by Bryan Bliss
Dad empties his third packet of sugar into the cup before saying, “I wanted to talk with you about last night.”
At first my stomach flips, but I quickly realize he’s talking about church—Brother John. He blows on his coffee and heads toward the aisles of food, looking at the shelves.
“I know this is confusing,” he says. “But everything’s going to be okay. I know it like I know the sun will rise. God’s up there working right now, and all we have to do is wait.”
He pulls a package of sugar-filled cereal from the shelf and looks at it. On a different day, in a different time, he’d be putting it in our cart and making me promise not to tell Mom. Hiding it behind boxes of crackers in the pantry. Stuff like that was always contraband in our house. But today he just puts it back on the shelf and starts walking again.
I try to forget what Aaron said last night, how we’re never going home. How Dad and Mom have failed us. Instead I focus on racing Dad to the store. Putting that one carefree moment on a loop and playing it endlessly in my mind as a constant reminder that we haven’t changed. Not really. Not ever. And maybe these glimmers of recognition are enough to start a fire—one that blazes high and hot enough that even Aaron can’t ignore it.
I smile, and it’s like Dad can see inside my head because he drains the cup of coffee and says, “So what are we going to do about that brother of yours?”
I could tell him what he wants to hear—that Aaron’s fine. That we’re all fine. All those white lies that fall from my lips so easily these days. But I don’t.
“He’s mad,” I say. “Really mad.”
“I know.” He looks like he’s been knocked to the ground as he says it. “But I also know that God still has your brother in his hands. He’s going to be okay. We all are.”
This is water on the fire—the only answer he gives anymore, and I hate it. Partially because I want to feel like we’re not alone, that it’s just a matter of believing more—believing better. But there’s been so little proof. And even if that weren’t the case, what are you supposed to do when every single day seems worse than the last? Are you supposed to keep pointing your head up and asking the same question over and over again?
It’s so much easier than that, and he has to see it.
“What if we’re not okay?” The question stops Dad cold. And once it comes from my mouth, I can’t stop the other words from spilling out. “We could go home. That would make Aaron happy. That would make me happy. Can’t we just go home?”
His face changes, the way it did when he came to school to tell me Grandma died. Like there weren’t words to properly describe how he was feeling and no way to soften the blow.
“I know this is hard on you,” he starts.
“If we go home, it won’t be hard,” I interrupt. “I know we don’t have the house, but that’s fine. We’ll be fine.”
“We can’t leave, Gabs. Not now.” Dad reaches out and hugs me in the middle of the store, but I don’t even raise my arms. I become a statue.
I don’t want to be mad at him, but how can he not see what’s happening with Aaron, with all of us? He pulls me even closer, whispering in my ear—“God is working, Gabs. Watching every step we take. We’ve got nothing to fear.” We’re standing there, still in the middle of the grocery store. I try to let myself get taken away by his words and his embrace. But nothing he says affects me at all. They’re just words. Instead I watch the people moving slowly through the aisles, the only thing on their mind is the sort of chips they should buy. Whether it will be sandwiches or a salad for lunch. The injustice of it smacks me in the face, and all I want to do is run away, down the street screaming until I feel better. Until this makes sense. But Dad won’t let me go, not even a little.
The first thing Dad says when we’re outside is, “I’m not running anymore, so forget it.” He laughs and walks a few steps ahead of me, his face lifted to the sky. I follow him, thinking about home and why that isn’t good enough now. Even without the house, it makes more sense than this.
What’s most frustrating is that it’s not even a hard plan to imagine. We could call Uncle Jake and tell him we were coming home today and it would be automatic. We’d stay in his basement. Dad could get a new job. We would start over. That’s how the story ends, or maybe how it begins. Either way, it’s so obvious it makes my head hurt.
I don’t realize we’re standing in front of Brother John’s building until Dad nods at the door and says, “Only a minute or two. Okay?”
