No Parking at the End Times (7 page)

It’s another way we’re falling apart, and he’s doing it willingly. Before, at home, Aaron would never have snuck out. He didn’t have to. But now, in this city, every time he leaves the van feels like desertion.

“C’mon, let’s go back to Mom and Dad,” he says, trying to push me forward.

“Is she why you’re leaving?”

This stops him. “I don’t want to talk about that now, Abs.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Jess walks up to us cautiously, chewing her thumbnail and looking at Aaron. “Hey, it’s not a big deal. I thought maybe she’d have fun. I didn’t mean to start World War Three.”

Aaron turns to her, his face annoyed. Tired. I don’t care.

“It’s not World War Three,” he says.

“That’s right,” I say. “Because I’m coming.”

Jess claps her hands. Behind her, a few of the guys raise their hands in the air jokingly. As if their team scored a goal, all of them seemingly thrilled. Except the one who matters, who looks like I just said the worst possible thing.

Aaron doesn’t seem angry until we’re away from Jess and her friends, but then it covers his face like a new layer of skin.

“You’re not going tonight. No way.”

“Excuse me if I don’t really respect your moral high ground,” I say. “And it’s not like you can stop me.”

I don’t know what makes me the maddest: him sneaking out to some homeless girlfriend, or how he thinks he can just tell me to be good and stay in the van while he’s out doing—I don’t even know what.

“I know,” he says. “I can’t.”

“How inconvenient that you have a sister. Right?”

He looks down at his hands and then scratches his neck. The park is still bright and alive with people, but it all seems peripheral now.

“I was going to tell Jess about you.”

“It must have slipped your mind while you were busy with all your new friends,” I say.

The betrayal is more real than the air right now and the more I hold on to it, the more it feels alive inside me. But there’s something else mixed in, a strange jealousy that I can’t quite diagnose. It sits in my stomach, slowly pushing its way into my brain, where I can’t stop wondering why he
never asked me to come out with them—even if he knew I’d say no.

“Look, I was out and I met them once,” Aaron says. “We hung out the next time. There isn’t a lot happening at three in the morning. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

I didn’t realize how close we were to Mom and Dad. I can see them on the blanket. Mom is still lying down, but Dad is up and staring at us. He calls, “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Aaron’s eyes become fixed; the way he is when we’re at Brother John’s. Other than his feet, his body barely moves as we walk toward them. A slow metamorphosis from alive to barely living.

“If it’s not a big deal, then why can’t I come with you—and don’t say Mom and Dad, because that’s not it. I know it isn’t.”

Aaron waits for a moment before he says, “Because I knew you were going to act like this.”

The objection comes to my lips quick, but I can’t get it out. Act like this? I’m trying to keep us together and it annoys me that he doesn’t see it. But at the same time, that jealousy bubbles up, and no matter what I do, I can’t force it back down.

“I’m just worried about you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. But did you ever think that I needed this, Abs?”

“Well, you could’ve brought me with you,” I say. “Am I really that much of a loser that you can’t let me meet your friends?”

“That’s not it,” he says quickly.

“Then tell me why.”

He struggles for a second, looking at the ground. Finally he says, “I just needed something good, okay? And I knew that you wouldn’t like it. I knew as soon as I even mentioned it, you would freak out.”

“Because it’s dangerous,” I say.

“It’s not like I’m out running guns for the Hells Angels, Abs! We hang out. We talk. It’s a chance to get away, that’s it.”

“Sounds really wonderful,” I say, trying to be sarcastic.

“You’re proving my point. Right now. Even if I brought you on the very first night, we’d still be having this conversation.”

Aaron looks over my shoulder, back to the hill where his friends are now sitting. I don’t see or hear the trumpet man anymore. Aaron covers his face with a single hand, like he’s trying to wipe away the past few minutes.

“You know what, whatever. I’m not going out tonight. You win.”

Dad walks up behind Aaron and claps a hand on his shoulder, giving us both this big smile. I look at Dad and then back to Aaron, hoping to feel happy. Because didn’t I just win?

But the only thing I feel is relief. And that’s not the same thing. Not even close.

WHEN
WE GET BACK TO THE VAN, DAD MOVES US TO A NEW
spot—just a few blocks away from Brother John’s church. Parking is by the hour in most places, and the meter maids dart around like flies in the summer, keeping time and waiting.

