This Side of Salvation

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  So I could see Bailey reach behind her back, unhook her bikini top, then let it drop to the floor. My eyes followed it as it came to rest in a pink-and-blue heap, joined a moment later by its bottom half.

  She spoke my name then, and though it was barely more than a whisper, I stepped back as if she’d shouted through a megaphone.

  Like a boomerang I moved toward her again, into her arms. As we kissed, I squirmed out of my swim trunks, pulling one foot out, then using the other to kick them aside. This is actually happening. Let the world end in an hour and a half, I don’t care.

  As Bailey draped her towel over the futon cushion, I suddenly remembered the condoms. “I have, um, protection. But it’s in my pants. I’ll go get—”

  “Don’t worry, I brought one too.” She lifted her bag and pulled me to sit beside her. “Because of the whole hoping-you’d-be-here thing.”

  The plastic cushion squeaked under our shifting legs as we kissed and touched. Her skin and hair smelled of chlorine and her breath of Coca-Cola. I was happy I was sober so I could imprint every detail on my memory.

  While I put on the condom (it was just like in the instructions), Bailey lay down on her back, her damp hair splayed around her.

  The sight paralyzed me. She’d been 85 percent naked for the last two hours—how could that last 15 percent make such a monumental difference? Part of me just wanted to look at her.

  She glanced past me at the door. “We should probably—”

  “Yeah.” I took the same steadying breath I would when facing down a clutch hitter with the bases loaded and a full count. What a pitcher wants most is nothing. “Nothing” in this case meant “lack of disaster.”

  I tried to position myself between her legs, but the couch cushion was tilted down toward the back, and Bailey’s towel got all bunched up beneath her. So we kept sliding into the well of the sofa, smushing my right side and her left side. My legs had no clue where to go, which meant other, less flexible parts ended up far from their target zones.

  “Can you shift over?” I whispered. “I can’t even—”

  “I think so.” Her elbow hit my cheek. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Maybe if we—”

  “Ow, you’re on my hair.”

  “Oh, God. Sorry.”

  “This isn’t working. Sit up.”

  “What?”

  “Get off me and sit up.”

  “Okay.” I sat up slowly. I knew it: I failed at sex.

  “Like this.” Bailey pushed my chest so that I sat against the back of the sofa with my legs over the edge and my feet on the floor. Like normal, as if I was going to watch TV.

  “Now.” Bailey swung her hair behind her shoulders and straddled my lap.

  Oh.

  “Ready?” she whispered against my temple, her voice breathy. I could only nod.

  It seemed strange, that this place I’d never been, only in poor simulations created by my hand, could be such a perfect fit. It seemed wrong that I’d ever been anywhere else.

  Bailey’s thumbs stroked my cheeks as she examined my face. “You okay?”

  Why wouldn’t I be okay? Is she okay?

  I got out half of an “Uh-huh”—which was just “uh”—but that seemed to be enough for her to start.

  Every part of Bailey was within my reach. I wished I had more than two hands and one mouth to touch her with. What I had wasn’t enough to experience her all at once, not with her in constant, steady motion, alternating with little jerks and twitches that may or may not have been voluntary, that may or may not have been in response to my fingers, tongue, or teeth.

  My butt was sticking to the seat, and the backs of my thighs stung where the stone waterslide had scraped them, but it didn’t matter. Bailey did all that we needed. Soon her little jerks and twitches came faster and stronger, and when she kissed me, so hard I thought I would bleed, I swallowed her rising cries.

  And then she swallowed mine.

  CHAPTER 37

  NOW

  I sleep until midmorning, when the sun finally glares directly on our tent. Mara and I pack up our stuff and head out, scarfing more protein bars for breakfast. I wonder what Almost Heaven will serve for dinner tonight, and whether we’ll still be there.

  Over the drone of Mara’s reading comes the soft, rhythmic slap of oars in the water, the chatter of birds, and the occasional splash of fish or maybe the Loch Whatever-Lake-This-Is Monster. No rumble of jets, no hum of cars, no clank and whistle of trains. The silence calms me, and at the same time leaves me feeling raw and exposed.

