Educated

knock you down into the depths of humility. And when you are there, when
you are lying broken, you will call on the Divine Father for mercy.” Dad’s
voice, which had risen to fever pitch, now fell to a murmur. “And He will not
hear you.”
I met his gaze. He was burning with conviction; I could almost feel the
heat rolling off him. He leaned forward so that his face was nearly touching
mine and said, “But I will.”
The silence settled, undisturbed, oppressive.
“I will offer, one final time, to give you a blessing,” he said.
The blessing was a mercy. He was offering me the same terms of surrender
he had offered my sister. I imagined what a relief it must have been for her, to
realize she could trade her reality—the one she shared with me—for his. How
grateful she must have felt to pay such a modest price. I could not judge her
for her choice, but in that moment I knew I could not choose it for myself.
Everything I had worked for, all my years of study, had been to purchase for
myself this one privilege: to see and experience more truths than those given
to me by my father, and to use those truths to construct my own mind. I had
come to believe that the ability to evaluate many ideas, many histories, many
points of view, was at the heart of what it means to self-create. If I yielded
now, I would lose more than an argument. I would lose custody of my own
mind. This was the price I was being asked to pay, I understood that now.
What my father wanted to cast from me wasn’t a demon: it was me.
Dad reached into his pocket and withdrew a vial of consecrated oil, which
he placed in my palm. I studied it. This oil was the only thing needed to
perform the ritual, that and the holy authority resting in my father’s
misshapen hands. I imagined my surrender, imagined closing my eyes and
recanting my blasphemies. I imagined how I would describe my change, my
divine transformation, what words of gratitude I would shout. The words
were ready, fully formed and waiting to leave my lips.
But when my mouth opened they vanished.
“I love you,” I said. “But I can’t. I’m sorry, Dad.”
My father stood abruptly.
He said again there was an evil presence in my room, that he couldn’t stay
another night. Their flight was not until morning, but Dad said it was better to
sleep on a bench than with the devil.
My mother bustled about the room, shoveling shirts and socks into their
suitcase. Five minutes later, they were gone.