by Bryan Bliss
“Let’s go,” he says.
“Are you kidding me? What was that about?” I ask.
“Can we not do this here?” he says. “Please?”
Aaron follows me out of the park. I take the same path as Jess, past Trumpet Man, who yells out, “Happy place!” When we reach the entrance, Aaron stops and looks down the street. Jess is gone.
“Before you say anything,” Aaron says, “it’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, that must be why Jess freaked out. I mean, it’s all pretty normal besides the part where you and Skeetch are friends.”
“We’re not friends. He’s a dick.”
“Oh, great,” I say. “That clears everything up. And by the way, I’m not a complete idiot. I can guess what’s going on.”
He walks fast up the street, and I have to nearly run to keep up with him. When I tell him to slow down, he picks up the pace. I stop in front of an older apartment building with a “For Sale” sign in the window.
“Please talk to me.”
Aaron turns and kicks the gate of a doorway. It rattles loudly, the sound hammering against the enclosed porch. He grabs it with both hands and puts his forehead against the frame. He mumbles something I barely hear, and when I ask him what he said, he turns around and looks at me.
“I said . . . I’ve got it under control.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it once. His face dull and vacant.
“I’m getting us out of here. Okay?”
“Aaron . . .”
“Please, Abs.”
A family passes us, the man carrying a small girl on his shoulders. Aaron watches them for a second before starting to walk. The girl chatters on as her father lifts her above his head and then carefully down to the street. When they stop in front of a large house, we catch up with them. The little girl looks at us and says, “Hello!”
Aaron doesn’t say anything back, but I smile. I don’t make eye contact with her parents, because I don’t want to see their fear or disgust, whatever they think of us. Aaron walks with his head down against the wind, which has picked up, and I try to stay warm behind him.
We turn left, onto the street where the van is, and my stomach tightens slightly. On top of everything else, we’ve also been gone way too long. I’m trying to figure out how I’ll respond to the I Can’t Believe You’d Do This speech—how I’ll convince Aaron that he doesn’t need to do anything for Skeetch and we don’t need to leave—when Aaron stops. I almost run into him.
“The van was right here,” he says.
I look up the street. It feels familiar, but that doesn’t mean a thing. We’ve parked on this block at least ten times now.
“Are you sure?” I ask, pointing up the street. “It could be on the next block.”
“It was right here,” he says, pointing to a small natural food grocery store across from us. “Before I came to the park, I went in there and got a cup of water. It was right here, in this spot.”
We both stare at the small red car that sits there now.
“Maybe they needed it at the food bank,” I say. But that never happens. Ever. I peer further down the street, as if straining my eyes will make Mom and Dad appear.
Mom always used to worry about us getting lost in the grocery store, at the mall—whenever we’d go to the county fair. Before we’d walk into those places, she’d pull us aside and remind us to stay in one place if we got separated. That as soon as she saw us gone, nothing would keep her from finding us. Be still and wait. That has always been the plan.
I turn to Aaron. “They probably had to move the van so we didn’t get a ticket. I’m sure it’s somewhere on this street.”
He nods, but his agreement doesn’t make me feel better as we begin walking. Because it still means they left us to figure that out for ourselves. I listen for Dad’s laugh, Mom’s voice, hoping it will rise above everything like a dream—calling us to them.
We search every corner of the street, but the van isn’t here.
I almost take Aaron’s hand again, because the farther we go, the more the panic grows inside me. Even Aaron looks worried, and as much as I’ve wanted him to feel something for Mom and Dad—anything—seeing him this way only makes it worse.
“Did they tell you to meet them at Brother John’s?” I ask, hoping he forgot. That he would brighten up and say, Oh yeah!
He shakes his head.
“We should check,” I say. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
I don’t know what else to consider. If they are at the church—how is that any better?
I’m not sure if Aaron or I take the first step, but it doesn’t really matter. As we walk, I put every emotion—every ounce of belief—into one final message, shot straight to the sky.
Please let there be a good reason.
It doesn’t take long, and soon we’re staring at the same cars that are always in the parking lot. I don’t see the van and I panic. If they’re not here, I have no idea where else to look. I have no idea what we’ll do tonight, tomorrow. The city is huge, big enough that you could get lost forever. You could lose somebody without any trouble.
“Maybe Dad left Mom here,” Aaron says. But before he opens the door, he pauses. Like he’s making his own deals with God.
When we walk inside, Brother John stands in the center of the room, surrounded by ten people spread across the floor like corpses. They’re all praying—different words, different voices—but it seems uniform. One machine with a multitude of parts, working with exact precision.
The noise of the door clicking closed behind us is small, but the sound is like a shotgun going off in the small room. Brother John lifts his eyes, lasers pointed at Aaron and me. Slowly, heads lift from the floor. Then I hear Mom’s voice.
“Aaron? Abigail?” At her voice, our names, Dad stands up—the first to separate from the group. When he reaches us, he looks worried. Mom comes right behind him.
“Are you okay?”
Aaron’s face goes wooden. His lips, glued together.
“We couldn’t find the van,” I say, almost whispering.
“What do you mean you couldn’t find the van?” Mom asks.
