No Parking at the End Times
Page 16
Jess points to the top of the bleachers and says, “Look.”
A large press box frames the center of the stadium. Behind that, a side street runs parallel, at even level with the top row of bleachers. It takes a second for me to realize the entire stadium is built into the side of a hill. We’re effectively in a giant hole.
I take the bleacher steps two at a time. When I get to the top, I look out onto the street. A couple is walking a small white dog with their daughter, but I don’t see Aaron anywhere. I come back to the lip of the stadium just as Jess is reaching the top.
“Do you guys have a special spot in here? Something I wouldn’t know about?”
Because he should be here. Even if the bus station was on the other side of town, there’s no way we beat him back to the stadium. Not after the trip back from Sea Cliff and talking to Mom.
“No,” Jess says. “I don’t think we ever came here together.”
As she’s talking, my eyes settle on a small patch of grass separated from the road by the same iron gate that circles the stadium. From here, all I can see is empty fast food bags and a couple of open beer cans rolling across the hard cement.
But then something moves in the shadow of the press box and I hear my name. At first I smile, but the closer I get, the more I can see. Aaron’s trying to stand up, leaning all of his body weight against a cement retaining wall, clutching his stomach.
I run to him and he falls back to the grass.
His face is broken. There are cuts and bruises and his nose is bent sideways. One eye focuses on me while the other, blood red and beginning to swell, stares vacantly over my shoulder. He tries to sit up, but a painful gurgling sound brings him back to the grass.
“Oh my God,” I say. Behind me, Jess starts screaming. She runs forward and tries to grab Aaron. As soon as she touches him, he winces.
“Go call an ambulance,” I tell her. “Now.”
“No hospital,” Aaron says. “They’ll call Mom and Dad.”
Jess hesitates. “He needs an ambulance,” I say. “Go!”
She runs out of the stadium, yelling for a cell phone and harassing each person she sees until she’s got one in her hand. Aaron gasps her name out, and I put my hand on his shoulder.
“She’s going to get help. Just rest, okay?”
“Get her out of here. Before they come back.”
I can barely understand him. Every word is drowning, choked. When he tries to sit up again, his voice is pained. “Please. Go.”
I try to guide him back down to the grass as gently as I can. He fights me with every bit of energy he has left, which can’t be much because it’s only a few seconds before he’s back on the grass, his chest tightening with every awkward breath. Every time I look at his face, I have to blink back tears. I want to believe that we’re still going. That it’s just a matter of Aaron getting patched up and then we can get on a bus. We have to hit pause, for only a second.
He tries to say something, and I lean closer so that I can hear.
“They took the money. I’m sorry, Abs.”
Jess comes running back to us. She kneels down next to him, holding his head in her hands. I watch her cry over Aaron, her hair falling into his face as she does it. In the distance sirens begin calling. As soon as he hears them, Aaron starts mumbling—trying to push himself off the ground in a panic.
“They’ll call . . . can’t. Please.”
When the paramedics arrive, they push us aside. One paramedic gives Aaron a shot while the other asks me and Jess all kinds of questions that I either don’t know or don’t want to answer. How it happened. His blood type. If he’s allergic to any medicine. The last question is the worst.
“Does he have parents? Any family?”
I watch as they stabilize his neck in a large yellow brace. I don’t know if I should tell them about Mom and Dad, or even if I should let them put him in the ambulance. I know he’s hurt, but what happens if they bring us back?
“Hey—does he have any family?”
“He’s a street kid,” the other paramedic says. “Let’s not worry about family.”
I hear the words and the anger climbs through my body. A small group of people collect on the sidewalk, watching the paramedics work, snapping pictures with their cell phones. When Aaron gets to the hospital, the staff will eventually track down Mom and Dad. They’ll figure out that he’s not just another street kid and then—what? All of this starts over?
The first paramedic pops the stretcher up, until Aaron is lying at waist level. His eyes are closed, the drugs taking effect.
Seeing him like that makes me want to unhook all the tubes and machines from his body, and carry him away—to do this on our own, the way we’ve been planning. And I hate the impulse. There should be no question whether Aaron should be in the ambulance. We shouldn’t have to worry if social services will swoop in, or if we’ll even be able to pay for this ride to the hospital.
But of course, that is the problem. And has been for too long.