As soon as he turns off the engine, Dad closes his eyes—“Just for a bit,” he says—and we sit there.

The sun is still shining and people walk past our van in groups, some of them looking at Dad sleeping against the window. The more I sit here, the more the relief from the park transforms into frustration. If Aaron was going out to spray-paint buildings, I would almost feel better. Because at least I could muster some real outrage. But
wanting to be happy isn’t wrong. It makes all the anger I’ve felt toward him in the last weeks seem petty. But at the same time, why can’t he be happy here with us? Why does he have to go out and create something new?

Even if I asked, he probably wouldn’t say a word. And that’s the real problem. It’s not him leaving, even though I hate it. It’s him not talking. It’s him sitting in the back of the van right now, pretending to read a book when he’s got so much to say.

The van is too small. Too constricted. I feel like I can’t breathe.

I lean up to Mom, almost asleep herself, and say, “I’m going for a run.”

She rubs her eyes. “What?”

“I’ll be careful,” I say. “I need to get out of here for a bit, Mom. I promise I’ll be back before dinner.”

I don’t ask. I don’t even wait for her to answer. I’m pulling on my shoes and sweatshirt as she nods, her eyes already closed.

Aaron starts putting on his shoes, too.

“I want to go alone,” I say. “I just need to get away. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

“I’m serious. I don’t want you to go.”

I open the side door and do a fast couple of stretches. Aaron jumps out and lifts his hands over his head, yawning.

“You’re not going,” I tell him.

“You can’t stop me,” he says. “Does that sound familiar?”

I hate him right now. His face. The way his words are like barbs in my skin. Everything. But I know he’s going to follow me wherever I go, even if it’s back to the van. And that’s what I should do, if only to spite him. But now that I’m in the fresh air again, the thought of sitting in the stuffy van is worse than anything Aaron can say or do.

So I start walking, fast, and say, “Try to keep up.”

Even when I start running, Aaron stays with me, stride for stride. I turn up a fairly gruesome hill, sure he’ll quit and begin walking, but he actually pulls ahead of me. He’s jogging in place when I finally make it to the top.

“You okay?” he asks, smirking.

I fly past him, faster than I should after that hill. But it feels good, if painful, to push myself. Aaron is behind me, his breathing growing heavier and heavier with every stride. A small victory.

The last time I heard him breathe that way was our first
night in San Francisco. Aaron was more nervous than I was. Our whole lives we’d been taught to be good, to do the right thing, so that when it came time to account for ourselves, we’d go up and not down. Take that elevator straight to heaven. I have no idea if that’s what was going through his mind as Brother John stood up in front of us that first time, breathless and talking about the end of the world. But his usual bravado was muted, and he sat next to me the way he would when we were younger, as still as the sky after a storm.

“Abs, I need to stop.” Aaron’s voice is pinched as he speaks. I keep going, though, until he stops and says, “C’mon. I need a break.”

I realize how tired I am once I stop moving. My legs wobble as I walk, trying to breathe. Aaron is a few steps behind me, and neither of us speak.

After that first night, Aaron went silent in every possible way. Whatever fear he showed was gone, and from that point on it was like looking at a beige wall. No emotion. No feelings. Nothing. It deteriorated more and more until he stopped talking almost completely. I was so worried about him—I am worried about him—but now I know it doesn’t matter. Now I wonder if he saves everything for
Jess. For his nights away from all of us.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Aaron. He’s got a hand on his side, but he’s breathing regularly again. I start to jog. At first he doesn’t join me, but then he starts moving. Slowly he pulls up next to me, and we jog back to the van without a word.

Brother John jumps around the front of the room as he speaks, his hands above his head like radio antennas receiving a signal. People “Amen” and “Praise the Lord” as he claps his hands together a few times. Soon the whole room is in rhythm.

“Here we come, Lord! Here we come!”

Aaron claps once, mocking them.

“That Holy Spirit is working tonight, yes sir. I can feel it in my blood, brothers and sisters!”

Feet stomp and chairs scrape the unpolished floor as voices climb the walls. Brother John stands at the front, taking it all in like oxygen.

