No Parking at the End Times (5 page)

THE
MOON WAS HIGH IN THE SKY, THE KIND DAD ALWAYS SAID
you catch if you jumped high enough. I couldn’t stop giggling. Aaron was frustrated.

“Will you shut it? You’re going to get us caught.”

“They can’t hear us from all the way in the house,” I said. “Even if I stood on that stump and yelled, ‘Help! Help!’ they wouldn’t hear. They’re dead to the world in there.”

Aaron shook his head and said, “Hey, this is your party. But go ahead and do that if you want to see Dad come running with a baseball bat.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a bat, so . . .”

“Jesus, Abs. A frying pan, then. The point remains: shut up.”

I smiled into the dark night as we tromped through the field behind our house. The grass was knee high, itching my legs and hiding the footpath that led to the pond. We hadn’t been here for years.

When we were kids—when we never would have considered leaving the house after dark—this field was the biggest inconvenience we faced. Five minutes to walk, but less than two if you ran.

Aaron wouldn’t run, though. Not anymore. So we walked, going slower than we ever would’ve thought possible as kids. When every second spent out of the pond was considered wasted.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Aaron said. “The pond is nasty, in case you don’t remember. Like, really disgusting.”

“That’s the fun,” I said, leaning my shoulder into his. “It’s like science!”

That made him laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

When we finally came to the pond, I stopped. Even in the moonlight, I saw the green film lying across the water, which, as Aaron pointed out, was never particularly clear in the first place. But it was as if someone had dumped a giant bowl of rotten oatmeal on top of the normal coating
of green. The only visible water ran up against the small banks, as if it were trying to escape the slime.

“I bet, if we’re really careful,” Aaron said, “we’ll only need one shot of penicillin when we’re finished.”

I hit him, because it wasn’t funny. Of course he was laughing.

“Hey, what are you waiting for? Dive in, Abs. Looks refreshing as hell.”

I knew it was stupid to be upset, because it was just a pond and we could go and swim anytime we wanted at the public pool. But when I’d gone into Aaron’s room earlier that night and convinced him to come with me, it felt like a secret. The kind we used to keep when we were younger. And now it was over. He’d go back to his room and call one of his friends, spending all night on the phone.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you upset?”

“Yeah. I’m really mad at the algae,” I said.

Aaron looked at the pond and gave it the middle finger. “You see that, algae? That’s what I think of you.”

“Aaron . . .”

He turned to face me, smiling as he said, “Algae don’t care. It’s science.”

I smiled, but there was nothing to it. I walked over to
the pond and dipped my toe into the clear edge. The ripples died only a foot away, swallowed by the thick green layer.

“Whatever,” I said. “It was a stupid idea anyway.”

“There are no stupid ideas,” Aaron said. “Only nasty ponds with prehistoric algae.”

He laughed, but I couldn’t help feeling robbed. When was the last time we’d done something like this together? Something that wasn’t with a bunch of his friends. We were so close, and it was frustrating to see it vanish that quickly.

“Let’s just go back to the house.”

Aaron clapped. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all night, Abs.”

I followed him back through the field, to our house. I expected him to open the door and end the night. But instead, he turned to me and said, “Commando time.”

In one quick movement he was up the birch tree that hung over our patio and onto the roof of the house. The moon outlined him in a subtle white as he whispered down to me, “Are you coming or not?”

I climbed the tree, moving slowly until he was holding my hand and leading me to the middle of the house, where the roof peaked. I had no idea if he’d done it before, or
if the idea came to him on the walk back from the pond. Either way, we sat there, our legs stretched over the rough shingles still warm from the day. Telling stories about Mom and Dad. Laughing, one-upping, and doing our best to keep from rolling off the steep roof as we watched the moon drop from the sky.

WE
SNUCK INTO THE VAN, MY HEART STILL DOUBLED UP AND
in my ears. Even when we were safe and wrapped in our blankets, I couldn’t fall asleep. Aaron’s words haunted me, though not because I thought he would actually leave. Instead, it was the truth of what he said. Mom and Dad have not tried to get us out once. We eat in churches and sleep in the van like it’s normal. Like we will do this forever.

Thinking about it kept me up most of the night, and it’s only when I wake up that I’m sure I’ve slept. For a few perfect seconds, with my head under the covers, I could be anywhere. I could be at home. My neck wouldn’t ache from sleeping in a chair and everybody would be waiting for me to wake up, to come down for breakfast. If I can
keep my eyes closed forever, maybe I won’t have to feel the anxiety grip my stomach in its familiar cold hand.

When I pull the blanket away from my head, Dad is talking quietly with Mom. It only takes a minute for them to notice me listening. Mom reaches back like she wants to touch my leg.

“Did we wake you, honey?” she asks.

I shake my head, and even though I know they love us and wouldn’t do anything to ruin that love, I can’t shake it: We shouldn’t be here. They should know.

“Gabs, it used to be you were the one waking us up,” Dad says, leaning his head toward Mom. “Remember that, Kat?”

Mom nods. Dad watches me the same way he did when I was younger, like he can’t believe how he ever got so lucky. I don’t know why I can’t open my mouth. Why I can’t just say:
Do you see what’s happening to us?
So when Dad turns back to me, I smile—hoping that maybe he’ll see how fake it is. How hard I’m trying to pretend I’m okay, happy.

He doesn’t.

“I was going to take a walk and grab a coffee,” Dad says. “Feel like stretching those legs?”

Dad walks just as fast as Aaron, but it’s his long legs more than anything else. I am sore from yesterday, my body tight as I jog to keep up with him. When we were younger, Dad would go out to run almost every night, coming back with his T-shirt darkened by sweat. When he sees me pull up beside him, he stops and says, “Am I walking too fast?”

“No. I’m just trying to get loose.”

Still, he slows down and I can tell it’s killing him to move down the sidewalk at this pace. He nudges me in the shoulder and says, “Remember when we’d race in the parking lot of the mall? To the door?”

I still remember the first time I beat him, two years ago with Mom yelling behind us to watch the cars. But that mall was dead, like everything else in our town. All the big stores were gone, leaving behind a collection of flea market-style booths that were as aimless as the people who still shopped there.

“I remember blowing by you.”

He huffs. “You beat me once, girl. And I think I was injured.”

“Injured? Are you kidding me?”

He grabs his knee, moving it forward and back. “You know I’ve got a trick knee.”

“Well, anytime you want a rematch, old bones. Or should I say—old man.”

“Old man?” He shakes his head and then bends over into an awkward stretch, still talking to himself. “Old man.”

It surprises me how easily we’re able to fall back into the good-natured joking, as if we were walking through that same mall without a care in the world. And at the same time, it’s convicting. When did I let Aaron convince me that this familiarity was so easily lost?

“I’ll race you to the store,” I say. He probably won’t even be able to get out of the stretch he’s in, let alone run down the sidewalk with me. But then he’s gone, yelling “Go!” and moving faster than I thought he could.

I’m jumping off curbs, laughing as I chase him. Even with the head start, I’m beside him in less than a block. When he sees me pull up next to him, he pumps his arms even harder. But it’s pointless; I blow by him—past the restaurant on the corner, the men sitting in a circle at the park’s entrance, touching the store first, and easily.

When Dad finally shows up, all I can make out through the wheezing is: “Trick knee.”

The grocery store is fancier than anything we had in North Carolina, full of organic this and fair-trade that. We never would have shopped at a place like this before, and the only reason we’re here now is the free coffee.

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.”