No Parking at the End Times

by Bryan Bliss

  Mom pulls out the water bottle she keeps refilling. The label is gone and the plastic creaks every time she brings it out of her bag. We all get a paper cup.

  “Don’t get toothpaste on the seats,” she says. And for some reason I can’t look at her. I can’t meet her eyes as she hands me my toothbrush, because of all the things to worry about.

  We brush our teeth as twenty-somethings walk past our car, laughing and ready to fall into the street because of it; as two cars nearly collide, both of them riding their horns until they disappear around a corner. We brush our teeth, just like we have for years and years. For something so basic, something that should be forgettable and rote, it’s everything I can do not to break down.

  I hand Mom the cup and my toothbrush and I force myself to smile.

  Dad is asleep, wrapped in a blanket as Mom reads by the streetlight, the front cover of her book folded around the back. When I say her name, she doesn’t hesitate. She closes the book and turns to face me.

  “Are you okay, sweetie? Do you need another blanket?” Before I can answer, she’s taking the one off her lap and tucking it around my chair. Once she’s asleep, I’ll put it back on her. But for now, I let her fuss. I let her fuss over me.

  “Better?”

  I nod, and before she goes back to her seat, I take her arm and don’t let go. We’re supposed to have faith and I’m supposed to know that all of this is temporary, but the tears still pour out of me and I can’t stop.

  “Hey,” she says, stroking my head. “Hey now. We’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? Everything is going to be okay.”

  I fall asleep with the sound of her voice saying my name over and over again.

  The backyard looks bright and warm, colored by the summer. Aaron has his baseball bat—the one he pretended was a light saber. We aren’t supposed to play those types of games, the kinds where we fight and yell.

  We’re running together, taking cover behind a tree, the big one in the corner of our yard. I’m laughing and Aaron’s frustrated; I never play the games the way he expects. Never the princess, never the one needing to be rescued by some boy with an electric sword. And then we’re running again, him screaming and me smiling, toward the picnic table.

  Aaron climbs on top of the table, like George Washington in all those pictures where he’s crossing the Delaware, lifting the Wiffle Ball bat high like a flag, ready to sail. To where, I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. It’s always someplace good.

  The knock—metal on glass—comes from far away, like a bad sound effect in my dreams. And then I’m awake, squinting as lights reflect off every surface in the van. Red. White. Blue. Harsh and invasive, they highlight everything. The fake wood paneling. The small television mounted near the ceiling. Empty brown bags filled by old churchwomen litter the floor. And then us, bundled up without any excuse for why we’re sleeping in a van on the side of the road. At least not a good one.

  Dad rolls down his window. Somewhere in the murkiness, I remember Aaron standing on the picnic table. But then I jolt violently under the blanket, because I fell asleep before he did. I don’t want to look back. I don’t want to see an empty place where he should be.

  The police officer is explaining about this neighborhood and how we’ll need to move. Even if it was legal, he says, being this close to the park isn’t safe. Dad agrees. He always agrees.

  He explains our situation and it sounds so pathetic, like it’s happening to somebody else.

  “There are shelters,” the officer says.

  Behind me, Aaron stirs. Maybe he was asleep. Or maybe he slipped back into the van just now, too tricky for even the police and their harsh lights, which I wish they’d turn off already. But I still don’t turn around. I can’t see his face. Not now. Not as Dad starts the van and actually thanks the officer. I don’t need to see his disappointment, his anger. Or worse: the validation. I don’t want to see anything, so I close my eyes and try to slip back into my dream as we pull away from the curb.

  BEFORE

  DAD BORROWED UNCLE JAKE’S JEEP BECAUSE HE SAID HE liked to feel the mountain air. This was seventh grade, when Dad would show up with a note and a plan to get back down the mountain before Mom was off work. We drove with the top down, trying to catch the leaves that fell from the trees like tiny oblong angels. The wind muted everything; I couldn’t hear anything Dad or Aaron said; I could only watch them smile and laugh as we climbed the mountain.

