Mom got lured into Scientology by one of the women she works with at the credit union. Bethany convinced Mom that L. Ron Hubbard’s brand of pseudoscience could fix her “ruin,” which at the time was marriage to an uncommunicative husband. Of course, Mom never mentioned that the reason Dad didn’t talk much was because she never shut up long enough to give him the chance. Just bitch, bitch, bitch. I learned to tune her out around kindergarten.
Dad chose gin as his way to cope, and as he relied more and more on that habit, Mom retreated further and further into the belly of her cult, and that is exactly what Scientology is. She paid for their books. Paid for their courses and seminars. Moved from member to counselor to auditor and hopes to climb even higher in the organization. Whatever turns her on.
Personally, the whole thing turns me off. I was ten when she first fell prey to the hype, but Dad managed to buffer me for two years, and I listened to his warnings about the bizarre nature of the “not-religion,” as he called it. “They say they want to clear you of negative thoughts and events,” he told me. “But all they do is baffle you with their bullshit and keep banking your money.”
After Dad left, Mom coerced me into a couple of auditing sessions, where strangers tried to erase a few of my personal negatives by asking questions designed to induce guilt in children. The first was, “Do you have a secret?”
What kid doesn’t? I already knew that saying no wouldn’t cut it, but I also realized whatever I said would probably get back to my mom. So I answered, “I said a bad word.” When pressed, I admitted that word was “damn.” At twelve, I’d been practicing cussing for a while, and “damn” was not the worst of it, but that was all I was copping to.
The guy made me tell him where I said it (school), when I said it (at lunch), to whom I said it (a girl who bullied me). He was older, and tufts of gray hair poked out of his ears, so when he insisted I repeat the story, I wondered if he had trouble hearing. But when he asked me to tell it yet again, he wanted me to add stuff—what did I have for lunch that day, who was with the girl, what were the two of them wearing? Each detail was supposed to lighten the burden of carrying the memory around. Maybe it did. Who knows?
But, as I suspected, Mom scrubbed my mouth with soap on a nail brush. I guess it could’ve been worse, which is why I chose that secret to share. The one about letting our next-door teenage neighbor touch my boobs for a dollar? Yeah, not so much. I quit going anywhere near Mom’s “church” after I was stupid enough to admit shoplifting a pack of gum. Details. Juicy Fruit. The guy in line ahead of me was a large man, easily big enough to hide me from the cashier while I stuffed the gum in the front of my pants. Jeans.
When Mom found out, I couldn’t wear jeans for days. They irritated the welts. So now, when she’s busy training or auditing or whatever she’s doing, I use the unsupervised time to enjoy things I’ll never confess to her or her minions. Especially not in Los Angeles. Uh-uh. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve done a little research. Lots of horror stories out there about freaking Sea Org. It swallows people whole, and those who somehow find their way out are stalked. Harassed. Billed beaucoup dollars for supposed training. No sir, not me. I’m still working on a solid getaway scheme.
Today Tati and I headed downtown to see if we could scare up a good time. One of the bars had put together an unofficial Oktoberfest. Beer and barbecued sausages. Now that’s my idea of fun, especially when someone else is buying.
Technically we weren’t allowed to drink, of course. We have fake IDs, thanks to Tati’s big brother, who’s got connections, but we’re kind of scared to use them. But luck was with us, because we hooked up with a couple of soldiers from Fort Hood. They were sitting at a table outside, sucking suds and half listening to the National League Championship baseball game onscreen inside.
“Who’s winning?” I asked as we approached.
“Atlanta. Fuckers.”
“Hey, now,” said the other guy. “That’s no way to talk to a lady. Sorry, girls. Robin’s a little pissed at the Braves.”
Robin. Weird name for an overbuilt hulk with a dark buzz cut and an iron jaw.
“Houston was in over their heads,” I said, showing off just a little. “Atlanta was bound to beat ’em.”
Mr. Polite checked me out. “You like baseball?”
“Yeah. Football, too. Hockey, not so much.”
Sergeant Jason Baxter laughed and introduced himself. “Sit down, if you want.” He turned his full attention to me, while Robin homed in on Tati.
“Buy us a beer?” I asked boldly.
“How old are you, anyway?”
I flashed my bogus ID. “Old enough.”
He rolled his eyes, but laughed again and went inside, returning with two frosty mugs of foamy brew. “So tell me how come you like sports. Most sports,” he corrected.
We drank and talked for a couple of hours, exchanging information cautiously. I talked about Dad, and recently losing him, avoiding much mention of Mom. He talked about himself, mostly.
Jason’s twenty-seven, and a Texas boy through and through. Tati thought I was crazy for picking a guy so much older than me, but I liked his manners and the way he made me feel like the prettiest girl in the whole place.
“But he’s shorter than you,” Tati said.
“Who isn’t?” I replied.