I turn to Aaron, but all he’s doing is staring at Dad.
“Dale.”
Brother John says nothing else. But it’s enough to make Dad formal, completely foreign. He straightens up and puts on this counterfeit smile.
“We’re almost finished, kids,” he says. “Why don’t you wait outside?”
Dad never calls us kids. He never dismisses us so easily. I almost think it’s a joke, but then he turns around and lies back down on the floor with the rest of the people. I stare at Mom, but all she does is squeeze my hand once and says, “It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
Outside, Aaron kicks at a cigarette butt. It barely moves. How did it even get into the parking lot? Nobody here smokes. And there aren’t any visitors. Aaron continues scuffing at it, doing anything to avoid what we both want to say. Every few seconds, he looks at the door and frowns even deeper.
I am not surprised this is where we found them, but I cannot square it in my mind. When would’ve they realized it had been hours since they’d seen us? That the city had gone dark and—oh no!—their children are sitting on the sidewalk. Of course, they wouldn’t know about the van. Because they were here. Like always.
We’re supposed to be the irresponsible ones—not them. We’re supposed to be the ones who make bad decisions and stare at the floor while they explain how our choices will affect our future. How will they be able to tell us to do anything ever again?
“They have no idea where the van is,” I say. Even as the words come out of my mouth, I can’t believe it. “It probably got towed.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving, Abs. I don’t care if we have enough money. We’re going. Tonight.”
The world stops as he says it, only to speed up again and throw everything off-balance.
“I don’t wa
nt to go,” I say. I can feel the tears behind my eyes, threatening.
“Well, get over it. Because I’m not leaving you with them.”
“No, you get over it,” I say. “Unlike you, I haven’t been waiting to ditch Mom and Dad since we got here.”
His eyes grow bigger. His mouth trembles with whatever he’s about to say next.
“They ditched us!” he yells, his voice growing higher and higher until it breaks. “They are never going to leave this bullshit. Never. So this is it. Go time. Right now.”
He reaches for my hand and when I step away, Aaron looks like I’ve broken him in half.
“They don’t give a damn about us, Abs. Not anymore.”
Behind him, the door opens. It’s like a movie, the way the light pours out into the parking lot—the way Brother John is backlit, as if he’s arriving straight from heaven. Aaron turns on him.
“What? Are we inconveniencing you? Are we making it difficult for you to hear God’s plan?” Brother John watches him without a word, which infuriates Aaron even more. “You know this is all bullshit, right? You have to know it. The world is ending! Sell all your shit! Did anyone really believe that?”
Brother John doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take his eyes off Aaron, who steps forward like he wants to throw a punch.
“Oh yeah, I forgot—they believed that.” Brother John turns and looks at Mom and Dad, standing in the doorway next to him.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Aaron says. “I dare you.”
But Brother John doesn’t. He turns around and walks back into the church, stopping only to say something to Dad, who looks more horrified than concerned. He nods and walks to Aaron.
“No,” Aaron says, all the fight gone. His eyes won’t leave Brother John’s back as he disappears into the church. “Come back out here!”
“Son—” Dad tries to touch his shoulder, but Aaron jumps back.
“This is your fault,” he says, slowly backing away.
Aaron stares at Dad. From behind me, a hand comes to my shoulder—Mom. Dad takes a step forward, his hands out. Aaron takes another step back.
“I understand,” Dad says. “Nobody’s mad at you.”
Dad gets a few steps on him, an arms-length away. Before Aaron realizes what’s happening, Dad has him wrapped up tight. I want to believe he’ll apologize, promise that we’ll all go back to normal. But I hear his words ringing across the parking lot, every one of them nothing more than fiction.
“This is the right thing,” he says. “We’re all going to be fine. This is where we’re supposed to be. Just come inside and—”
When Dad falls to the ground, I don’t realize Aaron pushed him until I see his face. It’s fear, panic, and, worst of all, resolve. Dad pulls himself up to one elbow, then to a knee. And in the time it takes for him to get to his feet, Aaron looks away from him—right at me.
I need to do something—and I don’t know what, but something; I should do something. Aaron turns and sprints away, dodging a car and then a bus, disappearing into the busy streets. Mom grabs my arm. Dad’s mouth opens and he runs to the road. A line of cars stop him. But it doesn’t matter: Aaron is gone.
Everything rushes back.
The air into my lungs, the dizzy reality of what happened, and the sound. Cars passing on the street, the murmur of people inside the church. And me, screaming Aaron’s name; hoping it cuts through the city and makes him stop.
THIRTEEN
DAD MAKES ME GO INSIDE THE CHURCH WITH HIM AND MOM. Brother John is already in his office, the radio receiver flipped on. It hums as he tests the microphone. People stand at the side of the room, watching us. Me.
“We need to find Aaron,” I say. “And I think the van got towed.”
Mom looks into Brother John’s office and then at Dad. “Go tell him.”
“That was a tithe,” Dad says. “A gift for God, Kat.”
“I don’t care,” Mom says. “Do you hear me? I don’t care. If you don’t, I will. I swear I’ll go right in there and tell him exactly what he can do with all of this.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
They both turn to me. Mom tries to smile as she says, “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
But we’re not okay. We’re so far from okay that I can’t believe she even said it. Every time something happens, that word comes out. And that’s when I realize what they’re talking about.
