by Lisa Henry
Before he got there, he met Kevin, who looked nervous. “Hey, Nate?”
Nate forced his voice steady. “What’s up?”
“Well, Isaac was supposed to go with the group to the lake today. But Leanne says he didn’t want to go. That he wanted to go to the chapel instead and pray.”
“Yeah, I talked to him earlier.”
“So she let him go. Asked if I’d check on him now and then. But I just went in there, and I didn’t see him.”
“Okay.” Nate ran a hand through his hair. Enough. First Steven and Tyler, and now Isaac. All of them from Maple. All of them his kids. Were they a particularly difficult bunch this time, or was it Nate’s fault for not trying harder, for not believing the words he spoke? He’d tried though. He’d tried for years. Maybe he was too weak to keep fighting his phantoms, or maybe he was finally strong enough to see the truth.
He almost laughed.
They couldn’t both be right, could they? He and his dad. Not about this.
“Nate? You okay?” Kevin was looking at him oddly.
“Fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Are Steven and Tyler at the lake?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He didn’t want to drag them up to his dad’s office with all the other kids watching and speculating. Knowing Steven and Tyler, they’d turn it into a performance. “I’ll go track Isaac down, and deal with them next.”
“With Steven and Tyler?”
Nate sighed. “Yeah. One of those days.”
Kevin smiled. “Okay.”
Nate headed back for the main building, thoughts of Steven and Tyler rushing through his head. God. He couldn’t believe he’d said that to his dad. “I don’t really think it’s wrong.” It would be one heck of a talk they’d have later, no doubt. He wanted to call Jason, to ask what he should do, what he should say, how to come out. How to do it for real this time. To come out and stay out, and not get pushed back inside the closet. But Jason couldn’t help him with this. It was weird to even want to ask, given their history, but who else could he talk to?
He pushed open the doors to the chapel and walked up the aisle between the pews. “Isaac?”
The sunlight filtered through the windows. The chapel had always brought him peace and comfort, but he wondered now if it was because it was God’s house, or simply because this was a familiar place, a safe place. This chapel, even more so than the church in town, was where Nate felt happy.
It was empty. Nate sighed. He hoped Isaac hadn’t run again.
He sat down in the front pew and dug his phone out of his pocket. He had a sudden urge to call his mom, but didn’t. Anything he had to say to her, it needed to be said face to face. She would never turn her back on him, he knew that, but he was still afraid of telling her the truth. Of changing their relationship forever—as though this one, fundamental lie he’d told over and over about himself would poison every other aspect of his life, even those parts of it that he thought were solid as bedrock.
He glanced around the chapel, his gaze catching on the vestry door. It was ajar. He rose and crossed to the door. Put his hand on the doorknob and was going to tug it closed, when for some reason he stopped. He pushed it open instead.
He saw the blood.
The blood first, and then the boy.
“Isaac! Isaac!”
Isaac’s eyes were still open, still blinking dozily up at him, but Isaac was no Nate. He hadn’t cut across. Hadn’t chickened out when it hurt. So much blood. His face was gray and his lips were blue.
“Isaac!” Nate went to his knees on the floor. Ripped an altar cloth from the rickety shelf by the door and wrapped it around Isaac’s left arm. Isaac tried to pull away, muttering something Nate couldn’t understand. His right arm was cut too, but not as deeply. Not as cleanly. “Dad! Kevin! Help!”
He fumbled for his phone, trying to keep pressure on Isaac’s wounds. Dialed 9-1-1. Wasn’t sure he got anything out between his choking tears, and his please, please, please don’t die.
“Isaac....” He knelt over him, hands clamped around his wrists. His phone was covered in blood now, and he could still hear the operator’s tinny voice speaking to him, telling him to stay on the line. “I’m here, I’m still here. I’m putting pressure on his wrists.”