He opens the door without waiting for my answer, holding it until I follow him into the dark building. The windows never let in enough light to make the room feel lit or warm, unlike the large stained glass of First Methodist, our home church. What light does slip in is neon from the liquor store across the street, making everything look as if it were on fire.
Dad is walking toward the front row of chairs when Brother John appears from his office.
“Oh, Brother John. I just though I’d take some time,” he says, motioning to the cross. He seems so small whenever he’s around Brother John, even though he’s got six inches and at least fifty pounds on him. Brother John nods once, twice.
“Of course, Brother Dale. Maybe Abigail would like to come to my office while she waits? I just bought some muffins.”
I grab Dad’s hand, instinctively pulling myself closer to him. I don’t want to sit and listen to Brother John for even a second, but Dad lets go of my hand and nudges me forward. I’m frozen, trying to figure out what I should do. Aaron wouldn’t care. He’d walk for the doors right now, no matter what either of them thought. But I can’t move. It doesn’t help that my stomach rumbles like a car coming to life.
“A message from above,” Brother John says, smiling.
His office is just as bare as the rest of the building. A Bible sits open on the desk along with a few newspapers. In the corner of the room, a large metal box rests on a card table. It hums softly, a pair of headphones and a large microphone beside it. Behind me, Brother John opens a box of muffins and puts one on a napkin for me.
“Have one,” Brother John says, handing me a muffin. “They’re fresh.”
The muffin smells wonderful. I can almost feel the warmth trapped inside it. I imagine my teeth breaking through the crusty top. The soft sweetness of the middle.
“Go ahead. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
I take a small bite. It’s carrot and close to divine. Brother John smiles, watching me eat, his hands folded. The second bite is just as unbelievable as the first. I don’t say anything and neither does he until the muffin is nothing but crumbs. I pick them off the napkin, because I’m hungry and afraid of what I might say.
He finally breaks the silence. “How are you, Abigail?”
I don’t know how to respond. Is it wrong to lie to a pastor? Is he really a pastor?
“Fine. Thank you.”
Brother John nods and moves some papers across his desk. He motions for me to keep talking. I play with the napkin, twisting it into a cone. Every question I’ve ever had is rising up, and I’m doing my best to tamp them down. All I want to do is leave. For Dad to finish praying so we can get out of here.
“Well, I know this has been tough on you and your family,” he says. “It’s been tough on all of us. But what can you do? It’s the Lord’s world. He does with it as He pleases.”
This annoys me, more than I’d like. It has been tough, even though that doesn’t seem like the appropriate word. Disastrous. Cataclysmic. Apocalyptic—that one he’d surely like. But tough? It’s been more than tough.
“I can tell you have something to say,” he says. “Questions. Other things. I have questions, too. Know where I find the answers?”
He taps the Bible and smiles, waiting for me to say something. At first, I’m not going to say anything. I’ll sit here, creating more and more awkward silence until Dad comes through the door. But then he says, “Everything happens for a reason.”
And that’s an answer I can’
t handle.
So, fine. He wants a question? A real question? I let him have the only one that any of us should be asking.
“Why didn’t it happen?” I ask. I expect Brother John to get angry, to stand up and force me to repent right there. Instead he shifts back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair.
“I don’t know. But I can assure you it was not God’s fault. I must’ve gotten the date wrong. Or maybe we weren’t ready yet. The important thing is that we remain steadfast in the Lord.”
Of course this is the answer. It’s been the answer ever since I knew there was a question. God is good and you do not question that goodness. Everything happens for a reason. We’re supposed to sit down here waiting until God gets ready.
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I say.
He doesn’t seem surprised. He simply says, “Why?”
It’s ridiculous, and I know my face shows my emotions like a mirror.
“Why? We’re living in our van.”
He nods, as if he’s both tired of the conversation and has already heard the answer a hundred times before. The anger, the frustration—it’s hot enough to burn through my skin.
