This Side of Salvation

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “That is odd. Most churches are all about—” She cut herself off with a glance at my father, then turned back to me. “So when does this woman say the Rapture will happen?”

  “May eleventh of next year, at three a.m. And she doesn’t call it the Rapture. She says people laugh at that word now, thanks to the last preacher who got the date wrong. She calls it the Rush.”

  “The Rush?” Mara snickered. “Like a fraternity?”

  “No.” I didn’t let her dumb question derail my explanation. “It’s a different translation of the Latin word rapiemur from Thessalonians. That’s how the Wycliffe Bible in the fourteenth century translated it.” One of the many fascinating facts from the Rushers’ website that I’d crammed into my brain over the last ten minutes. “Meaning to ‘take away’ or ‘catch up.’ ”

  “For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a shout,” my dad said, “with the voice of the archangel, and with God’s trumpet. The dead in Christ will rise first.” He lifted his fork with a flourish, sending rice onto the table and floor. “Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air. So we will be with the Lord forever.”

  As he continued with the story, I shoveled food into my mouth so I could excuse myself from the table as soon as possible. It was best for my appetite to tune him out and not think about what happens after Jesus Raptures the true believers.

  Everyone left behind will endure seven years of Tribulation: plagues, wars, storms, earthquakes, meteors, rivers of blood, demon locusts from hell. The Antichrist will rise to power, and a third of the people on earth will die.

  Then comes Armageddon, the infamous battle of good and evil. God wins, of course, and begins a thousand-year reign of peace, making the world beautiful and clean again. No more pollution. No more wars. No more pain. Until doomsday, when the devil and sinners are hurled into the lake of fire for all eternity.

  It sounds like a total horror show, unless you’re one of the Raptured. Then it’s still a horror show, but you’re a front-row spectator instead of a participant. Everyone at Stony Hill—including me and my family—was 100 percent positive we’d be among the Raptured. We couldn’t wait for Jesus to come back.

  Or so we claimed.

  What separated Stony Hill folks—all evangelicals—from the Rush cult is that we thought the Rapture would be a surprise. The Bible makes it crystal clear that we needed to be prepared, because it could happen anytime, day or night. Not on May 11 at 3 a.m.

  “So what’s this lady preacher’s name?” Mom asked in a flat tone.

  I should have lied. I should have “forgotten.” I should’ve wondered why my mother would even ask, rather than blowing off the entire subject of the Rush. Saying Sophia Visser’s name made her real.

  But I gave it all up, as I scraped my plate clean. The name, church, location, everything I’d learned. Then I asked to be excused so I could finish homework.

  I made it to my room, safe from the Leviticus 18:22 lecture about abominable gays. Only one more dinner to go before Saturday’s date with Bailey, and that was our family’s traditional Friday pizza-and-movie night (the cheesily named Super Duper Cooper Night), when we paid attention to the TV instead of one another.

  I opened my laptop to work on a paper about the Boston Massacre for my community-college American history class. The browser window still showed Sophia Visser’s website. In the header she wore a white dress that hugged her figure, her face uplifted to a golden light. Her arms stretched out, palms up, as if collecting falling sunbeams.

  She looked like the kind of happy I hadn’t felt since I was a kid, swimming in the ocean at the Jersey Shore. I could go out as far as I wanted, because John was always there, ready to save me from sharks or jellyfish or drowning. Dad was always back on the sand, catching up on paperwork.

  Below Sophia’s photo, in a flowing font, were the words, “Are you ready for the Rush?”

  I closed the browser tab. “Nope. Not yet.”

  CHAPTER 11

  NOW

  Kane prepares to cook omelets while we tell him everything we know. Since it isn’t much, we’re done talking before he even finishes breaking eggs.

  “You know I’m not your parents’ hugest fan,” he says, turning on the gas stove, “but even I can’t believe they’d just abandon you.”

  I eat a slice of bread while two more are toasting. “You think they were kidnapped?” I ask him, feeling less paranoid for having had the idea myself.