He stayed there. He had to keep pressure on the wounds, but more importantly, he couldn’t leave Isaac alone. Because that was what he remembered from his own experience—that even though he’d made the choice because he couldn’t have felt any more alone than he did, he’d still been scared when he’d seen the blood. He’d still wanted someone there with him, had panicked when he’d realized he was going to die alone, without ever speaking to anyone again.
“I’m here.” This time he said it to Isaac, not the operator. “I’m here.”
Chapter Fourteen
The hospital’s ground floor elevators were full, and Jason wanted to get to the second floor as quickly as possible, so he attempted the stairs.
Which ended up taking way fucking longer than waiting for the elevators. He cursed himself as he staggered out the stairwell door and into the second-floor corridor.
He saw Nate sitting in a chair outside room 207 and relief rushed through him. He wasn’t sure why—Nate wasn’t the one who’d hurt himself. This time. But he felt a flash of terror too, seeing Nate so beaten down.
He needs a rock. I’m…smashed. Fragments.
“Hey,” Jason said softly.
Nate looked up, and God, if it was possible to fall in love in a moment, this was it. This completely wrong, selfish moment. Jason didn’t care what else happened with the rest of his damn life, he just wanted to spend it with Nate.
Yeah, lay that on him now. I’m sure he’s in the mood.
“Thanks for coming,” Nate murmured.
He had a magazine in his lap, but he didn’t appear to be reading it. He was making a series of minuscule tears in one corner of the page. Jason lowered himself carefully into the chair beside Nate. He was out of breath, and pain was shooting up and down his leg, but he ignored it. He slid the magazine gently away from Nate and set it on the table. Offered his hand instead. Nate stared at it for a second then took it.
“He’s sleeping.” Nate’s voice wavered. “So I can’t see him yet. And maybe he doesn’t want to see me. I don’t know.”
“You know this isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it? I told him he could overcome it if he was strong enough. I was a fucking hypocrite, and now he—”
“Stop,” Jason said firmly. He tried to tamp down the thought that had been nagging at him since he’d received Nate’s message about Isaac: that he himself shared blame in this—he’d told Isaac to go back to the camp. “This isn’t anyone’s fault.” Except the reverend’s.
Wasn’t this what Jason had always wanted, on some level? Validation for his belief that the reverend hurt people, hurt kids?
Not like this. I never wanted this.
What would Molly make of this? Would she use this, the way Jason had used Nate?
Nate watched as a nurse went into Isaac’s room.
“Do you think…?” Nate turned to Jason. “Should I ask?”
“Give it just a minute.” Jason placed a hand between Nate’s shoulders and rubbed, not sure if the contact would be welcome or not. He was glad to feel Nate relax slightly.
A few minutes later, the nurse came out again. He glanced briefly at Nate and Jason and smiled. “Are you here for Isaac?”
Nate stiffened, and Jason let his hand fall. “Yes,” Nate said. “Is he awake?”
“He is.”
“Could you ask if, uh… Can you tell him Nate’s here? And…” He glanced at Jason, then back at the nurse. “And Jason? If he doesn’t want to see us, that’s okay, but…”
“Of course.” The nurse stepped quietly back into Isaac’s room. Jason heard low voices—the nurse’s, gentle, and Isaac’s a hoarse mumble. His stomach grew tight with nerves. He’d come here to support Nate, but
he had no idea what to say to Isaac. The nurse opened the door. “You can come in.”
Numbly, Jason followed Nate into the room.
Isaac was slumped in bed, the sheet pulled up to his chest and tucked tightly around him. Jason wondered if Isaac had done that as a way of comforting himself. Shielding himself. Isaac’s eyes were puffy, his face pale except for the almost bruised looking skin under his eyes and at his temples. He didn’t look at them at first, but then suddenly his gaze lifted and his expression hardened.
“Hey,” Jason said quietly, since Nate wasn’t saying anything.
Isaac didn’t answer.
Nate stopped a couple of feet from the bedside and hovered uncertainly. “Isaac?”
Jason fought the urge to take control of the situation, get this conversation moving.
What conversation? What is there to say?
