Jeri Smith-Ready: This Side of Salvation

“Give me that branch!” I tell Mara, pointing to the closet of the two dozen limbs lying here on the edge of the woods.

I wedge the narrow end of the thick branch under the gate to make it stick. It won’t hold for long, but it’ll buy us a head start. The privacy fence’s wooden slats are too tall and tight for the cops to see over or between.

Sam takes Mara’s hand to follow the rest of the students, who are plunging blindly into the stand of trees in front of us.

“No,” I tell her. “This way.”

Mara gives Sam a quick kiss and a wistful whispered, “Bye!”

We run to the right, past three high-fenced backyards, until we reach Kane’s house. There’s a well-worn path between his home and mine on the other side of the woods. It’s a path I could walk in my sleep—and did, in fact, walk in my sleep a few times when I was eight.

I keep my drunk sister upright as we hurry down the hill, my feet sliding in Kane’s too-big sandals. These suburban woods are as much like a real forest as a golf course is like a real meadow, so there’s no underbrush to hide behind. My bare, pale torso is an arrest me beacon in the night.

At the stream, Mara turns on her phone’s flashlight app so we can see where to step across. The makeshift bridge Kane and I built years ago—three planks of plywood nailed together (high-tech, we are)—is barely visible, dark gray against the black water beneath.

Just as we reach the other side and pass under my tree house, a shout comes from behind us, up the hill. The cops must have broken out of the Rices’ backyard.

We run toward our house. The strap of Mara’s little silver purse is wrapped around her wrist, and the bag flashes in the porch light as she wobbles on her high heels.

Please let the cops follow the other students. If you keep Mara’s record clean, I swear I’ll never sneak out again. Amen.

The house looks dark inside. Mom and Dad must be lurking in the living room, waiting to pounce.

We creep up to the patio door that leads into the sunroom. Mara unlocks it, clutching the rest of the keys together to keep them from jingling. Then she opens the door, slowly so its full-length shade doesn’t rattle—and tiptoes across the stone tiles.

In the kitchen, the only light shines over the gleaming stainless-steel sink. The counter is clear, but there’s a lingering scent of fresh-baked bread and sautéed onions. My stomach growls, and I jerk open the fridge, forgetting fear in favor of food.

Inside lie the remnants of what Mom and Dad thought was our last meal: homemade pizza. I can’t hold back a “Yes!” of triumph.

“Shh!” Mara creeps through the arched doorway into the living room.

I silence myself by stuffing a slice of onion pizza in my mouth, using its Tupperware container as a plate. The sauce is sweet and tangy, the way I love it and Mara hates it. But she got to go to prom, so we’re even.

“No lights on upstairs,” Mara whispers as she comes back into the kitchen. “It’s weird they’re not waiting up for us.”

“They’re probably embarrassed the Rush didn’t happen.”

“You think tomorrow they’ll pretend they never believed?”

“How can they?” I swallow my bite of pizza. “It meant everything.”

Mara slumps sideways against the black-granite counter and steps out of her shoes with a sigh of relief, becoming short again. “I couldn’t wait for Mom and Dad to realize we were right. But now I feel kinda bad for them.”

It seems crazy to believe in the Rapture (or the Rush, as those who thought the Rapture would happen tonight at 3 a.m. call it). But there were times when it seemed like the ideal solution. This planet is so screwed up, how could God not want to hit the universal delete key and start over? And how could He not want to save what He loved best? Kind of like Noah and the Ark, but unlike Noah, we didn’t have to build or collect anything. We just had to believe He was coming and love Him more than we loved the world.

I couldn’t do that, no matter how much I wanted to. I wanted a life more, with Bailey and baseball and my friends and even homework. It was a life I tore to shreds for my parents’ sake, but now I can reassemble what’s left. If it’s not too late.

A loud thump comes from upstairs. Mara yelps. So much for stealth.

We sidle past the table into the living room, my sister’s face reflecting my own trepidation. Not only did we miss curfew but Mara went to a prom after-party when Dad told her not to, and I snuck out of the house to go to that same party. The fact that I’m 70 percent naked and Mara’s breath reeks of beer will not help our case.

I position myself a step in front of her, to absorb the brunt of my dad’s rage, in whatever form it takes. It’s been three years since he’s had a drink, but he’ll be defeated and defiant. Getting stood up by Jesus does something to the ego.

The only sound is the clock ticking above the fireplace. Then quick footsteps pad down the carpeted stairs.

Our ginger cat, Tod, peers at us through the white wooden banister and emits a meow that verges on a bark. He leaps onto the living room floor and swaggers toward us, yapping.

Mara sweeps him into her arms. “Shh. You’ll wake Mom and Dad.”

I strain to hear movement upstairs, but there’s nothing, not even a shifting in bed. Mom always wakes at the sound of Tod’s caterwauls, if only to grumble vague threats at her beloved beast.

The house feels empty.

I hurry past Mara, who’s kissing Tod’s belly as his limbs dangle over her arms. “What’s wrong?” she says, lifting her head from the purring cat.

I kick off Kane’s sandals, then mount the stairs two at a time, afraid to speak my worst fear, as if words could bring it to life.

Our parents’ bedroom door is a few inches ajar, but the room is dark. They should be up right now, yelling at us (Dad) and heaving sighs of disappointment (Mom).

I stop at the threshold, taking in the oppressive silence, then push the door open.

Lying in the king-size, four-poster bed, under rumpled maroonand-gold covers, are two . . . things.

I tilt my head, as if that will change their shape and state and aspect:

Human.

Motionless.

Wrong.

NINE YEARS TO FOUR YEARS BEFORE THE RUSH

My family wasn’t always this unraveled disaster. When I was a kid, we were like any other Philadelphia Main Line residents—rich, rational, respectable. Suburbanites who embraced the city. Registered Republicans who voted for Democrats. We even went to an Episcopal church, where it’s said you don’t have to check your brain at the door. We were part of the modern world, because it was good to us.

And once in this house, we were five.

The whole family is camped out watching the playoffs in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, because the TV in here is the new high-definition kind. Mara’s been sprawled asleep on top of her Barbie sleeping bag since the sixth inning, when the Yankees went ahead of Boston 4–3.

Mom crouches down between me and John on the floor, smelling like that creamy stuff she washes her face with at night. “Three more outs, sweetie, and you’re off to bed.” She squeezes my shoulder.

“Unless the Red Sox tie it.” I keep my eyes glued to the screen, where Kevin Millar is approaching the batter’s box. “Then there’ll be extra innings.” It’s exactly midnight, way past my eight o’clock bedtime, which my parents are strict about except on New Year’s Eve and final games of baseball playoff series.

“Three more outs and the Yankees win the pennant.” John sighs. “Again.”

I mimic my teenage brother’s shift in position, wrapping my arms around my knees and pulling them to my chest. “Red Sox could still win.”