This Side of Salvation

CHAPTER 7

NOW

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mara is peering over my shoulder at Mom’s computer, where Sophia’s website shows nothing but the phrase “like a thief in the night.” The preacher who brought the Rush into our lives used to be featured front and center on her home page, looking radiant, spirit filled, and some may say, kind of hot.

“The quote’s from First Thessalonians,” I tell her, “from the chapter that supposedly warns about the Rapture. ‘The day of the Lord comes like a thief in the night.’” I scroll up and down the page but find no further hints. “But ‘thief in the night’ means a surprise. It means Jesus could come back any time, any day.”“In other words, not specifically May eleventh at three a.m. so everyone could put it in their day planners.”

“Exactly. It’s strange that Sophia would show the one piece of Scripture that contradicts her entire message.”

“Speaking of Sophia.” Mara grabs the remote control from Mom’s nightstand, switches on the wall-mounted TV, and tunes to one of the cable news channels. “When that last Rapture preacher predicted the wrong date a few years ago, they had reporters at his house. Maybe they did the same for Sophia. She’s gotten pretty famous.” The news broadcast is giving an update on the latest forest fire in New Mexico. I turn back to Mom’s laptop, clicking link after link on Sophia’s website. They all show the same message, “. . . like a thief in the night . . .” Creepy.

Mara gives a little gasp. “Yes! Flyers beat the Rangers four games to three. Conference finals, baby!”

I watch last night’s playoff scores and stats on the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen. The hockey news feels oddly significant.

For weeks, I joked to myself that I might not be around to see the Stanley Cup Final in June, that there might not even be a Stanley Cup Final, due to the Tribulation, the prophesied post-Rapture chaos. In the last forty days, Mom and Dad made me read books and watch movies about the Rapture until I could recite the coming plagues and disasters and battles in my sleep. My imagination was jam-packed with predictions of horror and despair, predictions I was told to welcome because I’d be saved. Did I pretend there was no tomorrow to the point that I convinced myself?

I have a tomorrow, I remind myself, one that’s fresh and blank, like a shaken Etch A Sketch. No matter where my parents are, I’m here, with a life to put back together.

On TV, the forest fire story wraps up, and the anchor lady puts on a wry smile. “If you’ve been following the story of the latest Rapture craze, aka the Rush, you know that it was calculated to occur just over an hour ago. We’ve got a correspondent outside the home of the Rush prophet herself, Sophia Visser. We’re hoping she’ll make a statement.”

The broadcast switches to the correspondent, a young African American guy in a shirt and tie. Mara hits record on the DVR remote. Smart.

“It’s a dark and silent night here at Sophia Visser’s residence,” the correspondent says, eyes crinkling at his Christmas-carol joke.

“We’ve had no sign of her—or anyone, for that matter. There’s a car in the garage, a white Camry that’s on record as belonging to Visser,but phone calls and e-mails are going unanswered.”

The camera pans across the front of the house, where no lights shine inside. The only signs of life are the handful of bored-looking reporters milling near the front door.

“You may recall that in May 2011, the last Rapture preacher, Harold Camping, made a statement claiming that he had miscalculated the event’s date. We’re expecting Visser to have a similar excuse.” The correspondent glanced at the house. “Assuming she ever shows.”

I guess the media expected Sophia to publicly admit she was wrong. Or maybe they hoped the Rush would go full-on Hollywood, with Jesus zooming down on a turbo-powered cloud, whisking the cheering chosen ones into the sky.

The reporters weren’t expecting this nothing in between. Neither was I.

Mara sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me, avoiding the space where our mother’s legs would be. “You think Mom and Dad and the rest of Sophia’s people are gone?”

“Gone as in . . .”

“Like they just all took off.”

“Took off as in . . .”

“Ran away,” she says with irritation. “I don’t mean literally took off like flew into the sky.”

“The Rushers might be hiding in Sophia’s house.”

“They’d have to come out eventually.”

“Maybe there’s a tunnel.”

“To where?” she snaps, then rubs her temple. “Ugh, is it possible to have a hangover without ever going to sleep?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy.”

“Yes, because for once you are the B-E-T-T-E-R child.

Congratulations.”

“I may not have gotten drunk, but I did sneak out. If I hadn’t—”

I cut myself off.