  “Or otherwise coerced into leaving. You should call the police.”

  “No way!” Mara sloshes orange juice outside of the glass she’s trying to fill. “I’m only seventeen, so I can’t be David’s guardian. If we call the police, Social Services will put us in foster care. We could end up separated.”

  “Better than ending up orphans.” Kane scoops part of a bowl of chopped onions, peppers, and ham into the sizzling pan, then starts to beat the eggs. “Is it possible one of your parents was having an affair?”

  Mara gives a harsh laugh as she wipes up the juice. “Have you met our parents?”

  “Hey, the world is full of pious people getting a little side action.”

  The toaster beeps, so I replace the toast with two fresh slices of bread. “If one of them was having an affair, why would they both leave?”

  “Maybe it was a threesome.” Kane taps the whisk against the inside of the bowl. “Or more than three, like on that show about the dude who has all those wives.”

  Mara snorts. “Yeah, Kane. Our parents ran off and left us so Dad could start a harem.”

  “Or your mom. There are such things as male harems.”

  “In your dreams, maybe,” she says.

  “Definitely in my dreams. But also in reality. I’m just saying, guys, there are way more plausible explanations for your parents being gone than the Rush.”

  “We’re not saying they were Rushed,” I tell him, “but it can’t be a coincidence that they disappeared last night. There must be a connection.”

  “Maybe. The important point is, they’re out there somewhere, which means you can get them back.” Kane shakes the spatula at us. “It’s your duty as their children to save them.”

  “Even from themselves?” Mara asks.

  “Especially from themselves.”

  “We couldn’t do that while they were here,” I point out. “God knows I tried.”

  “And if He doesn’t know,” Mara says, “He’s not paying attention.”

  • • •

  Kane and Mara and I take breakfast down into the family room, because there’s no one to make us eat at the kitchen table. It’s well past time for church, but our parents’ fringe beliefs alienated us from the congregation, so we haven’t been attending much lately. Which means no one will miss us.

  On my laptop, I open Sophia’s website (which still displays nothing but “. . . like a thief in the night . . .”), then do a quick search on her name to check for updates. No news has been reported, other than the fact that her house/headquarters seems empty, and no statement has been issued on her behalf.

  Mara erases the leftover math problems from the whiteboard. “Okay, let’s keep an open mind while we try to figure out what happened with Mom and Dad. Possibility one: They were Rushed. Two: They were kidnapped. Three: They ran away.” She writes this list on the board with a black marker. “David, you’re the Bible geek, so you take number one.”

  I try to see the evidence through the eyes of a Rusher. “The Rush would explain everyone’s disappearance—Mom, Dad, Sophia. And the way their clothes were left in the bed.”

  Mara removes her glasses and peers at them in the light from the basement window. “If the Rush happened, then why weren’t we taken too? We could’ve been swept away while we were at Stephen’s party. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

  “Sophia said it was all a matter of faith, who was taken and who got left behind. You and I didn’t beli
eve in the Rush, so we were automatically disqualified. Our doubts kept us here.”

  “That makes sense from a certain point of view,” Kane says to me from the other end of the couch. “But this theory has one minor flaw.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s fucking crazy, that’s what. Next?”

  Mara crosses out option one. “Number two: kidnapping. Kane, this was your idea, so you defend it.”

  “Your parents aren’t the most stable folks I’ve ever met, but abandoning you is extreme behavior even for them.”

  “If they were kidnapped,” I point out with a mouthful of omelet, “wouldn’t someone have asked for a ransom by now?” This is just a guess—unlike Kane, I’m not an avid watcher of police shows.

  “We don’t have any money,” Mara says. “Anyone who knows us well enough to kidnap them would already know we’re broke.”

  “Your dad’s out of work, but they must have savings.” Kane lifts his orange-juice glass and spies the damp ring it leaves behind on the coffee table. Grimacing, he wipes it dry with a napkin.

  “If they had savings, why are we eating generic everything? Why can’t I afford college? If they don’t come back, David and I’ll probably lose the house.”

