by Bryan Bliss
That doesn’t mean I want to go under.
I hang from Aaron’s shoulder as he wades into the ocean. I try to lift my legs higher, but the water still jumps up and catches my foot, making me yelp. Aaron laughs, going deeper—enjoying every minute.
“You know I love you, Abs,” he says.
And he drops me.
The water envelops everything, cutting me off from the rest of the world. I stay submerged for a second, taking in the peace and quiet as the cold grips my body and steals my breath. Everything could be different when I stand up. Even if I don’t know why or how it will happen.
Mom is too busy wrapping what’s left of our dry towels around every part of my body to worry about Dad and Aaron, who are still cackling at the way I grabbed Aaron’s ankle and pulled him under. How he came running out of the ocean like it was on fire.
“You kids,” Mom says, going at my hair with another towel. She glares at Dad. “And you’re no better.”
Dad grins, wringing out his shirt. Aaron tried to throw him into the water, too, but couldn’t. It took both of us—me pretending to need help finding my footing and Aaron sabotaging him from behind.
“They’re just having fun,” Dad says. “Kids being kids.”
“That’s my point! You’re just as bad!” I can’t tell if she’s really upset or if she’s pretending, but her face is tight and she doesn’t look at Dad when she says, “And now we don’t have any dry towels.”
Dad looks at her and then nudges Aaron. “Son, I think your mother needs a hug.”
Mom’s hands stop working the towel. Aaron stands, dripping wet.
“Aaron Parker, I swear—”
“You look stressed, Mom. Come here. Give me a hug.” Aaron comes closer, fueled by Dad’s laughter and Mom’s shriek. She jumps behind me and says, “Dale!”
“Hug your son, Kat!”
“You don’t want to hug me, Mom?”
She turns and runs for the van, locking the door behind her and refusing to get out until Dad has apologized a hundred times and Aaron has the last dry towel wrapped around his body. I finish drying my hair, watching her through the dirty windows of our van. When she finally unlocks the doors, she shakes her head and pushes Dad away from her, still playing at being angry. But when Dad opens his arms, she goes to him and puts her head on his chest.
If I could, I would freeze this moment and never let any of us leave. We could live on this beach, freezing and wet, but happy.
Mom holds a towel under the hand dryer, muttering to herself. The other towels sit in a wet lump on the sink’s counter. Nobody else is in the bathroom, which is tagged with spray paint and looks the way you’d expect a free bathroom at the beach might. But the heater is turned up high and I couldn’t ask for much more.
“Your father . . .” She says it like he forgot to take out the trash. “These towels are never going to dry.”
She sighs, but keeps the towel under the hot air. I’m on the counter, studying her.
“It’s nice,” I say. “Being happy here.”
She looks at me strangely. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just been . . .”
She stops drying the towel and puts a hand on my knee. “You choose if you’re happy. Only you can let somebody take it away from you, Abigail.”
“You’re right,” I say.
But I’m not sure she is. Someone snuck off with our happiness. Was it Brother John? That is the easy answer, and probably the correct one, too. But Aaron isn’t wrong when he says that Mom and Dad made choices to put us here. They’re accountable, and I hate myself for thinking it. No matter how true it is.
Outside, Dad and Aaron are leaning against the van. Dad is talking to Aaron, who seems happy. When they see us, Dad leans over and bumps Aaron with his shoulder.
“We could’ve helped,” Dad says, pointing to the still-damp towels in Mom’s hand.
“Not with these,” Mom says, lifting up the wet pile of towels. “Hopeless.”
“We could go to the Laundromat,” Dad says. And then they share this look, one so familiar it turns my stomach. It says, We have to be careful. There’s so little left. And I immediately feel guilty for thinking they aren’t suffering, too. For taking that five-dollar bill from Mom yesterday and wasting it on ice cream.
I try to shake those feelings away, and take the towels from Mom.
