Tilt (15 page)

When I was little, we got along pretty

well. But that was before I came out.

Before his mother got smashed

into the asphalt by a drunk driver.

Before Shelby. After that, Dad gave

up on just about everything except

his career, which has become his entire focus.

As for the rest—his home, his church,

his wife, his kids—well, we really don’t

exist, except maybe as thorns in his side.

When I Really Stop

And think about it,

it makes me more

sad than angry at him.

Used to be he had

faith, and it made

him strong. Vibrant.

When he lost God

he lost the way to

self-forgiveness and

lacking that, he will

remain broken. Crushed.

Scrubbed of hope or

dreams. Poor Dad,

like many so-called

Christians, believes

I’m the one in need

of salvation. But I never

turned my back on faith,

and I know God hasn’t

written me off, either.

He’s too damn tenacious.

One of the Guys

I was talking to online for a while—Jess—

lives in some Bible Belt hellhole.

Once, we started talking about jacking

ourselves out of the closet. I told him

my mom took a day or two to accept

my declaration, but that my dad pretty

much slammed the figurative door

in my face. “He doesn’t want to talk

about it,” I said. “Or talk to me at all.”

Jess said,
When I crumbled and “confessed

my unnatural sin,” as my daddy called

it, Mama claimed it was Satan

who “put the homosexual inside of me,”

and if I only prayed hard enough,

God would most certainly cure me.

Okay, Nevada Methodists have

nothing on Mississippi Southern

Baptists. Dad might think being gay

is a sin, but he sees it more as a sign

of human weakness, not Satanic

interference. At least, I don’t think

he does. I figure it’s between me

and the Big Guy upstairs. We used

to go to church a lot, and I never heard

one word to make me think I’m some

sort of abomination. If God is in fact

responsible for creating me, He made

me just how He wants me. And if He

loves every bit of his handiwork, He loves

me. And if all that is nothing more than

mythology, what harm is there in

believing the stories, anyway? When

I pray—or meditate, or consider

the universe, whatever you want to call

it—I find comfort. Self-acceptance.

Understanding, at least in some world.

One Thing

God might prefer I do without

is porn. It presents a warped

view of sex. That’s what I’ve

realized post–plenty of viewing.

Weirdly, after a while, porn actually

gets kind of boring. Ditto jerking

off. I think I’m ready to take

the plunge and go for the real deal.

With Alex. Because another thing

I’ve decided through a lot of

meditation, in fact, is that life

is all about chances. You might

be safer not taking any. But

playing it totally safe means

you’re only existing. Not living.

I want to live. Want to emerge

from the virtual hell of my room,

into the heaven just outside my door.

Okay, More Like

Just outside my front door, as opposed

to my bedroom door—the one that leads

into the hallway that is currently

a conduit into my parents’ own hell.

They are fighting, a relatively rare thing,

mostly because Dad isn’t around enough

to make it common. Their voices keep

lifting higher. Louder. Sharper. I tune in.

Stop it! Just stop, Marissa. Every fucking

time some new treatment comes along,

you get your hopes up. I used to let you

get mine up too, but not anymore.

Arguing about Shelby. Wonderful.

Does Dad even get that if I can hear

him, she can, too? I can tell Mom is

trying to defuse his anger, talking about

maintaining hope. But he is steadfast

in his hopelessness.
Look, even if that

new drug turns out to be a cure,

Shelby’s not a good candidate for

treatment. You know that as well as

I do. If it’s still experimental, they’ll

look for kids with the best chances

of improvement. They need poster

children, to keep the funding coming.

All true. But why destroy Mom’s hope?

A short pause, and I hear her now.

That’s not going to make things better.

Oh, shit. I bet he’s drinking. I step

into the hall, smell alcohol, hanging

thick as incense. God, it’s not even ten a.m.

Dad disappears into the kitchen. Mom

follows as far as the doorway.
Did you

fucking hear me? I said—

Enough!

I slam my bedroom door behind

me. “Everyone between here and

Reno can hear you, Mom. If the two

of you have to fight, can you keep

it between you?” I move her to one

side, look into the kitchen to see

Dad pour a big, deep tumbler of amber

liquid. Whiskey of some kind.

“Seriously, Dad. Mom’s right. What’s

wrong with you?” He mutters an inane

reply about burdens too heavy to bear.

“Yeah, well, life pretty much sucks

and then you d—” Stop, man. Don’t

make it any more real than it already is.

I move closer to Mom. “What’s the point

of arguing? He wants to wallow.”

I don’t understand why he—

“Not so hard to figure out. It’s all

about guilt.” I pull her into the living

room, lower my voice. “He’s a coward,

and he hates being one. That’s all.”

In a Ten-Second Span