And maybe Mom wants us to go. Maybe that makes her feel better, knowing that we aren’t stuck here going to service after service.
But I want them to know what we had to do to get away. The last thing we had to give up for God, for Brother John. I want them to look me in the eye and say that we aren’t more important than whatever is going to fall out of the sky.
I nudge Jess forward slightly. “Wait, this is his sister.”
She looks at me, shocked, but I push her forward again and say, “He needs you to stay with him.”
The paramedic looks at us skeptically, but then tells her to follow him to the truck. Just before they pull away, I run up to the side and ask where they’re taking him.
And then I turn around and run straight back to Brother John’s.
SEVENTEEN
I STORM INTO THE CHURCH, NEARLY KNOCKING OVER THE CROSS trying to get at Mom and Dad. Brother John’s mouth drops when I step right in front of Dad and say, “Aaron’s hurt.”
“Brother Dale, I will not have this—not now.”
Dad looks at his palms and, maybe for the first time, I agree with Brother John—not now. He can’t disappear now, not when Aaron is riding across town in an ambulance. Not now.
Brother John tries to lead me away from the front of the room and I push him away. Anger takes control of my lips. My voice could shake the windows.
“He’s in an ambulance right now.” I show him the blood on my hands. On my jeans, which now are really ruined.
Mom says, “Abigail, what happened?”
“Who here believes in God’s plan?” Brother John addresses the group, his voice tight. Booming across the small room.
A few hands initially shoot into the air, but drop when Mom spins around and stabs the air with her finger. If it were a weapon, Brother John wouldn’t be standing.
“Don’t,” she says.
Dad comes to her and wraps his arms around her shoulders, trying to whisper in her ear. She shrugs him off. Her body is rigid, yet every so often little tremors ripple across her skin. When he tries again she says, “Dale, no. Do you hear me? No.”
“We need to go right now, Mom.”
Mom turns to face Dad, her face hard. “I’m leaving, Dale. And you need to decide if you’re coming with us.”
Dad looks at Mom, and then my hands.
“We need some intervention for this family, Lord.” Brother John prays with his eyes closed. Only a few people in the room join him. “Help them see the Deceiver clearly and know that only through you can we find happiness.”
I turn to Dad and say, “God doesn’t need you here, Dad. But Aaron does. Please.”
“Are you sure?”
Dad says it plainly, like I’m trying to sell him a car. It shocks me, even though I’ve heard the same refrain a hundred times. I stare at him with my mouth open.
Maybe it can be just me, Aaron, and Mom. Jess. We’ll leave Dad here to wait with Brother John. But we’ll go, and if he ever deci
des to join us, then fine. But I don’t need him to be onboard. Not anymore.
But instead of seeing the Dad I have come to expect—stupidly faithful and ready to mortgage what little we have left—he takes my hand and holds it tight, like I might blow away.
Dad says it again. “Are you sure?”
“Dad . . .”
He hesitates, and then says, “I wasn’t talking to you, Abigail.”
When he looks up, his jaw is set. His eyes are focused on Brother John, still praying at the front of the room. “Brother John,” Dad says. “I need to know if you’re sure.”
Brother John doesn’t hesitate.
“God asks us to cut away the withered branches in our lives. That’s what I know. Like it’s my own name, Brother Dale. And if you don’t?” He laughs here, spiteful and loud. “Well, then maybe your eternal destination isn’t as clear as I once thought.”
Dad nods and my heart drops into my stomach. “This is my son, Brother John. I need more than that.”
Brother John spins around to face me, grabbing my shoulders hard enough to make me cry out. “You are willing to lead your entire family astray? You’re willing to live with the eternal consequences of your idolatry and childishness? You—”
Dad pulls Brother John away from me, separating us with his body. Despite the tears that crowd his eyes and cheeks, he looks strong. Almost scary. Brother John stands there, rubbing his hands together and staring past Dad to me.
“You want a sign, Brother Dale? After everything you’ve been through, you have the audacity to ask God to give you another sign? Go ahead and leave, but God isn’t going to let you come back in.”
Quickly—before I know it’s happening—Aaron’s face flashes into my head. It’s like he’s filling me with bravado, taking control of my body, because I take a step, then two, hoping Mom and Dad will follow me. That I’ve read the situation correctly. And as I begin to leave the room I say, “We’ll take our chances.”