“Watch,” I say, reaching up and putting them across the luggage rack on the roof of the van. It was a trick I learned when our youth group went on a mission trip once. Granted, that was in Tennessee during the summer. But it could still work.
“There you go, Gabs,” Dad says, coming and taking a few towels from my arms. Mom does the same. Then, finally, Aaron. We lay the towels on top of the van until it resembles a large paper-mache project. Something we would’ve done in elementary school. After we’re finished, we stand there looking at the van. It’s freezing, and I can’t stop shaking. Dad puts his arm around me and squeezes.
We don’t start the van, but being out of the wind makes it immediately warmer. I sit next to Aaron in the backseat, both of us under his sleeping bag like we would do when we were kids. Up front, Mom and Dad talk directions and what church is serving when. But we don’t move. We sit in the van, the sound of waves breaking in the distance. I start to get lost in the sounds when Aaron, eyes still closed, says, “That was fun.”
“I told you,” I say, punching him in the shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re a total genius,” he says, easily blocking the next punch I throw. Sitting next to each other, it feels like we could beat anything. And I think: This is it. Everything I want to believe in. Because right now, I feel complete.
“Promise me you won’t sneak out of the van tonight,” I say softly.
Aaron flinches. He closes his eyes for a long time. When he opens them again, he looks at Mom and Dad. I’m worried I ruined whatever was mended.
I glance quickly at the sky—so Aaron won’t see me—and think, Please.
Aaron keeps staring at Mom and Dad.
“Why do you care?” he murmurs back. “I’m not getting in trouble. I’m not in any danger.”
But how would I know? He won’t tell me anything, and no matter what he says, being in the city alone at night is a risk.
We don’t need risks. Not now.
I don’t want to start another argument, but he doesn’t understand the way it feels each time he leaves, like I’m losing a body part. And whether that’s fair or not, it’s real.
“One more night. For me.”
We can start there and move forward. One night after the next, until it feels normal again. Aaron waits and then nods once before he finally says, “Okay.”
FOUR
BROTHER JOHN STANDS AT THE FRONT OF THE ROOM, NOTHING but four whitewashed walls and a single cross on a nail. He stands defiantly, holding the Bible high above his head, but looking at the ground, as if he is thinking deeply about how to start the sermon. Behind us, a man encourages him: “Help him, Lord!”
“Do not fear,” he says, finally looking up, his eyes a deep blue, like water. He’s wearing the same suit he always does—cheap and black, except for the elbows, which have turned gray with age. I’ve never seen him in anything else.
He smiles and intones, “That’s God’s word, now. Do not fear.”
A few hands go into the air, palms up to the ceiling as Brother John sweeps his hand across the makeshift sanctuary, pointing the Bible at every person still here. The first night we came into this room, I was surprised thirty people could make it feel so cramped. It was as if they were stacked on top of one another, like the folding chairs we all sat on. The room felt electric, alive. Now there were maybe ten left, but Brother John still preaches with the same passion. The same urgency.
“I know you’re scared. But we aren’t following my plan. Thank goodness, no.” Brother John slaps the Bible against his thigh and then holds it high above his head. “This is God’s pla
n! You, me—all of us. Sitting here right now. That’s God’s plan.”
Aaron’s eyes are stuck to the wall above Brother John’s shoulder. Beside him, Dad has his hands in the air, agreeing with every word Brother John says. When my eyes go to Mom, she smiles and discreetly nods my attention back to Brother John.
“But there is good news,” Brother John says. “Do you want to hear it?”
They do. Everyone in the room begins to yell. They’ve come from so far away—and they’ve stayed—to hear the good news Brother John is peddling.
“God isn’t done with any of us. Not even close.”
Dad stands up, kicking his chair behind him. It almost hits a woman and her small child, but nobody seems to notice. It starts a chain reaction and people are jumping up from their seats, dropping to the floor—the room is falling apart person by person. Aaron scoots closer to me, just an inch.
“That’s right! I never said this was going to be easy! I never said there wouldn’t be a test!”