  I was lost—happily, completely—so I never saw the clouds.

  Aaron looked at his arm, and then to the sky. By the time I felt the first drop, it was pouring. Just like that—one drop, and then a thousand. All three of us were screaming as Dad pulled the Jeep into a rest area, deserted and overgrown—nothing more than a few picnic tables and one ancient vending machine. I jumped off the back of the Jeep as soon as he parked and ran for the tables, sheltered by a couple of huge pine trees. It was still dry underneath them and I stood there, shivering and watching as Dad pulled a blanket from under the seat and came running with Aaron across the small parking lot.

  “Put this around you,” he said, handing me the quilt. He had another one for Aaron and we stood there, eventually getting warm underneath those huge trees.

  In front of us, the rain fell like a sheet. Dad wiped his forehead as he watched, finally saying, “We probably should have taken the van.”

  Aaron laughed first, but Dad and I didn’t need much encouragement. We stood there laughing like fools, watching the rain fall harder than I’d ever seen before.

  “Are we going to go back to school?” Aaron asked. Dad shook his head.

  “We aren’t going anywhere until it stops raining,” he said. “And the Jeep dries enough that we don’t get our rear ends soaked.”

  Ten minutes went by with nothing but rain and, in the distance, a small rumble of thunder. Dad looked to the sky, as if he couldn’t believe it was happening, and finally said, “You guys hungry?”

  I didn’t want to get back in the Jeep, even if there was a restaurant close. The idea of sitting in a booth, soaked to the bone, made me wrap the quilt tighter around my shoulders.

  “I’ll set some traps,” Aaron deadpanned. “Abs, you build a fire.”

  He feigned a break for the woods, and I smiled.

  “I was thinking more vending machine and less hunter-gatherer,” Dad said, smiling.

  He grabbed Aaron in a headlock, laughing as he struggled to get away. And when Aaron did escape, when he tried to wrestle Dad to the wet ground, they both laughed even harder.

  We spent the next hour eating Cheez Doodles and tortilla chips, washed down with a painfully weak fruit punch. With the last quarters Dad could find, we got chocolate chip cookies. The three of us, sitting on the picnic bench with a blanket over our heads—passing the bags back and forth until the rain stopped.

  THREE

  WHEN I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, DAD IS GONE AND Mom is trying to organize the various cups and bags that have accumulated in the front seat. I watch her for a few minutes before I say, “Where’s Dad?”

  She pauses. “He went to talk with Brother John. He’ll be back in a little while.”

  I sit up and try to stretch the discomfort out of my neck. I used to love sleeping in the van whenever we’d go visit Grandpa and Grandma. Waking up as we were pulling into their driveway turned time into something that could be manipulated, bent.

  Mom hands me a banana and I take a small bite, watching people walk from their cars into Safeway. We parked in the lot last night. The bright lights and, as the morning came, the constant opening and closing of car doors made it difficult to stay asleep. But at least it kept Aaron with us. He’s still in the backseat. Every few seconds, he breathes out in a tiny whistle.

  “Mom?” She turns to me, trying to smooth a wrinkled brown paper bag. “Could we do something fun today?”

  The first two weeks here were like a vacation. Or at least, a church trip. During the day we explored the city. We walked across t
he Golden Gate Bridge and went to Fisherman’s Wharf. We still punctuated each day with a church service, Brother John’s excitement growing larger every night, but at least it felt almost normal. Then the trips to see the cable cars ended and it was Brother John all day, every day. Now that God decided not to come, maybe we can get a small part of those first days back.

  “Well, we can ask your father,” Mom says, still busy with the bag.

  “We don’t have to spend any money,” I say. “I just want to do something.”

  Mom puts the bag down and comes to kneel in front of me. She touches my cheek and stares at me for a few moments before saying, “Do you want to go into the store and get yourself something to eat? I think they have pancakes on the hot bar. We have some extra money now.”