Dad reaches his hand for me to take as Brother John addresses the crowd, saying, “Go ahead and leave. Walk away from the only thing that will ever give meaning to your life. Because that reward in Heaven’s going to be sweet, yes sir. Can I get an amen?”
I try to think of something to say as we walk to the back of the church. Something clever. Something with teeth. But when I open the door, holding it for Mom and Dad, I realize I don’t have to say anything. Everything that needs to be said is happening right now as we walk through this door.
NOW
I COME ACROSS A LITTLE CHAPEL IN THE BASEMENT OF THE hospital. It’s dark and everything seems to be covered in red—the carpet, the cushions. Even the small Bibles that dot the back of each pew look like blood. An older woman is playing the piano, singing loudly from the hymnal even though the chapel is empty.
I am bound.
I am bound.
I am bound for the promised land.
I smile. The only thing missing is a trumpet solo.
It could be a sign. It could be a message. I don’t know. But after the initial pause of recognition, I start walking again, following the cramped hallways of the hospital. I’m trying to feel comfortable inside again, even though it’s strange when I get too warm and have to pull off my sweatshirt.
Aaron’s room is full of machines and people. Mom, Dad, Jess—Uncle Jake will be here tomorrow. The doctors say Aaron will be okay, and every time they say it I let myself smile. Because even though I know they mean physically, that his cuts will heal and the bruises will eventually disappear—I can finally believe it.
We are okay.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s a reason why people thank agents and editors before God, country, and all manner of family. They walk the road with you. Michael Bourret is the type of agent you want on such a journey. Tireless and smart and awesome. Thank you, sir.
My book was like those kids who go on daytime television to get yelled at by a drill sergeant. Martha Mihalick whipped it—and me—into shape. Eternal gratitude for seeing what I could not.
Molly O’Neill has always been an energetic supporter of my writing and this book. She may not be my editor, but I’m happy to call her a friend.
Speaking of friends, I’ve got a ton. Thanks to Nova Ren Suma, Ray Veen, Mike Martin, Suzanne Young, Lisa Schroeder, Chris Hoke, Laura Turner, Callie Feyen, Chris Warner, Chrysta Brown—I’m leaving out so many—Jill Reid, Jacob Buckenmeyer, Mike Jung, Alison Clement, Kristin Starnes, and Heidi Weisel. Every one of you is important to me, and I can’t imagine having done this without your friendship and support.
Steve Brezenoff, Jeff Geiger. Let’s go to NYC again soon.
Aaron Guest, Matt Slye, Paul Luikart, Seth Riley: Great writers. Brothers. Cobras.
Thanks to Greg Wolfe, who directs the MFA program at Seattle Pacific University, and to both Robert Clark and Gina Ochsner, mentors in the truest sense of the word.
My family allows me to disappear for hours on end, and for that I’m eternally grateful. Thanks to my mom, Barb Skelley, who has shown undying and constant support of my writing. My kids, Nora and Ben, would probably prefer I wrote books about dragons and wizards, but as they once said, “Your books are okay too.” Listen, I’ll take it. And finally, thanks to my wife, Michelle, who deals with the manic brunt of my writing life. High, low, meh—she’s there and I can’t thank her enough.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRYAN BLISS has worked with teenagers for more than ten years. He holds an MFA from Seattle Pacific University. This is his first novel. He lives with his family in Minneapolis.
www.bryanbliss.com
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CREDITS
Cover art background © Image Source Photography / VEER; van © Jay Reilly / Getty Images
Cover design by Paul Zakris
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
NO PARKING AT THE END TIMES. Copyright © 2015 by Bryan Bliss. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bliss, Bryan.
No parking at the end times / Bryan Bliss.
“Greenwillow Books.”
pages cm
Summary: Abigail’s parents, believing the end of the world is near, sell their house, give the money to an end-of-times preacher, and drive from North Carolina to San Francisco, where they remain homeless and destitute as Abigail fights to keep her parents, her twin brother, and herself united against all odds.
ISBN 978-0-06-227541-7 (hardback)
EPub Edition © January 2015 ISBN 9780062275431
[1. Homeless persons—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 4. Twins—Fiction. 5. Faith—Fiction. 6. Swindlers and swindling—Fictio
n. 7. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.B63No 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014037503
15 16 17 18 19 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
GREENWILLOW BOOKS
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