  “We could live in the minivan,” I offer. “At least that’s paid for.”

  “What about other family?” Kane asks Mara before she can throw a marker at me. “Anyone with money?”

  “Our grandparents are all dead, so there’s no one else to threaten.”

  “Aunts? Uncles?” Kane rattles off questions like a cop.

  “They live in Florida, and they don’t care about us.” Mara writes “money” under option two, then crosses out the word. “Why else would someone be kidnapped?”

  I shift restlessly on the couch cushion, trying to focus. Despite my exhaustion, I’m dying to go for a run, to stretch my muscles and let my mind go blank. “If Sophia wants to pretend the Rush really happened, wouldn’t she want to round up everyone who believed? Otherwise she looks like a fake.”

  Mara nods and writes Sophia’s name under option two, along with the word “suspect.” “Sophia’s thugs showed up and took Mom and Dad away. Is that what we’re saying?”

  “I’m not exactly a one-man CSI department,” Kane says, “but there’s no evidence of a struggle here. So they probably went quietly.” He points to a wedge of toast at the board. “Which leads us to Option Three: They ran away. Would they do that, though? If someone tried to separate you guys, wouldn’t they fight to stay with you?”

  I’m ashamed I have to contemplate the answer for more than a second. Would they have taken us if we hadn’t gone to the party? If that was their plan, why didn’t they try harder to find us? “Mom would fight to stay with us.”

  Mara looks at me. “Yeah. Mom would.”

  “I think,” I add.

  “I think,” she repeats.

  Kane shakes his head sadly. “You know your family is seriously messed up, right?”

  “We know,” Mara and I say in unison.

  This whole exercise is surreal. After all, it’s our parents’ job to save us. They reminded us of that every day, by keeping close tabs on our activities and “guiding” our education as much as they could. How many times over the last two years have I wished—prayed, even—that I could be free of their control? Now that we’re the grown-ups, I just want to know they’re safe.

  “The question is how messed up are they, and in what way?” I dread voicing my next thought. “Mara, add an option four.”

  She writes the number on the board. “What is it?”

  Just one word. “Suicide.”

  CHAPTER 12

  EIGHT MONTHS BEFORE THE RUSH

  Saturday night, Mom dropped me off at the local megaplex movie theater to meet Bailey and our Math Cave friends. In one of her rare moments of sisterly kindness, Mara had helped me pick out a shirt that looked good but not “trying too hard,” as she put it.

  “The first group date is always awkward,” she told me, sifting through my closet. “You don’t know if it’s a real date with romantic potential or if it’s just everyone hanging out.”

  “How will I know which it is?”

  “You sidle.” Mara pulled out a tan button-down shirt, looked at me, then the shirt, then stuffed it back in the closet, shaking her head.

  “Sidle?” I knew the meaning of the word but not how to execute the concept.

  “When you’re standing in a group, ease up to her all casual at key moments.”

  “Which moments are key?” I felt so clueless.

  “When everyone’s getting ready to sit down together, like in the movie theater or at a restaurant. Decisions have to be made, who’s with who, and you need to, like, align yourself with her so that it’s natural.” She examined a dark-blue shirt with marbled blue-and-white buttons. “Does this still fit?”

  “I got it last year. Might be a little tight in the chest.”

  “Might be a good thing.” She held it up against me. “Yep. It matches your eyes. Say, ‘Thank you, Mara.’ ”

  “Thank you, Mara.”

  I walked into the movie theater lobby to find Bailey waiting with our friends near the ticket kiosks. She was huddled with Brooke and Tori, checking out something in Brooke’s hands (or possibly her hands themselves—she was always putting wild designs on her fingernails).

  Bailey had on a white shirt with little frilly bits around the neckline, which scooped way low but not enough to show cleavage. She wore high-heeled, open-toed clogs and skinny jeans with loopy stitching on each side that drew my eyes up and down her legs. Her hair was out of the braid, streaming in amber waves so thick, they reminded me of Niagara Falls.