  “Are you feeling better today?” Mara asks casually, as if I’ve had a slight cold instead of a cataclysmic emotional breakdown.

  “I don’t know what happened last night. When I went to bed I felt totally calm.”

  “That happened to me once while we were going to grief group. One night I was feeling at peace with what happened to John, and then the next day, boom! It was worse than ever. Pastor Ed told me that when the grief feels us letting go, it digs in its claws.”

  “Yeah.” I stop rowing to rub an itch on my face with my sleeve. “I guess so.” I’m ready to drop the subject.

  “He also said something about God giving us the worst sadness when we’re strong enough to handle it. Sounds like a rationalization to me, but whatever. You might find it comforting.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t feel particularly strong right now, and even if I did, I’d need that strength for the days to come. I have to fight for our future, not wallow in the past.

  Near noon we stop again to rest, eat, and purify a canteen of drinking water. The midday sun is relentless, and even with my shades, my eyes hurt from squinting at the glint of rays off the water. But by two o’clock, it’s dipped below the blue-gray mountains that tower above us on both sides.

  As we near the last bend in the lake before our destination, Mara stops reading and keeps an alert watch ahead. I envy her position in the stern, where she can see where we’re going.

  Suddenly she points past me. “There it is!”

  I turn to look. Sure enough, a dock and a large wooden building appear in the distance. “I hope Wendell warned them we might be coming, in case they have a shoot-intruders-on-sight policy.”

  “Row faster,” she says. “The sooner they can see who we are, the better.”

  I do my best, my shoulders and legs begging for mercy.

  The first sounds we hear are the shouts of children. Incoherent at first, then I can make out words like “Boat!” and “Coming!”

  “Geez, were we the only offspring left behind?” Mara wonders. “It’s like a Nickelodeon theme park up there.” She brings out the photo Ezra gave us. “Wow, the place has expanded since this picture was taken.”

  I keep rowing, watching Mara smile and wave to the laughing, hollering kids. “Tell me you see our parents. Tell me we’re not entering some Lord of the Flies land with no adults.”

  “I don’t see them yet.” She cranes her neck. “Oh—there’s Sophia.”

  “Does she look upset?”

  “She’s not smiling. Steer a little to your left or you’re gonna—” The boat bumps the dock hard. “Do that.”

  “Thanks.” I use one of the oars to bring us to the long edge of the short dock. It’s the hardest parallel parking job ever.

  The crowd of children parts for Sophia. “Welcome to Almost Heaven!” She crouches down and extends her hand to Mara. “Better late than never, right?”

  My sister looks tempted to yank Sophia down into the lake. I climb out of the boat and let her decide.

  Then my mother calls my name. I spin in the direction of her voice, the dock seeming to sway as I regain my land legs, then rush toward her. All I see is a blur of T-shirt and jeans before she hurls herself into my arms. “My baby!”

  “It’s okay, we’re here.” I don’t know if my words are to soothe her or me, or which of us is holding on to the other harder. “Are you all right?”

  A spasm of embrace is her o
nly answer. She snakes out an arm and draws Mara in. “You’re both safe, you’re safe. Ohhh, I’ve been worried to death.” Mom rocks back and forth, then holds us at arm’s length for examination.

  I barely recognize her. It’s not the casual clothes or her hair in a messy ponytail and her face with no makeup. It’s her utter desperation. Her eyes look like they did in the months after John died, so swollen from crying, she could barely open them.

  “We didn’t mean to leave you,” she whispers close to Mara’s face. “They said you’d be meeting us here. They lied.”

  “We got your message.” Mara throws a quick glance over her shoulder. I can see Sophia from the corner of my eye, emerging from the crowd of friendly but unfamiliar faces.

  Mom’s words rush out in whisper. “They were taking away our phones at that general store before we got onboard. I sent the text and dropped my phone in the lake so they wouldn’t know.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask her.

