Chosen

were you thinking when you decided on this for my birthday present?"
    Mom seemed annoyed at my question. "We were thinking that you'd like to know that you're still part of this family."
    "But I'm not. I haven't been for a long time before I was Marked. You know that and I know that and John knows that."
    "Your father most certainly does not—"
    I held up my hand to cut her off. "No! John Heffer is not my father. He's your husband, and that's all he is. Your choice—not mine. That's all he's ever been." The wound that had been bleeding inside me from the time my mother had walked up broke open and hemorrhaged anger throughout my body. "Here's the deal, Mom. When you bought my present you were supposed to be picking something you thought I might actually like, not something your husband wanted crammed down my throat."
    "You don't know what you're talking about, young lady," my mother said. Then she glared at Grandma. "She gets this attitude from you."
    My grandma raised one silver brow at her daughter and said, "Thank you, Linda, that might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
    "Where is he?" I asked my mom.
    "Who?"
    "John. Where is he? You didn't come here for me. You came here because he wanted you to make me feel bad, and that's not something he'd miss. So where is he?"
    "I don't know what you mean." Her eyes flicked around guiltily, and I knew I'd guessed right.
    I stood up and called down the sidewalk, "John! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
    Sure enough, a man detached himself from one of the stand-up tables that were situated at the opposite end of the sidewalk near the Starbucks entrance. I studied him as he walked up to us, trying to understand what my mother had ever seen in him. He was a totally unspectacular guy. Average height—dark, graying hair—weak chin—narrow shoulders—skinny legs. It wasn't till you looked in his eyes that you saw anything unusual, and then what was reveled was an unusual absence of warmth. I'd always thought it was weird that such a cold, soulless guy would constantly spout religion.
    He reached our table and started to open his mouth, but before he could speak I tossed my "gift" at him.
    "Keep it. It's not my family and it's not my beliefs," I said, looking him squarely in the eyes.
    "So you're choosing evil and darkness," he said.
    "No. I'm choosing a loving goddess who has Marked me as her own and gifted me with special powers. I choose a different way than you. That's all there is to it."
    "As I said, you choose evil." He rested his hand on my mom's shoulder, like she needed his support to be able to sit there. Mom covered his hand with hers and made sniffling sounds.
    I ignored him and focused on her.
    "Mom, please don't do this again. If you can accept me, and if you really want to see me, then call and we'll meet. But pretending you want to see me because John tells you what to do hurts my feelings and isn't good for either of us."
    "It is good for a wife to submit unto her husband," John said.
    I thought about mentioning how chauvinistic and patronizing and just plain wrong that sounded, but instead I decided not to waste my breath and said, "John, go to hell."
    "I wanted you to turn away from the evil," Mom said, crying softly.
    My grandma spoke up. Her voice was sad but stern. "Linda, it is unfortunate that you found and then bought completely into a belief system that insists as one of its basic tenants that different means evil."
    "What your daughter has found is God, no thanks to you," John snapped.
    "No. My daughter has found you, and it is sad but true that she never liked to think for herself. Now you're doing her thinking for her. But here's a little independent thought that Zoey and I would like to leave with you," Grandma continued speaking as she handed me my lavender plant and first edition of Dracula, and then grabbed my elbow and pulled me to my feet. "This is America, and that means you don't have the right to think for the rest of us. Linda, I agree with Zoey. If you can find some sense in that head of yours and want to see us because you love us as we are, then give me a call. If not, I don't want to hear from you again." Grandma paused and shook her head in disgust at John. "And you, I don't ever want to hear from again, no matter what."
    As we walked away, John's voice whipped out at us, sharp and cutting with anger and hatred. "Oh, you'll hear from me again. Both of you will. There are many good, decent, God-fearing people who are