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.