Sorry. He could say he was sorry. For taking Isaac back to camp. For not listening.
Isaac let out a soft breath. “I can’t do anything right.”
“Shut up,” Nate said fiercely, closing the gap between himself and the bed. “Shut up. Don’t you fucking say that.”
“Nate.” Jason placed a hand on Nate’s arm.
Nate shrugged him off, still looking at Isaac. “How could you? How the fuck could you?” Nate’s voice shook with rage. Jason glanced down at Nate’s hands, which were balled into fists, and then at the white scar on Nate’s wrists. Nate went on, “It’s not worth it.”
“Nate.” Jason raised his voice slightly. “Quit.”
Isaac had dropped his gaze to the sheet.
“It’s all right,” Jason said gently to Isaac. “You must have been in a lot of pain. You didn’t see any other way out.”
He heard Nate let out his breath. Saw him sag slightly. Jason stepped toward Isaac, and Isaac flinched.
“It’s okay,” Jason murmured. “It’s gonna be all right now. You’ll get the help you need.”
“What help?” Isaac’s voice was gravelly, bitter. He glared at Nate again. “The kind of fucking help I got from your father?”
Jason didn’t know what to say. He watched as Nate shook his head slowly.
“No,” Nate said. “I’m sorry, Isaac. Really sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” Isaac rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “It’s my own fault. I could have run away. When my parents first brought up the idea, I could have run. I just thought, it worked for you. The brainwashing or whatever the hell.”
Nate stepped forward, thighs pressing against the cold, hard bars of the hospital cot. “It’s not brainwashing! Isaac, it’s not, okay?”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?” Isaac’s voice was cold, contemptuous. “Fuck you, and fuck all that shit. Steven and Tyler were right.”
“No...” Nate swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No, Isaac, my father...my father loves us. He loves us.”
There was an edge of desperation to his voice that Jason hadn’t heard even when Nate was begging to be fucked, begging to sin, and begging to burn.
“Nate,” Jason said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Nate, don’t.”
The last thing Isaac needed was for Nate to start defending Reverend Tull. If Isaac needed a villain right now in order to feel stronger, than Jason couldn’t think of a better candidate. Even though a part of him knew that Nate was right: Timothy Tull genuinely believed he loved the kids who came to Moving Forward. And that just made it more of a fucking tragedy, didn’t it?
Nate sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. He hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital, but Isaac had fallen asleep again and visiting hours were over, so he’d accepted a ride home from Jason. He’d worried that saying goodbye would be awkward—he couldn’t very well invite Jason into his house, but he couldn’t just go stay at Jason’s either. He needed to talk to his father. But Jason seemed to understand. “Call me if you need anything,” he’d said. “I can pick you up tomorrow morning to go to the hospital.”
If Nate listened closely, he could hear his father’s voice down the hall. His father had probably spent most of the afternoon and evening either with the campers or on the phone. There had been a media van on the property when Nate and Jason had pulled up, but Jason had smoothly looped around to a back road and had helped Nate get into the house without being seen.
Eventually he couldn’t stand the silence of the kitchen anymore. He slid off the stool and walked down the hall. He felt curiously numb as he knocked on the door to his father’s study.
“Come in.” His dad sounded tired.
Nate turned the doorknob numbly. His fingers felt frozen. He pushed the door open.
His father’s gaze was weary. The hair at his temples was gray. When had that happened?
“Dad...”
“How’s Isaac?”
It seemed a strange question. “He’s okay.”
For now. For now he’s okay. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.
Reverend Tull sighed deeply, his shoulder sagging. “Dear Lord.”
“I’m gay, Dad.” Nate had no idea where the words had come from, or what would follow them. “It’s what I am. It’s how I was created. And trying to change...it hurts. It hurts me, and it hurts kids like Isaac, and the only thing we learn is how to hate ourselves.”
His father’s face was pale.
Nate traced the scar on his wrist. “He cut himself because it seemed easier to die than to keep struggling. Because he knew that all the prayer in the world, all the faith, wouldn’t make him change. You might love him, and God might, but he hates himself.”
