Free Inclination by Mia Kerick Page B

wrecked.
    It’s very late
now and I’m still behind the church where I parked my car before my meeting
with Mrs. Martine. When I first came out here I couldn’t drive because my tears
made it too difficult to see, and then, strangely, I’d drifted off into an
unsettled sleep. And when I woke up, I immediately remembered what happened in
the basement of the church. So instead of calling or driving home, I let myself
sink—like a brick tossed into a pond—headlong into depression. At this point,
I’ve been sitting here in my car for at least an hour, running scenarios
through my brain.
     
    A. I could go to
Mrs. Martine and tell her I was wrong when I said I was gay. Yeah, right.
    B. I could go
home and tell my parents the truth, “I got kicked out of Our Way for being
gay”, and let the chips fall where they may. I figure the “chips falling” would
include Mom and Dad crying harder than I had, screaming out, “Our son is gonna burn in hell!” and wondering why they ever adopted me
in the first place.
    I am being
unfairly harsh to Mom and Dad.
    C. I could keep
what happened this evening to myself, which would require pretending I’m going
to Our Way on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night, but instead go to the mall
and get myself an Orange Julius and a soft pretzel, hang out at the arcade, and
waste money I don’t have. And my little retreat into “the great mall escape”
would last until next Sunday at church when all of the other parents ask Mom
and Dad why I’m no longer in Our Way, which would come as news to my parents.
And then the charade would be over, wouldn’t it?
    Not a wise
choice, choice C.
    D. I could tell
Mom I developed a strong passion for Buddhism, the largest religion in South
Korea, which would appeal to her desire for me to be in touch with my birth
culture. “I feel that now it is the proper time in my life to explore this
spiritual option.”
    This one feels a
lot like abandoning Jesus, and that’s intolerable to me.
    E. I could find a
way to put myself out of my misery. As in, permanently. But isn’t this option
also a sin?
    And then all I
can see in my head are my mother’s eyes, red and puffy from days of crying over
the loss of her son.
    This is the worst
choice of all. Not going to happen.
    F. I could stay
here in my car, staring out on the frozen church parking lot, hoping that Jesus
will take the wheel.
    I go with F.
    When my Dad finds
me just before midnight, I’m semi-asleep in my car, slumped over the steering
wheel. He literally lifts me up, carries me from my car, and then belts me into
his own car, speaking gentle words about how everything will be okay in the
morning. I don’t respond to him at all, as I think I’m in a sort of emotional
shock.
    What happens when
I get home is also much of a blur. I can’t miss that Mom has been crying, but
still she rushes toward me as soon as I have one foot through the front door.
    “You didn’t
answer your cell phone, Anthony! We were terribly worried about you!” She hugs
me, her tears dripping all over my face, and again I feel like a fraud.
    Mom is crying
over the image in her mind of a good Catholic boy, her loving and obedient son,
Anthony. But I’m not good, at least not according to Mrs. Martine, and I don’t
know if I can be Catholic anymore.
    “I found him—he
was exactly where you said he’d be, Gina.” Dad leads me down the hall and into
the master bedroom. Mom follows along, stopping only to grab a set of sheets
from the linen closet. And as Dad undresses me like he used to when I was a
kid, Mom makes up the air mattress that they keep on the floor in the corner of
their room, always ready and waiting for frequent, late-night “I’m scared of the monster under my bed!”
visits from my sisters.
    They hover over
me, kneeling on either side of the mattress, and kiss me one-by-one. Then they
tell me they love me, right into my ear, and assure me that we will work everything
out in the morning. I close my