  “I’m good with this,” I say, holding up the banana. Not that it will be enough, because it won’t. But I want every dollar of that money to take us home. To put gas in the tank and miles between us and this city. I don’t need pancakes. I can live without pancakes.

  “You could go out for a run before he gets back,” she says. “Maybe you could get Aaron to go, too.”

  I give her a look and we both laugh. She puts her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound. Then she says, “I can dream.”

  Dad always joked that Aaron got his family’s good looks and Mom’s lack of athletic ability. Either way, I was the only athlete in the family—even if I haven’t been able to run consistently in a month.

  But a run—a chance to forget for even a little while—sounds good.

  When I go to put on my running shoes, Mom says, “Don’t go too far. I don’t want to lose you.”

  I circle the block five times, trying to push myself faster whenever I see the van. Mom waves each time I pass, the way she would whenever she came to one of my track meets. That always made Dad and Aaron crazy—She can’t wave to you, Kat. She’s racing!—but she still did it every time I made it around the track.

  If we were at home, I’d be running five, six miles a day. Track practice officially starts in March, but the informal training sessions have already begun. We had the best four-hundred-meter relay team in the state, or that’s what people were saying. When Coach Decker told me about the first training session, I shrugged and said I needed to go to class. I hated blowing her off, but what was I supposed to say? My dad thinks the world’s about to end, so I’ll probably miss it. But good luck this year!

  I slow down to a walk as the sidewalks begin to fill with people on their way to work. I stand to the side, stretching my leg against the window ledge of a restaurant, watching everyone pass.

  Kids, off for winter break, walk with their parents. They scream and point into store windows, too excited to contain themselves. When we first got here, I kept track of the days—the time. Every minute brought something new, something I hadn’t seen before. Now the days blur together, a collection of unfocused moments that repeat one after another. Sleep, eat, Brother John.

  When my legs feel loose, I walk again. People push past me, on their cell phones or talking to friends. I smell their coffee, the breakfast burritos in their hands. I listen to their conversations about hating their bosses, the Christmas presents they received. It’s all so normal, and it makes me feel like more of an outsider.

  I start running again, even harder.

  Dad is leaning against the hood of the van, one foot resting on the bumper. He shields the sun from his eyes with his hand, as if he’s saluting. As soon as he sees me, he waves.

  “How was it?” he asks.

  “I’m out of shape,” I say, poking him in the stomach. His paunch was already gone before we left, but this empty stomach full of ribs still makes me pull back my finger quickly.

  “You could come with me next time,” I say.

  I half expect him to say something about living forever. About God and how we won’t need to worry about our bodies for much longer. Instead he laughs and says, “I think I’m more than a little out of shape, Gabs.”

  I think for a second before saying, “We can go slow.”

  He nods, not answering me. I don’t expect him to come run. Not really. But at this point, I’d take it. Anything other than the constant refrain of church services which have stolen so much of who he used to be. There were times when he would stay home to watch football on Sundays, skipping church and telling Mom that God didn’t mind—that the Bears needed him. That was years ago, but I’d give anything to have that guy standing in front of me right now.

  “Gabs, if I tried to run right now, it wouldn’t be slow as much as it would be dead.”

  I put my head down and laugh. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed.

  “Can we do something today?” I ask. “Anything. I just can’t sit in the van all day again.”

  Dad buttons his jacket and watches a train pass through a busy intersection on the next block. I ready myself for disappointment. For him to smile and begin with Well, Brother John . . . I don’t even need to finish the thought, because that would be it. Our entire day, sucked into the black hole of preaching and prayer.

  Dad gives me a look, clever like a cat, and says, “Well, what are you thinking, Gabs?”

  Aaron and I walk down the cold beach, shoes off and hands stuffed deep into our pockets. Mom and Dad are far ahead of us, talking.

  “It’s freezing out here,” I say. Aaron kicks a seashell toward the water and nods. “I thought beaches were supposed to be warm.”