  Francis was hovering behind Bailey, closer than I would’ve liked. Was he sniffing her hair? That was the last breath he’d take of her, if I had anything to do with it.

  Bailey gave me an approving smile as I approached. “Love that shirt. Is it new?”

  “Sort of.” Thank you, Mara. “You look great too.”

  Brooke and Tori greeted me with friendly smiles as well. Only Francis seemed displeased to see me.

  “Austin’s holding our place in line,” he said. “One more minute and you would’ve had to stand in line yourself while we went in without you.”

  I ignored his blatant invitation to a pissing match. “Thanks, bro.” I patted his shoulder. “I so appreciate it.”

  As we joined Austin in line, Bailey’s smile turned shyer, and by the time we got to the front, she barely looked at me. Maybe it wasn’t shyness. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe she realized how hard I was crushing on her and how awkward it would be to get rid of me now.

  Is it too soon to sidle? I wondered. I am so far out of my element. If I’m nitrogen, she’s einsteinium.

  The ticket lady to our left waved us over to her window. As Bailey walked beside me, I held up my wallet. “I got this.”

  “Thanks, bro,” Francis said behind me, mocking my former tone. “We so appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t mean—n-not for everyone,” I stuttered. “Just Bailey and me.”

  “Ohhh.” Francis tilted his head. “Awkward.”

  “I don’t have enough money to—where’d Bailey go?”

  I turned to see her at the window buying her own ticket, making this officially not-a-date. Swing and a miss.

  We walked into the theater, my palms sweating and my heart crawling up into my throat. It was definitely sidling time. But it was opening night for a big action-movie sequel, so Bailey and I got separated in the thick crowd. Cradling my Coke and popcorn and pretzel bites, I searched for her as our group neared our usual row, three-quarters of the way down on the left. What if she ended up sitting with Francis, or between Brooke and Tori, taking on a protective Chick Barrier?

  I felt a tug on my waist and turned. Bailey’s middle finger was hooked through one of my belt loops.

  I gaped at her, my mouth open like a dog’s. Her hand wa
s almost on my ass. It was absolutely in my ass’s general neighborhood. And she wasn’t letting go.

  “I didn’t want to lose you in the crowd,” she said.

  I took a quick sip of Coke, wetting my mouth enough to speak. “You won’t.”

  • • •

  Two days after our movie date, and one day before my sixteenth birthday, Bailey came to my house to study for a math test. Alone.

  Mara was home too, but she and one of her fellow Stony Hill choir girls were up in her room practicing a duet of “As the Deer” for next Sunday. Mom and Dad had to drive to some church-related meeting in South Jersey. I hadn’t seen any announcements about it at yesterday’s service, but I didn’t care as long as it meant I could be alone with Bailey.

  We were sitting at the kitchen table, eating pretzels and going over derivatives, and I was trying not to notice the way her hair smelled, but it was so long and thick it practically had its own weather system, and these air currents kept wafting into my face, when Bailey yelped.

  It was the cutest yelp ever.

  She peeked under the table. “You got a new cat!”

  Our tiny tuxedo kitty was rubbing her chin against Bailey’s leg. “Juno’s not new. She’s shy, so she never shows her face when more than one non-Cooper is in the room.”

  “She’s adorable. Is she named after the capital of Alaska?”

  I spelled Juno’s name.

  “Oh, right, duh,” Bailey said. “The Roman goddess.”

  “Actually, the movie character. She got knocked up when she wasn’t even full grown. Someone dumped her in the woods behind our house, ready to pop with kittens.”

  Bailey glanced at the cross on the wall over the arched doorway to the living room. “I can’t believe your parents let you name a cat after a pregnant teenager.”

  “Things were different three years ago.”

  Juno looked over her shoulder at Bailey, then plopped down onto her side.

  “She wants you to rub her stomach,” I said, trying not to sound suggestive. “She won’t bite, I promise.”

  “You can’t make promises for anyone but yourself.” Bailey knelt next to Juno and tentatively rubbed under the cat’s outstretched neck. “How many kittens did she have?”