He read the charges: Arson with intent to defraud. And something about conduct unbecoming, but I hear they always add that. If there’s a crime becoming of a U.S. airman, I’m guessing they wouldn’t charge anyone for it. My eyes were stuck on the first line: “United States Air Force vs. Senior Airman Lauren Hough.” There it was, completely absurd and fucking terrifying.

I signed the charge sheet, the colonel dismissed me, and I marched out. Kept right on walking across the street to base legal, where I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I was going to have to call my parents.

The legal office let me use a desk and a phone. I called my mom first because I didn’t know how to reach my dad. When I’d told her about the car back when it happened, she said, “Oh, Jesus, Lauren. This lesbian thing. I don’t know about it.”

   I was worried she’d tell me more about how this lesbian thing wasn’t a good idea—“You can’t have kids, it’s just hedonism, Lauren.” Hedonism would require some degree of happiness. Mom hadn’t had much time to get used to what she called “this lesbian thing.” When I’d told her a couple years before this, she said she hoped I’d change my mind. Since those first arguments, when it seemed like all she did was cry on the phone, and I’d cry after we hung up, we’d agreed to a sort of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy of our own.

But she didn’t say any of that. She said she’d pray for me. She said she’d come to the trial. She asked me if I needed money for a lawyer. I told her the Air Force was providing one.

“I’ll be okay. I need a number for Dad.” She said to ask Valerie. She might know.

Valerie was still at work when I called. I left a message for her to call me. I tried to call Mikey. We didn’t talk much, not since I left home and joined the Air Force. He was in college, still living with Gabe, who Mom had finally divorced soon after I left for the Air Force. Mom had moved to Massachusetts. Mikey still had to finish college.

I hadn’t talked to Gabe in years. I called the house in Texas, and Gabe answered. I didn’t get the words out—“Can I talk to Mikey?”—before he hung up.

I wasn’t sure until that moment that I would call my dad. But somewhere between the click of the line going dead and my setting the phone back into its cradle, I knew I had to. I walked back to my dorm room and waited for the phone to ring.

   Valerie called back and gave me the number for a Family home in Sweden where she thought Dad might be.

Because Dad was still in the Family, we were never sure where he was. I didn’t know if he’d ever leave. He’d visited a couple times since we’d left the cult when I was fifteen. But the joy of each visit had dissolved into heated words and tears as he defended them. His eyes damp, he’d say, “Let’s just agree to disagree.” And I’d tell him, “They told you to say that.” Because they had. I’d read the memo. But sometimes his love for me broke through the fog of a cult member’s brain. When I’d told him I was gay, he didn’t condemn me. I knew he was supposed to. But he didn’t. All he said was, “Oh, honey, that must be so hard on you.” I hoped I could break through again.

I didn’t always make it easy. When I told him I’d joined the Air Force, I told him to hurt him. He was a pacifist who’d gone so far as joining a cult to avoid getting his draft card. He was nineteen, hitchhiking to Mexico. A couple cult members found him sitting out in front of a library in Dallas. Asked him if he believed in God, and he said, “Yeah, sure, man. I’m god, you’re god, we’re all god.” They took him back to the Texas Soul Clinic. Thirty years later, on a different continent, he was still under their sway. I knew you couldn’t argue someone out of delusion. Each hateful word would cause him to dig in deeper. But still, I wanted my dad to come to my court-martial. At least I knew there was no way he’d side with the Air Force.

   I called the home. I never concerned myself with time zones. I didn’t care about who I woke up. They’d never been all that concerned with respecting my sleep. The guy who answered the phone pretended he didn’t speak English at first. Said he didn’t understand. That line, “I don’t understand,” is the sum total of my Swedish. I said, “I’m looking for my dad, tall guy, American. I think he’s going by Joshua. Married to a little Venezuelan woman, probably goes by Esther.”

He said, “Oh, he’s not here?” Something close to an American accent. Hard consonants, gratingly positive inflection. They all fucking sound like that. “Listen. Can you call back in a few hours?”

I asked, “Is he not there right now, or he doesn’t live there?” I had to be careful. If this guy hung up the phone, there would be no way to reach my dad.

He said, “Doesn’t live here.”

“Well, I can’t call back. I have to find him. It’s an emergency.”

He said, “Okay. Call back in a half hour? I need to ask someone. God bless you.”

I could hear a party gearing up in a room down the hall, loud voices, Limp Bizkit—Friday night in the dorms.

I called the number again. Three rings. Four. I was afraid he wouldn’t answer. I was afraid they’d pack up the home and leave because of a phone call—not actually unheard of. All it takes is asking them if you need to pick up white sugar on the way home—universal Family code for “the police are on their way.” The home will be empty in less than an hour. They’re easily spooked. But on the seventh ring, the same guy picked up. “Hello?” he said.