  We walk together like that, my feet slipping under the sand. When he stops to tie his shoelace, I say, “I’m surprised you’re not dead, having to stay in the van all night.”

  I want it to be funny. I want him to smile.

  But all he says is, “I’m okay.”

  “Okay? That’s it?”

  He stands up, brushing the sand from his palms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  I think he’s going to start walking down the beach again. Instead he picks up a seashell and throws it into the coming waves. He’s gotten so good at erasing the emotion from his face, his body. Even now, he looks bored. As if we were sitting in World History listening to Mr. Burns drone on about Stalin.

  “Don’t you care?”

  Aaron faces me, his face red from the wind. “Of course I care, Abs. That’s not the point. I can care all day long and it doesn’t make a difference. It’s you who needs to realize who Mom and Dad are now.”

  “So that’s it? They make one mistake and it’s over?”

  “Jesus, why do you defend them?” Aaron says. “This isn’t a mistake. They fucked up. Big-time. And you act like you can’t even see it.”

  “Of course I see it! But what am I supposed to do? Run away every night? Because that’s really going to show them. That fixes everything.”

  Aaron turns away from me, sticking his hands in his pockets as he walks. I grab his shoulder. “You’re so full of crap, you know that?”

  “Well, I’m rubber and you’re glue,” he says.

  How many times has he cracked a joke or slipped in a sarcastic comment at the exact right moment? Things I never could or would say to Mom and Dad. But this is different. It’s dismissive, which is so much worse.

  It’s not like I’m ignoring how bad things are. Every night, as we fall asleep in the van, I cannot escape the fact that our parents have ruined everything. That’s true. But we have a choice—all of us. We can spend every day looking for reasons to snipe, to pick and pull at what little we have left until it’s nothing but crumbs. Love and family, in the ruins. Or we can fight to stay together. To refuse to knock each other down with what we say—or what we don’t.

  I sit down in the sand and stare out at the water, violent and beautiful at the same time. Aaron sits next to me, but he doesn’t say anything. Behind us, Dad yells. We both look at him.

  “I think things can get back to normal,” I say.

  “We were never normal,” Aaron says.

  His eyes track Dad, coming down the
beach now. He’s right, of course. We’ve never been normal. We’ve always been different, and that’s what I love. It’s as if nobody else could crack the code of what it meant to be a part of our family, a gift given only to us. Aaron used to think that, too. But now, whenever I look at Aaron, all I see is the anger clouding over his face. I force myself to change directions. To not let our entire relationship become something different.

  “Well, you’re acting pretty normal,” I say. “A big sourpuss.”

  He shakes his head. “God. Sourpuss? Really?”

  I punch him and fix my face into a pitiful frown. “That’s how you look. All sad, like you want to cry.”

  I can see his expression changing, the way he’s fighting the smile I imagine is trying to push through—pressing against every wall he’s put up. I punch him a second time and he gives me this look, like I’ve finally turned on a switch somewhere inside him.

  “Watch it,” he says.

  “Or what?” I smile.

  “Or I’ll put you in that water quicker than you can scream.” He jumps to his feet. “That’s what.”

  He’s got my hand before I can stop him. We circle each other, him going for my other hand and me trying to jump backward at the same time. I look at the water, rough and cold. All I can think about is it creeping through my clothing, grabbing my skin. About how strong he is.

  I tell myself he wouldn’t really throw me in.

  “Mom will kill you,” I say, just to make sure.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  And then he’s got me on his shoulder, carrying me toward the water. All I can do is scream. I yell at Aaron. I yell for Dad. But the ocean is too loud and Aaron is unstoppable at this point.

  “That old man can’t help you. I’ll throw him in, too!”

  Dad says something again, and this time it sounds like he’s laughing, too. I’m sure Mom’s worried about hypothermia and pneumonia and whatever else might be hidden in the water. But Dad will calm her down.