Jeri Smith-Ready: This Side of Salvation

“No.” Mom glares at him. “That’s when I knew , not suspected. I stood on that dock, feeling it in my heart that my children were left behind.”

“Our children,” he corrects her.

“ My children. By that point, you’d already abandoned them.”

Whoa. I’ve never seen Mom lash out at him like this.

She stands and advances on Dad. “Remember? You said, ‘Get in the boat, we have to go now.’ What was I supposed to do? Run off into the wilderness?”

“Honey, it’s all worked out for the best. The kids are here now.”

“And if they hadn’t arrived,” Sophia adds, “we would have fetched them for you. I’d planned a second round of pickups for the stragglers next Sunday. A sort of gathering of lost sheep.”

I wonder what my sister and I would’ve done if her people had shown up at the house to take us away. Would we have used Mara’s machete to fend them off? Or Dad’s gun? Hot fury sweeps up my neck at the thought.

I can’t look at them anymore. I spin on my heel and stalk toward the corner of the room, where a cast-iron wood stove sits, unused right now due to the warm weather. What would they do, I wonder, if I kicked in its glass door? Or put my fist through the window over there? Could I hurt myself badly enough to win us all a fast boat trip to a hospital at the other end of the lake? Even if not, the destruction would feel good.

“Sophia,” my father says with quiet urgency, “I need to speak with my son alone. Now.”

Before the wood shop door has even swung closed behind us, I turn on my dad. “How could you leave us? How could you lie to us?”

“You left us first, David. When we woke up and found your bed empty—”

“My bed was empty for three hours!” I hurl at him. “Yours was empty forever! I went to a party one street over. You went to the Adirondacks, where we couldn’t even call you to make sure you weren’t dead.” I want to turn him upside down and shake out the truth. “Were you going to come back when you found out we weren’t here? Were you even going to send a ‘we’re still alive’ note? And why do this in the first place without asking us if we wanted to move?” I stop yelling, only because I’m out of breath.

“I’m sorry.” Dad goes to a worktable and pulls out a metal stool, its feet squeaking against the floor. “I had to get out of that house. This seemed like the answer.”

“We could’ve left that house years ago. You should’ve left.” As much as it hurts to say that, it’s true. We all would’ve been better off with him gone. “What about our deal? I gave up everything I cared about to get ready for the Rush, and in exchange you were supposed to get help if it didn’t happen. You were supposed to change.”

“I did change. I did get help.” He raises his arms. “What do you think this place is, if not the ultimate spiritual therapy? And listen to me: I’m speaking like myself again. You know why? Because here I experience the fullness of God’s creation through all his works, not just his word.”

My head is spinning enough from hearing him speak original thoughts. I don’t need this extra layer of theology. “I’m glad you can talk normally, but you need more than fresh air and freedom from cell phones. You need treatment.” I force out the word he doesn’t want to hear. “You have depression.”

“I wasn’t depressed. I was unhappy.”

I don’t grasp the difference, but his use of the past tense is what crushes the breath out of me. “And now you’re happy? Because you’re away from us?”

“No. I’m happy because I’m away from there .”

“I know it’s hard living in that house. I miss John too, all the time.”

“It’s not about missing. That’s normal.” He presses his palms together, then puts his steepled fingers to his face. “It’s about there being something drastically, fundamentally wrong with the world since he died. I thought nothing and no one could fix it. Then one day I found out the Lord not only can fix it but will . He’ll end all the pain and suffering.”

“Maybe someday, but until then, we have to go on and make the best of it.”

“No, we don’t.” He rests his hands on his worktable with an air of finality. “We have a choice.”

“This is your choice? Escaping the world because you don’t like what it’s done to you?” I pick up a stray table leg from the bench next to me. “Sitting around praying and building furniture? You think Mara and I would’ve been happy here?”

“Yes. I do. You’ll see over the next few days. Life here isn’t easy, but it is rich in spirit.”

“But it’s not for me. I have school, baseball, my friends, Bailey. I gave all of that up for you once. I won’t do it again.”

“This time you wouldn’t be doing it for me. You’d be doing it for yourself.” He moves to the wide bay window, beckoning me to join him. “Come see this.”

I go to stand beside him. From here I can see the lake through a gap in the trees.

The water has turned to gold.

“There’s no direct view of the sunset from here,” he says, “because of the mountains. But this time of year we get the perfect reflection in the lake. And over there, can you see what I made for you? In that beech tree up the hill to your right.”

I scan the edge of the forest until I find the tree he’s pointing to, along a trail leading out of the village. Peeking out through the beech’s widespread branches is a replica of the tree house in our backyard. This one has stairs instead of a ladder, but otherwise it looks the same. Even from here I can see that kids are playing in it.

I bite my lip hard to keep from crying.

“Just think about it, okay?” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll make this a home for all of us. You’ll see.”

Through the screen I hear nothing but the singing of birds and the whoosh of wind through boughs of leaves and needles, a fiddle tuning amid not-so-distant laughter. I smell nothing but pine sap and wood chips and, when the breeze shifts a little, baking bread. I see nothing but beauty.

But it’s not for me.

“Dad, I can’t stay. If you won’t come, at least let us take Mom home. She’s miserable.”

“Only because she missed you and your sister. Now she’ll be happy.”

“Living under Sophia, who tricked her into abandoning her kids? Even Mom’s not that forgiving.” I shift my feet, working up the courage to look him in the eye for the next question. “Speaking of Sophia—I don’t know how to ask this, but—”

“Yes, I’ve been faithful to your mother. Always.”

I stare out the window, letting my shoulders drop with relief. “I believe you. Whatever else you are, you’re not . . .”

“A player? Is that what they call it these days?”

It’s been so long since Dad has spoken in regular English, much less used slang, it takes me a moment to interpret. I shrug, very much wanting to change the subject.

“So where were you Saturday night?” he asks.

I guess it’s my turn to apologize. “At a prom after-party. Mara was there too. Not that that’s an excuse.”

“You went just for fun, or to see your girlfriend?”

“Bailey. Yes. I’m sorry. Sorry I worried you, not sorry I went.”

“I understand. You missed her.”

I think of how she and Kane helped us search for clues this last week, and how they stayed calm through the weirdest moments. It reminds me of something I need to mention. “Finding your empty pajamas in bed really freaked us out.” I study his face, but not too closely. I want him to think I believe he and Mom left their clothes themselves.

Dad’s serene smile fades. “My what?”

“Your pajamas and Mom’s nightgown. We found them in your bed, all laid out like you’d been asleep when Jesus came and Raptured you. What was that all about?”