  “He’s in the shop.” She’s no longer whispering, and her tone is bright instead of conspiratorial. “Probably couldn’t hear the ruckus of your arrival over the noise of the power saws.”

  I look past her up the hill, where a dozen or so wooden buildings of all sizes are nestled against the forested mountainside. The lodge looms biggest and closest, about a hundred yards away, with a wood-burnt sign reading ALMOST HEAVEN. Next to the words is a picture of a cross with a dove in descending flight.

  “I’ll send someone to get your father.” Sophia lays a hand on my arm. “Let’s go into the lodge, just the four of us, to give thanks to God for your safe journey!”

  “First I want to see Dad, alone.” I try to move forward, but she tightens her grip.

  “He’ll meet us in the lodge.” Sophia’s smile is strained now, and two burly, decidedly less friendly guys loom behind her. I recognize one as her bodyguard Carter from her house. The goons don’t seem to be carrying, but there’s no way this group would be so far out in the wilderness without weapons.

  “You probably have many questions,” she continues, “and answers are best absorbed on full stomachs.” Sophia lets go of me and pulls herself up to her five-and-a-half-feet height, intimidating even in jeans and a lumberjack shirt. “Then we’ll find a place for you to stay.”

  That last word sounds all too permanent.

  • • •

  Sophia takes us to a cozy lounge adjacent to the lodge’s great room and offers me and Mara a seat on a cloth-covered couch with a wooden frame. I wonder if my father built it. Mom takes the chair farthest from Sophia and closest to the door. Sulfuric hostility sparks between them.

  A blond lady in a denim apron sets a platter of sandwiches on the coffee table before us. Mara and I each take one, set it on a pottery-style saucer, then wait. We want to see Sophia eat hers first—and not because we feel polite.

  On the way here, my sister and I decided to feign ignorance as much as possible, partly to protect Ezra, but also in case we have useful information that Sophia preferred we didn’t.

  After we say a quick grace, I ask Sophia a question I already know the answer to, to test her honesty: “How long have you been building this village?”

  “For years. It was a dream of my husband, Gideon, and me ever since we first married. See, we spent our honeymoon at a retreat center in Washington State called Holden Village. Many visitors stay for weeks or months, working as volunteers. Like here, there are no phones, TV, or Internet except for emergencies, and no roads that lead to cities.” Sophia’s gaze goes distant. “It was so peaceful, so godly. When we left, Gideon and I vowed that one day we would open our own refuge for the world-weary.”

  Her words give me hope. “So this is just a retreat center? People can come and go whenever they want?”

  “Not exactly. Almost Heaven is open only to families of those who helped build it.” Sophia takes a bite of sandwich (finally—I’m starving!) before continuing. “Your father, for example, has aided us immensely over the last several months.”

  I glance at Mom for her reaction. Her eyes narrow at the way Sophia talks about Dad.

  Mara speaks up. “So he knew the whole time that there was no Rush, that we were supposed to come here instead of heaven?”

  “Come here to prepare for heaven.” Sophia spreads her arms. “Only away from the world can we be truly pure and free from sin, so that we’ll be ready when the Lord comes for us. And of course, as Scripture says, we know not the hour.”

  Mara looks at Mom. “You knew about this too?”

  Our mother rubs her face, looking exhausted and defeated, yet more like her old self than I’ve seen in a long time. “I am so very, very sorry we had to hide the full truth from you.”

  “In other words, you lied.” Mara’s voice is hard as steel.

  “It was part of our agreement,” Sophia answers. “No one under the age of eighteen could be trusted to know the truth. Children tend to talk.”

  “We’re not children,” I snap at her. “Stop treating us like we are.”

  Sophia doesn’t flinch. “If you’d known, would you have agreed to come? Would you have given up your future and your friends?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That proves my point. You couldn’t be trusted with the truth.”

  My fist clenches, and I set down my sandwich before the ham and cheese can ooze between my fingers. “So instead you tell kids that the world is ending? That’s supposed to make us feel better?”