“If you’d been here, what do you think would’ve happened? You

think they would’ve taken you without me?”

“If they’d leave both of us, why wouldn’t they leave one of us?” The news network goes to commercial again. Mara switches to a

different station, but it’s the same there: a brief mention of the Rush,

only to say there was a total lack of event.

A terrible thought worms into my brain. “Mara, if Sophia and the

Rushers never turn up, what if people start believing she was right?” “We can’t let that happen.” She takes off her glasses and cleans

them with the tail of her Penn State pajama shirt. “We have to prove

Sophia’s followers weren’t really Raptured.”

“Maybe some of them aren’t with her. Can we call them?” “We don’t even know who they are. We weren’t allowed to meet

them.”

“I bet their numbers are in Dad’s phone.” My voice fades on the

last word, thinking of the BlackBerry-size dent in the living room

wall. “Oh.”

“Way to go, David,” she says. “Like father, like son.” I want to tell her to shut up, but she’s right: I lost my temper and

broke something.

“I’m sorry.” Mara runs her hands through her hair. “Let’s think

for a second. Ow.” She starts yanking out little metal pins from her

hairdo. “Dad left his phone here, but Mom didn’t.”

“That we know of.”

“Which one was more likely to do what Sophia told them to do?” “Dad.”

“Right. That means Mom smuggled her phone with her.” “So she’s the one we want to get to.”

“The weak link, the semi-sane one.” Mara dumps the handful of

hairpins on the nightstand and picks up her phone. “But she won’t be

able to recharge her cell without Dad seeing, so we don’t have much

time.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth: that we need her.” She gives me a sly look. “Also,

Happy Mother’s Day.”

I grimace. “B-E-T-T-E-R child strikes again.”

Mara sends Mom a long text, lets her hands drop to her sides.

“There. Now we’ll see—”

My phone rings. I grab it from my sweatpants pocket. Maybe it’s Mom replying already, though I wasn’t the one who sent the message. Even better. “It’s Bailey.” My breath rushes out in relief. “Don’t tell her Mom and Dad are gone.”

I shake my head as I answer the call. “Hey. Where are you?” “At home. Did I wake you?” Bailey speaks in a hushed tone. “No, I went to bed but I was too wired after the raid to sleep, so I

got up to watch TV.” All these words pour out in three seconds. “Yeah, you sound wired. Sorry I was gone when you woke up at the party.”

“Where were you?”

“I had to talk to Stephen about something. Then I got chilly, so I went into the house to change out of my bathing suit. Then the cops were all over the place and wouldn’t let me go outside.”

Mara gets up suddenly, as if she’s just remembered something, and jogs down the hall to her room.

“So what happened at the party?” I ask Bailey. “Anyone get busted?”

“A few. I think the Rices are going to be fined for letting minors drink at their house. They claimed they didn’t know.”

Bailey keeps talking, about legal loopholes and liability issues, but the surreality of the conversation is fuzzing up my brain. I can’t decide which makes me more nervous, discussing our relationship or keeping my parents’ disappearance a secret.

“David?” she prompts. “Are you okay? Are you in trouble for sneaking out?”

“I was worried about you and freaked by the cops.” This is the truth. “I want to see you tonight. Today, I mean.” This is also the truth. “Me too. I’ll come over there for a change.”

“No! Um, it’s not a good time here. What with the Rush and all.

Heh.”

“Oh, right.” Her voice takes on a bitter edge. “I guess your parents are pissed the world is still puttering along as usual.” “It’s complicated. Let’s go to the movies.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I haven’t seen that isn’t rated R.” “That’s not so much an issue anymore.”

“Your parents changed their mind?”

Mara is coming back down the hall, so I keep my words vague.

“It’s not an issue anymore,” I repeat, hoping she’ll interpret that as a yes.

“I’ll check the listings and text you later,” Bailey says. “Right now I need sleep.”

“Me too.” I watch Mara pass the doorway and walk downstairs with a bulging backpack. Is she doing homework at this hour? Seems extreme even for her.

“David”—Bailey hesitates—“about your message?”

“Yeah?” I barely remember it now. Did I give away too much in my panic?

“I love you, too,” she says. “I never stopped.”

My brain melts a little. For a moment I forget Sophia, my parents, and my Etch A Sketch future, and just bask in the brief, bright, foreign light of hope.