“All you have to do is ask God for what you want! Just reach out and say, ‘C’mon, Lord!’”

I try.

I search for the sprig of warmth in my stomach,
remembering how it would grow wildly, pushing into my arms and legs—everywhere—until it felt like, no matter what happened, God was listening.

When nothing happens, the tears come hard and violent.

Dad takes my hand; he’s crying, too. But not for the same reason.

“Help Aaron.”

“Help Mom and Dad.”

“Help us figure this out.”

I whisper all of these things, but it feels like knocking on the door of an empty house. The only sound is my fist against the hard wood, the way it echoes through the rooms before finally disappearing.

This can’t be your plan.

I’m tired of sleeping in our van, of not having enough of anything. Of losing my parents to this. My brother.

Please.

Around me, the room moves as people dance and sing and pray. Brother John shouts over all of it, dancing, too—gripped by the Spirit. And then he falls, pitching forward right beside me. It’s instinct that makes me reach out and catch him.

The room gasps. Brother John trembles in my hands, moving like a caught fish. Like he just got plugged in. People stand up and circle around us, still dancing and singing and praying. No one helps, even as his dead weight almost brings me to the floor.

Brother John shivers again, and when he speaks it’s not words—more of a babbling that rises and falls from his lips. Like a toddler learning to speak.

I can smell him, sweat and fast food. He grunts as if he’s the one trying to hold somebody up. The more he writhes, the more my hands begin to cramp. Finally Dad takes Brother John by the other arm, helping me lift him up.

The crowd of people has circled around us now, all of them hungry with expectation. Their prayers fill the room. Every face is turned up to the ceiling, every body coming closer and closer—choking me with their movement, their noise. I try to focus on Brother John, infused with a spiritual gravity intent on bringing him to the floor.

Dad’s eyes are closed and he’s praying, one hand lifted in the air while Brother John’s blathering gets louder. People reach toward us, their eyes glassy with tears. I search for Mom, for Aaron, but they’re lost in the crowd,
faceless. Heat seems to blow through the floor, the walls. The room blurs around the edges.

The voices of the crowd lift higher. Hands reach up, like people drowning in water. Like somebody will reach down and pull them up for air.

A woman falls to the ground. A man begins to dance, kicking his body around in circles. Hold on. Hold on. Don’t drop him. But everything is twisting together. The sounds. The colors. The faces of the people, dancing and screaming right in front of me.

Brother John’s body jerks forward; my hands slip.

From far away the sound of a drum beats in my ears, my chest. It gets faster and faster until it’s the only thing I can hear. And then something swims toward me. It’s Aaron’s face. His hand reaches out for me and then it’s the floor and the sense I’m flying. Is it finally happening? Is this what it feels like?

When I open my eyes, Mom and Dad are above me. Brother John has his hands in the air.

“Here is a daughter of the Lord!”

Mom leans close to me and says, “Abigail, are you okay?”

I feel thick and my mouth is dry. Dad’s eyes are alive with excitement; he reaches down and helps lift me to my feet. I’m unsteady, but I don’t feel as if I’m going to pass out again.

Brother John puts a hand on my shoulder as he says, “When you ask for a message, God delivers. Sister Abigail’s had a heavy heart. She had questions—we talked about them just this morning. So God said, ‘Listen, now. I’m about to give you an answer. I’m going to give you some of that Holy Spirit.’”

Everybody nods, whispers “Amen.” I search the room for Aaron, finding him in the back—alone and looking like he’s the one who passed out. Everybody else is focused on Brother John.

“You heard me,” Brother John says. “God gave me a message for you. But if you needed more proof, look at Sister Abigail. That’s God getting your attention. He wants to make sure you hear this message.”

The serenity of the room dissolves and people are on their feet once again, yelling for Brother John to tell them more—to give them the message. Brother John smiles, raising his hand for silence.

“Brothers and sisters, you already know. God is calling us home. He’s calling us home.”

The room explodes with movement, excited voices. Dad grabs Mom and pulls her to him, tears rolling down his face. Brother John puts both hands on my shoulders again as he says, “The only question is: Are you ready? Because we’re all going to see the Lord very soon. Amen?”

The whole room says it—“Amen.”

One loud, corporate agreement. Nobody notices when I don’t move my lips.