Brother John goes to Dad, gripping both sides of his face—the way a professional wrestler might—and says, “God is coming for you, Brother Dale! Do not fear!”
When he lets go, Dad collapses in a heap. Before he even hits the floor, Brother John is at the back of the room, moving quicker than I thought he could, grabbing other people by the head and watching as they fall. He swings back toward us, but Mom pulls both me and Aaron to the floor, her hands tight around my arm. She’s whispering something I can’t make out as we lay there. Brother John stands above us, his arms spread wide like he’s trying to embrace the entire room.
“Brothers and sisters—God hasn’t forgotten us. He’s planning something special right now. All I need to know is: Do you believe?”
Dad’s voice is the first to fill the room, like he’s ready to cry. Soon everybody is yelling with him, choking on screamed responses. Mom grips my hand, her eyes also closed. But it’s different than Dad, who lies on the floor with his face pressed against the cold tile—lips moving like hummingbird wings.
Brother John falls to his knees, his palms extended toward us. Slowly the room grows silent, nothing but our breath and the slow hum of a fan somewhere in the building. The sound is familiar. I’d hear it whenever I would sneak into the sanctuary of our old church in North Carolina. Dad was always volunteering and I’d go, disappearing when nobody was paying attention. I’d escape the heat during the summer, lying on the soft red cushioned pews of the balcony listening to the loud silence of the cavernous room.
Brother John’s voice is low, but still a shock.
“God, I’m not going to talk anymore. You know we’re waiting. You know we aren’t going anywhere, Lord.”
I listen for Dad’s voice, hoping that he won’t agree. But his voice is so loud, so determined. I’d know that “Amen” anywhere.
When we get to the van, Aaron sits in Mom’s seat and stares at the church like it might stand up and run away. He reaches over and turns on the van, cranking the heat high. The intensity is beautiful. We used to convince Uncle Jake to take us for rides in the back of his old Jeep, the top down even though it was winter. When he’d drop us off back at home, those first few steps inside the house felt exactly this way. But soon the heat becomes oppressive and the van starts to sputter. I move up to Dad’s seat and turn off the ignition.
“What are you doing?” Aaron says, still staring at the church.
“We can’t waste the gas. And besides, I was about to melt.”
Aaron blows air through his lips. I pull my knees between the steering wheel and my chest. The van is already colder.
“They’re never going to change,” he says.
I don’t say anything, because I saw the way Dad ran up to Brother John after the service. They’re sitting in his office right now, talking. I was relieved when Mom handed us the keys. I’ve never felt comfortable around Brother John, or understood the draw. Same suit. Same words. Same everything. He doesn’t look like any other pastor we’ve ever had before. They all dressed nicely, like businessmen. Brother John dresses like a man running out of time. Nothing’s ever ironed and there are stains on his lapel, on his tie—which never lasts too long around his neck. Nothing about him makes sense.
“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” I ask.
“Jesus.”
“Seriously.”
“What else would they be talking about?” he says. “That’s all they ever talk about.”
It’s true, of course. Brother John never asks how we’re doing. He never invites us over for a meal or offers a shower. All he’s ever done is invite us to church.
The doors of the building open and light pours into the parking lot. The people who leave look different than the ones who arrived. Newer, fresher—I can’t say why. And that’s how I want to feel. It’s something I’ve never been able to explain to Aaron, even when we weren’t living in our van. But I ask myself: Would I take it right now? Would I swallow a pill—say a prayer—that makes me forget everything? That lets me be as happy and confident as everybody coming through those doors?
Dad and Mom appear in the doorway. Mom is wearing his jacket, covering the wool coat she’s had forever. Aaron looks at them and then back to me.
“Don’t forget why we’re here, Abs.”
Dad steps in front of the van, doing the thing where he’s trying to seem mad but everybody knows it’s a joke. Sometimes he even wags his finger, which always gets him laughing more than us. Mom reaches for the door and Aaron is already up and moving to the back, that now-familiar vacant disappointment haunting his face. Dad knocks on the window.
