, Austin, and Chris got through it, didn’t they?”

  Barely.

  “Please come up here, Lexi.”

  Matthew places a hand on mine and gives it a quick squeeze. “Just get it over with,” he whispers. “He’s not going to back down.”

  I take a deep breath.

  I walk to the stage.

  I sit in the chair.

  I close my eyes.

  Mr. Martin begins the same way as always: “Tell us about your childhood.”

  “It was good,” I say. “Normal.”

  “You were raised by a mother and a father?”

  I nod.

  “Any siblings?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. “They tried, but it never happened.”

  “What was it like growing up as an only child?” Mr. Martin says.

  “I don’t know. Fine, I guess. My parents were always nice to me.”

  “What about your other family members? Grandparents, aunts and uncles…”

  “My mom’s parents were normal and boring too when they were alive. I don’t have any aunts or uncles, and my dad’s parents died before I was born.”

  “Do any unpleasant memories stand out? Maybe something that happened at school, with a friend or a teacher?” Mr. Martin presses.

  I hate this.

  “No,” I say. “My childhood was fine. I don’t have a Father Wound.”

  “Of course you do. We just need to uncover it.”

  I press my lips together. I’m not going to be bullied into making up some lie about how awful my parents were to me just so Mr. Martin can feel better.

  But then he surprises me.

  “You know,” he says, and from the way his voice carries, I can tell he’s pacing around behind me, “when I met your mother yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice the way she was dressed.”

  I open my eyes and turn to face him. “What’s wrong with how she was dressed?”

  He points a finger at me and rotates it in a circular motion, indicating I should turn back around. I do, but I don’t close my eyes this time. “Her clothing wasn’t very feminine, was it? Jeans, hiking boots, hair almost as short as a man’s.”

  “So what? Lots of moms dress that way.”

  “Does your mother work, Lexi?” he says. But I know he already knows the answer.

  “Yeah,” I say. I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t like Mr. Martin’s tone. “She’s a teacher. Why?”

  “I’m just putting the pieces together,” Mr. Martin says.

  “What pieces? What are you saying?”

  “I’m thinking about your story yesterday during our first session. I recall you saying you became interested in fashion because you liked watching women in pretty clothes on television. And then you started to become more interested in the women than the clothes. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah…”

  “It seems to me that your unfeminine, working mother wasn’t setting an appropriate gender example for you, and therefore you were left to seek that example elsewhere.” His voice is cutting, accusatory. “Your mother’s demonstration of improper womanhood completely warped your understanding of gender roles, Lexi.”

  The impulse I’ve been feeling all day to fight is suddenly unlocked. “Why are you attacking my mother like this?” I say, my voice betraying the emotion bubbling up inside me. “You don’t even know her!” He really thinks that because my mother has short hair and works as a schoolteacher that’s what made me gay? It just doesn’t make any sense. Plus, for someone who loves stereotypes, it seems like he’s going with the wrong one here—he’s conveniently ignoring the fact that traditionally, most teachers are not only female but nurturing as well. His argument holds absolutely no water.

  “I’m not attacking anyone, Lexi,” Mr. Martin says calmly. “I’m just trying to help you. Let me help you.”

  I open my mouth, about to tell Mr. Martin exactly what I think about his whole Father Wound exercise, when I catch Kaylee’s eye. She’s standing off to the side of the audience area, looking directly at me. She holds up one palm in a tiny, calm-down gesture, and I remember what she said earlier: Just stick with it. I promise it will get easier.

  I take a few deep breaths and give her a little nod.

  I look at the other faces in the crowd—they’re riveted. With a few exceptions, everyone is focused more on Mr. Martin than me, and they all have that same expression of reverence that I saw on Carolyn yesterday as she listened to him speak. Already, my fellow campers have so much faith in this man.

  I need to too. It’s like Kaylee said yesterday—they’re doing a job. They have to be harsh and direct in order to get their message across, to cut into fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years of our making the wrong choices. Mr. Martin is a good person—he understands us; he wants to help us; he was us. He was so kind to Daniel and let Gabe call home and has been nothing but welcoming.

  But then he catches me off guard again.

  “Where’s your father, Lexi?”

  I look at him, and the innocent smile on his face confirms that he knows exactly where my father is. Even if he didn’t speak with my mother before I came here, he heard her talking about the life insurance payment yesterday.

  But he’s got me in his stronghold and isn’t going to let me go.

  “He’s dead,” I say, as emotionless as I
can, but it still comes out sharp. Even through the pain and anger swimming around in my head, I don’t miss the gasps. I guess, in this crowd, a dead parent is a lot rarer than an abusive one. “You already knew that.”

  “But we’re not here for me, Lexi. We’re here for you. And we’re here for them.” He sweeps a hand out toward the fifteen other campers. “Saying the words out loud is a very important part of this process. It makes it a lot harder to deny the truth.”

  “I’m not denying anything,” I say. “Believe me, I know all too well that my father is dead. I think about it all the time.”

  “How did your father pass away?” Mr. Martin asks.

  I hate talking about this. I hate even thinking about it. And I really don’t understand what it has to do with anything.

  But I look at Carolyn out there in the crowd and I know that she’s listening, waiting, and suddenly I want her to know my story.

  I sigh and lower my voice. “He had pancreatic cancer.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “I guess he’d had it for a long time before they actually knew what it was,” I say. “He’d been losing weight and was always complaining of stomach and back pain, but the doctors told him it was stress and to take a vacation. He took me to the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas.” It’s a complicated memory for me—we had so much fun, but knowing now that the cancer was eating at him the whole time we were there, making him sicker, taints the whole thing. I hate that doctor who told him to go on vacation instead of believing my dad that there was something wrong and doing more tests.

  “But then he started getting jaundice—his eyes and skin had this weird yellowish tint—and the doctors finally figured out what was causing it. But it was too late. They pumped all this chemo into him, and he lost his hair and he got really weak and had to leave his job…” I break off for a moment. My eyes are filling with tears and my throat is threatening to close up. I blink, and the moisture overflows, spilling down my face. “And then he died anyway. Seven months after he was diagnosed.”