“Sister, God’s going to come down here and fix every problem this world has ever known. So keep that as your focus. If you remember God’s plan, what you want becomes irrelevant.”
I open my mouth, but Brother John holds up his hands.
“We all have to accept the situation God gives us and move forward humbly and fearfully. Anything less is obstinacy. It’s sin, plain and simple.”
I swallow once. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
Brother John stands up and comes around the desk. At first, I think he’s going to try and hug me. Or maybe pray. Instead he kneels in front of me and says, “God never gives us anything we cannot handle. I want you to hold on to that whenever you start feeling doubtful. I want you to rest easy in the fact that God is doing all of this for a reason.”
SEVEN
AS WE WALK BACK TO THE VAN, THE CONSTANT CLOUDS THAT pack the sky start to break up. Little beams of sunlight hit the ground. A few blocks later, the sky is clear. Dad doesn’t speak as we follow street after street, a map he’s surely memorized by now. His face is tired but focused, every bit of concentration going toward whatever is in his head.
I walk beside him, thinking about what Brother John said—this is happening for a reason.
Everything I’ve endured before has been small. Wearing hand-me-down clothing or not getting my license when everyone else was pulling into the school parking lot with their parents’ truck. Growing up, Dad always told us that God took care of the birds and we were so much more to Him than a flock of birds. So whenever Mom came home with a new shirt or a pair of shoes, I counted it as proof that God was good, that he was watching over us every step of the way. But now I know those were small things, troubles that were easy to withstand.
I don’t know what it says about me that I can’t feel the same way about being here. That every minute we spend in this city pushes me further away from everything I want to believe. This could be a test and I’m failing spectacularly. But if it is? If God really is doing all of this for a reason, then I don’t know what to think.
Because how does that make sense?
We turn a corner—the football stadium just in the distance—and a full blast of sunshine makes both of us shield our eyes. Dad says, “Well, look here. The sun shines in this place after all.”
“I told Brother John I didn’t want to be here anymore,” I say. The words come out tentative, sheepish. “I’m scared. And I was happy when we didn’t go. I was happy that all of us got in the van that night.”
Just saying the words makes me feel lighter, and for a second I think Dad is going to nod and tell me he feels the same way.
“I get scared too, Gabs.”
If only he stopped right there.
“But God is up there watching everything we do, and when I get to thinking about that, all that fear drops away. All of it.”
“Brother John said God is doing this to us,” I say. “He says we’re in the van for a reason.”
Dad thinks for a second and then says, “Well, yeah. I mean, that has to be it, right? God is working—that does mean we’re here for a reason. Doesn’t it?”
Before I would’ve trusted him completely, would’ve pushed down all my questions and made whatever he said the infallible truth of my life. I search for even a flicker of that same trust now, but it’s gone. We’re thousands of miles from home—we’ll shiver through another night in our van—and that should make him ask the same questions I can’t escape. That should scare him enough that we aren’t standing here talking about God.
I don’t answer him and he must take the silence as agreement, because he puts an arm around my shoulder and says, “Hey, there’s sunshine and we’ve got a good blanket in the van. What do you say we go down to that park and have ourselves a picnic? We’ll even get that mopey brother of yours to come along. What do you think?”
I think: What will we eat and whose blanket will have grass all over it when we go to sleep tonight? Why are we having a picnic when we practically live outside? I want to grab him by the shoulders and scream: Are you even paying attention?
“Hey, c’mon, Gabs. Let’s do this. It will be fun. Like the picnics we had at Baker’s Mountain. Remember?”
He pushes my arm until I nod, pretending it’s even close to the same thing.
Dad smiles big, bright. And as we start walking back to the van, I look up to the sky—squinting into the sun—and think: if You’re really there, then help me.
We walk past kids with skinny pants and hats pulled low. Behind them are men with dogs and beards, laughing and passing around a bottle hidden inside a brown paper bag. The entrance to the park is full of people, all of them lying in the sun. Dad comments on everything as we walk down the hill toward a dark tunnel.