“Are you trying to freeze your old man to death?”
He smiles and I unlock the door. As he climbs in, I look to the back. Aaron is already zipped up and invisible in the shadows.
FIVE
AARON doesn’t say a word as we drive around looking for a spot to spend the night. But Dad and Mom won’t stop talking. Slowly, their voices begin to lower and the hum of the wheels on the road along with the radio, turned down until it’s just a rumor of sound, are a drug. I try to keep my eyes open, to focus on something other than the slow pull of sleep dragging me toward unconsciousness.
I wake up startled, like a gun went off. Nobody in the van is moving, so I try to calm myself and find a comfortable place to rest my head against the cold window. I look out for a minute, and it’s as if the entire city is frozen.
I turn around out of habit. When we were kids, I used to get up in the middle of the night and walk to Aaron’s room. I’d turn on the lights and check to make sure he was still close.
As we got older, I wasn’t allowed to come into his room anymore. First he put up signs, warnings to stay out—that sort of thing. A few years later it was implicit. He expected the space, and I gave it to him. I used to tell him I couldn’t get into his room even if I wanted to. The place was always a pit; that’s what Mom would say. But sometimes I’d still wake up and hear him moving around his room. That was enough. Now all I have to do is turn my head and he’s there, usually with his earbuds in, staring out the window.
His sleeping bag is spread across the backseat. Clothes are scattered across the floor, along with a few books. I know he’s probably going to be mad, but I get out of my seat and, dodging the paper bags littered on the floor, walk quietly to the back of the van.
When I touch where his shoulder should be, it’s too soft.
No.
He’s watching right now, I tell myself—this is one of his jokes, like throwing me in the ocean. I don’t want him to have broken his promise. But when I pull back the sleeping bag, all I find is a sweater and a few shirts manipulated to look like his body.
I look from the sleeping bag to the clothes to the back door. The surge of anger is so awful and alive inside me I could scream. And maybe I should. Maybe I should yell as loud as I can, waking up Mom and Dad—this whole block—because then we’d just have to deal with it. We’d wait here until Aaron
got back and we’d finally have a real discussion about everything that’s happening. Everything that’s happened.
Loyalty is the only thing that keeps me quiet. That and the satisfaction I’ll feel when he comes back into the van and finds me, awake and angry. I rework his sleeping bag into a body and swivel my captain’s chair so it faces the rear of the van—I’ll be the first thing he sees when he sneaks back in.
But as I sit there, it doesn’t seem like enough.
When I stand up, I tell myself I’m just going to sit in the backseat—to scare him even more, maybe. But when I get to there, all I can think about is the mock body inside his sleeping bag and how much I want to show him that he isn’t the only person who wants to run away.
I slowly unpeel the duct tape and silently remove the cardboard from the window, my heart running crazy in my chest. From there it’s easy to unbind the cord and open the door. As it swings open, I throw a look at Dad, half expecting him to spring from his seat. Even my breathing seems too loud. But he and Mom are both still passed out in the front seat as I lower myself onto the street.
I have no plan, and at first I think I’ll just wait in one of the shadows that fill the corners of the street. But the cold cuts through my sweatshirt, so I start walking—only to the end of the block, I tell myself. Streetlights spill onto the sidewalk every few feet like yellow puddles. The street is empty, but I still move cautiously because who knows what’s hiding ahead, anywhere.
As I turn the first corner, things become familiar. That one bike shop. The fast food restaurant on the corner. Ahead, I see the entrance to the park.
Even as I walk, I can’t stop myself from shivering. I should go get my jacket, but I’m afraid I’ll wake up Mom and Dad. Or maybe I’m afraid that if I go back inside the van, I won’t have the nerve to leave again. So I start to jog, slowly at first. It doesn’t take long to get warm, and soon my heart is like one of those cars that passes in the night, booming and throbbing deeply as I push forward.