“No,” I say.
Dad’s eyes shift around the room, like a fly. Landing on the floor, the wall, the door—but never me. Mom tries to hug me, but I won’t let her. I can’t believe it.
“You gave him the money from that church? All of it?”
“He needed it, Gabs,” Dad says. “People need to know it’s still happening.”
“Your father is going to get it back,” Mom says. “And then we’re going to find your brother.”
Dad moves toward Brother John’s office in a sheepish stutter-step, a far cry from his old hell-raising days—that’s how Uncle Jake always talked about Dad. As soon as it would pass from Jake’s lips, Dad would demur. Go to another room, like that would keep me and Aaron from hearing about the days when he’d drink cheap wine in the North Carolina hills, running bare chested through the woods. Dad like we’ve never seen him. Maybe like he wished never existed. Is he worried about how he looks now? What I think now?
I follow Dad into Brother John’s office. Mom tries to stop me, but I dodge her and go stand next to Dad, waiting for him to open his mouth. Brother John turns away from his receiver, considering us for a second before he says, “Do you need me, Brother Dale?”
Dad hems and haws for a second before finally saying, “It’s about the money, Brother John. We need some of it back. Our van got towed and I need to go find my son.”
“Well, Brother Dale,” he says, “that money’s already been committed to God’s will.”
Dad nods. I try to stare at Brother John with the same thinly veiled contempt Aaron conjures. For the first time it comes easily.
“Well, without the van,” Dad says. “We don’t have a place to stay.”
“You can sleep right here, in the house of God,” he says. “Is there anything better than that?”
Dad doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move, either. Brother John looks confused. “Brother Dale, you know God has everything planned, right? God isn’t in the business of taking away things we need.”
I can’t stop myself. I practically scream.
“Are you serious?”
“Abigail,” Dad says.
“It’s okay, Brother Dale,” Brother John says, holding up his hands. “There is a time for questions. But, Sister Abigail, there is also a time to stop asking questions. You need to trust that this is the place for you to be. You need to trust that God is working right now. With God, what is up can be down. What is right can seem wrong. You need to trust and believe that God works in fearful and mysterious ways.”
He thinks for a second, then adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised if losing your brother and that van isn’t God working right now. Trying to teach you an important lesson. I say we pray for some discernment, Brother Dale.”
Something comes loose inside me. Maybe it’s a pin falling out, the last thing holding together my composure or my ability to pretend—something. Whatever it is, I speak to Brother John—really—for the first time.
“Pray? You want to pray about this?”
“God is telling your family something,” Brother John says.
“God didn’t do this. . . .”
He cocks his head to the side, like he didn’t understand me. Then he nods carefully and says, “You only assume He didn’t. Sometimes God removes things from our lives for our own benefit. Distractions. Things that pull us away from Him. And Brother Dale, I’m sorry, but your son has been a distraction ever since you arrived. Sometimes we must give up much to gain the Kingdom of God.”
We’ve got to give up more. Us. The ones who’ve
spent how many weeks sleeping in our van and barely eating? When was the last time Brother John gave up anything? I turn to Dad, grabbing his hand.
“Dad, please. Aaron isn’t a thing. And we don’t need to pray about this. We need to go.”
Because forget the van. We can take a bus home. Forget the fact that we have no place to sleep tonight. We can stay in one of the shelters. Or I can find a job and so can he. We can do whatever it takes to fix this, to start over. All we need to do is move.
I search Dad’s face for even the smallest flicker, but it’s blank. He says, “Gabs, I think I should talk to Brother John alone for a few minutes.”
When I turn back to Brother John, I swear I’m going to knock that huckster smile off his face.
But the lamp is closer and I grab it right off his desk—throwing it across the room. Seeing it smash against the wall makes something inside me jump, a nervous happiness that I want to feel again and again until there’s nothing left of this office. Hearing Brother John yell only deepens the pleasure. Dad tries to stop me, but I lunge for the desk, scattering papers and throwing books. I kick over the cheap folding chair and then pick it up and throw it across the room, too. When I move to the radio equipment, Dad pins my arms against my body and pulls me into a bear hug.
“Abigail, enough!”
Mom runs into the office, her mouth in a horrified circle. But I don’t care about appearances or what anybody in this damn church thinks. It doesn’t matter. If they’re not going to help me find Aaron, I’ll do it myself. And then we’ll leave. Me, him, Jess. We’ll go back to North Carolina and never think about any of this ever again.
“Put her down, Dale,” Mom says. And he does. But carefully, like I still might make a run at the radio equipment.
Brother John smooths the wrinkles on the front of his pants, sighing as he walks around the desk. He looks at me for a long time, but I refuse to look away from him. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of my obedience. Not anymore.
“This is all a joke,” I say.
I’ve spent my whole life believing God was working in the world. That I was somehow good because of that belief. Pastor Jamie always said that doubt wasn’t enough to keep you away. That God would always be tapping on your shoulder or jumping out in front of you. Always giving you a chance.