“Nate...”
“He wanted to die because he’s so tired of fighting.” Nate’s voice hitched. He didn’t even know if he was talking about Isaac now, or about himself. “I know you love me, Dad. I know God loves me. Love should be enough.”
“Nate.” His father rose from his desk and came to stand in front of him. The weight of his hand on Nate’s shoulder seemed somehow grounding and oppressive at the same time. “Nate. Nathan. We should strive to be the best we can. That’s all God asks of us, or any of us.”
“I’ve been seeing Jason Banning.” Nate swallowed. “Sleeping with him.”
“Nate.” His father’s voice cracked, and he dug his fingers into Nate’s shoulder. “Oh, Nate.”
Nate swallowed, tears stinging his eyes.
“Do you love him?”
The question was so unexpected that Nate didn’t know how to answer. His throat constricted. “I don’t know. He doesn’t…make me feel like I’m unworthy of love.”
“And what about God’s love?”
“You always said that was unconditional.”
His father sighed again. “It is, Nate. It is. But...” He shook his head His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Oh, my boy, my sweet son. He hurt you. He humiliated you, and when you turn back to the things that hurt you...” He pulled Nate close suddenly, and embraced him. Tightened his arms. “When you turn back to your phantoms, I’m afraid I’ve failed you.”
For a moment Nate was almost overwhelmed by love for his father. Then a wave of something new caught him; dark and swirling, pulling him under. Was it resentment? Because why was this about his father? Why wasn’t it about Nate? And he knew—God, he knew—that resentment was a shallow, bitter emotion. It tasted foul in the back of his throat. But a part of him craved it too. A part of him wanted this to be about him. Not about his dad, or about God, or about Isaac, or even about Jason. He felt angry, and selfish, and fought the urge to push his father away.
“You haven’t failed me,” Nate said, taking a step back. His father let him go. “It’s not about you.”
His father just watched him, not speaking. He looked vulnerable, uncertain—as though he were the child.
“It’s not about you,” Nate repeated. “You don’t—you don’t have the power to make people be who you want them to be. You don’t get to decide what God wants. There are, like, hundreds of other religions. There are peopl
e who don’t believe. You don’t get to decide who’s right and who’s wrong. Faith isn’t—that. It can’t be that. It has to be something that guides you—not beliefs you impose on other people.”
He swallowed rapidly.
His father nodded, and seemed to be gathering words.
But Nate went on. “People are different. Their circumstances are different, their experiences. What’s right for you isn’t right for me—or for Mom. What’s right for me isn’t right for Jason. You don’t have the power to decide.”
He stood there, breathing hard, body shaking with adrenaline.
The reverend nodded again. “I hear you, Nate. I hear you.” But he wasn’t looking at Nate anymore.
Nate clenched his hands. Resisted the urge to ask his dad if he was okay. If everything was okay between them.
It’ll be different now. You can’t unsay what you said.
But maybe things will get better. Slowly.
His dad leaned back, looking drained of all fight—of all spirit. “I love you, Nate. So, so much. But God left his Word with us. There is a natural order, ordained by Him, and I just worry—”
“How can you say that?” Nate interrupted. “I’m your son. How can you look at me and say I don’t fit the natural order? That’s a horrible thing to say.”
His father’s eyes shone with tears. Nate felt sick. There was no worse feeling in the world than being the cause of his father’s tears. But his father shook his head, as though to put a stop to Nate’s self-recrimination. “I love you. No matter what. I hope you know that.”
The lump in Nate’s throat had sharp points. He couldn’t swallow. “Yeah.”
“Please tell me you know that.”
“I do. You…you always have. I…But Dad, if you do, then…”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Love all of me. Please?” Nate shook his head. “I need you in my life, but I can’t…”
“Come here,” his father held out his arms. Nate wanted to go to him. But he stayed back.
“I don’t know what to do,” Nate whispered.
“Come here,” his father repeated.