Aaron put up a huge fight about leaving the van—especially when he heard we were coming to the park. Now Dad talks like it was Aaron’s idea.
“Do you know anything about the park?” Dad asks Aaron, like he’s some sort of expert on the city.
I expect him to ignore Dad, but he actually responds.
“It looks like a bunch of drug dealers and homeless people,” Aaron says. “Really beautiful. I’m ecstatic.”
I wince. Dad looks at Mom and says, “We should get him a job as a tour guide!”
Aaron doesn’t smile. He walks ahead of us, looking around as if he expects somebody to jump out of the bushes with a knife.
For a second, the tunnel blocks out the sun. Dirt hangs from its top in unsteady cones and stagnant water collects along the sides. It feels like a place people get mugged. But when we reappear on the other side, the day is still nothing short of perfect. It’s like fall in North Carolina, when you first start wearing jeans and a sweater. People are everywhere, thankful for the cloud break. Kids play. Some college-aged guys throw a football. Off in the corner a lady’s dancing, her skirt flaring around her with each twirl.
Dad stops us in front of a patch of green grass and Mom lays down a blanket. As soon as it’s straight, Dad stretches his body across it and closes his eyes, basking in the sun. Mom begins unwrapping sandwiches, courtesy of the Baptists from two days ago.
“This is living,” Dad says. “Good food. Good weather. My main squeeze, my favorite kids. It doesn’t get better than this.”
Mom smiles and puts a hand on his forearm before setting a sandwich on the blanket. Mom hands me one, too—bologna and American cheese—and I take a bite, dry as sand. Aaron hasn’t touched his food or said a word to any of us. Even when I ask him if he wants to finish my sandwich, he just shakes his head and looks away.
I end up focusing on the playground, the kids climbing on something that looks like the sail of a ship. The more I watch, the more I wish I were younger. Slides and swings and sand—a paradise, once upon a time. Behind it all, kid
s scream as they use old pizza boxes to fly down a cement slide built into the side of a hill. Everybody seems perfect and happy.
“I’m going to go on the swings,” I say.
“Take your brother,” Dad says. “I could use some alone time with my lady.”
Mom shakes her head, but smiles. I expect Aaron to roll his eyes, to sigh—something. Instead he’s staring into the park nervously, as if he’s ready to jump up and start running at a moment’s notice.
“I don’t want to go on the swings,” Aaron says. “I want to go back to the van.”
“He speaks!” Dad says. When Aaron doesn’t respond, he says, “Go with your sister.” When Aaron still doesn’t say anything, Dad’s voice loses the playfulness and all he says is, “Please?”
Aaron grabs his sandwich and stands up, walking directly for the swings without waiting for me. I’m trying to clean up my food when Mom touches me on the hand and says, “I’ll get it. Go have fun with your brother.”
I walk slowly, not sure if I want to be alone with Aaron right now. I know telling him anything that happened with Dad or Brother John will only solidify his anger, but the thought of keeping it inside—of living with it all by myself—is almost worse.
When I finally catch up with him, he’s leaning against the swings, which are packed full of kids.
“Do you really want to swing?” he asks, looking across the park.
“It’s better than sitting there doing nothing,” I say.
He stands rigidly, annoyed with everything. If a kid walked by with an ice-cream cone, I swear Aaron would knock it out of his hands. And even though I have nothing to laugh about, the mental picture of that makes me smile.
“Well, I don’t want to go on swings or get ice cream or go to the beach. I want to get the hell out of here. As soon as possible.”
Behind Aaron comes the unmistakable sound of a trumpet. It doesn’t take long for me to see the trumpet man outlined against the sky as he marches across the top of one of the park’s rolling hills. He lifts the trumpet to his lips again and plays a note that sounds like a cow being strangled to death.