  “That the Lord loves you and wants to call you home? Yes, that should comfort believers of all ages. And those who don’t believe or who believe insufficiently”—she looks at Mara—“are welcome to scoff at the notion. Either way, it kept us safe and secure. The world never learned of our true plans. As far as they’re concerned, we were caught up unto heaven.”

  In other words, no one can ever know that we weren’t.

  I take another bite of sandwich to give myself time to think. The bread slices are cut thick and rough from a homemade loaf. It reminds me of the day Bailey made me bread. I gave up the girl I love, I broke her heart—both our hearts—all for a lie. Now I might never see her again.

  “So now what?” I ask Sophia. “We hole up here in the mountains? What good are we doing the world by running away? Didn’t Jesus say not to hide your lamp under a bucket?”

  “Under a basket. You are one hundred percent right, David. But our taking refuge is not a selfish act. Here we can spend hours each day praying for all sinners to be saved.”

  “Such a noble sacrifice,” Mara deadpans, then turns to Mom. “When are we leaving?”

  Sophia’s laugh cuts off our mother’s response. “That’s up to the Lord. We stay until He comes for us, in days, weeks, months. Decades, if that’s what it takes. Meanwhile, we live in grace and fellowship, for His glory.”

  The silence thickens. At the door, Carter widens his stance. I wonder if we have to be supervised for bathroom trips.

  I clear my throat. “So, what you’re saying is, we can’t leave.”

  “What she’s saying is,” a familiar voice speaks from the doorway, “why would we ever want to leave?”

  • • •

  My father is dressed in work overalls, his cheeks ruddy and dark hair mussed from the wind, looking . . .

  Looking really good, actually. And speaking like a sane person.

  I wait for him to say more, to speak in his own words for the first time in over a year.

  Dad opens his arms as I stand up. “You found us.”

  My feet want to rush forward, but instead I take only a few steps, turning sideways like a soldier presenting a smaller target. “We came to take you home.”

  He drops his arms. “I don’t understand.”

  “We tracked you. I left my phone in the minivan one time while you were”—I inch closer—“obviously coming here to build this place.”

  Mara makes no move to get up. “We followed David’s phone using the same app you guys use to follo
w him. Ironic, huh?”

  “Well.” He smiles and clasps his hands in front of himself. “I have the world’s most clever kids.”

  “And the world’s most pissed-off kids.” Mara grips the sofa’s arm, looking ready to tear it off. “How could you do this to us? How could you just disappear?”

  “We never meant to leave you,” he tells her.

  “We never meant to leave, period! But you wanted us to sacrifice everything, just like that.” Mara snaps her fingers.

  “Not just like that, don’t you see?” My father goes to stand behind Sophia’s chair. “That’s why we asked you to give up so much at the Abandoning. Sophia thought a gradual withdrawal would hurt you less than a sudden change.”

  My hope dims further. Just because Dad’s speaking a sane person’s words doesn’t mean he’s turned into one.

  Mara looks anything but pacified. “You said you thought we’d be here, but why didn’t you ask for proof of that before you left?”

  “Everything had to go just so,” Mom tells her. “Our escape was planned down to the minute. When you weren’t home at two thirty, we were beside ourselves with panic. We wondered, do we stay and try to find you, or do we leave when the vans come to pick us up at three?”

  Sophia breaks in, speaking slowly and soothingly. “It was my understanding, David and Mara, that you’d been found by one of my associates. I passed on that incorrect information to your parents. I’m truly sorry.”

  She couldn’t look less sorry if she’d won the lottery.

  “We thought it was the answer to our prayers.” Dad shakes his head sadly.

  “We were so furious at you and your sister,” Mom says to me, “we figured it was best we didn’t see you right away. Give us a chance to cool down.” She glances at my father, who folds his arms, as if to hide the hands he’d wanted to strike us with.

  “When did you know we weren’t coming?” I ask Dad. “When did you realize that they’d made you leave us?”