Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (34 page)

The exultant mob wilts. The Messiah flinches and tries to speak over him (“Oh, good prophet, we are so—we rejoice at your resurrection—we—”) but Frick has more practice addressing large crowds, and he booms over the Messiah with ease.

“You believe the fairy story he tells you? You refuse to accept your imminent destruction, the swallowing of this world into hell? You disgust me with your treachery, your simple-minded acceptance of this lie. You doomed, luckless heathens! The time of your annihilation is nigh!”

Masterson snaps at nearby Peacemakers, and a gang of them ascends the platform to take Frick, though they seem as perplexed and distressed as the rest of the crowd. Frick struggles against them, screaming bloodily. I hear a current of alarm spread behind me; someone cries out, “Let him speak!”

“Fellow Believers—” Masterson takes a step forward, adjusting the flower on his lapel. He speaks in the cool, intelligent voice he uses on talk shows. “Resurrection is an extremely disorienting process, and the Prophet Frick is simply tired. Forgive him his puzzling remarks. Dear Lord, won't you say a prayer for those collected here?”

But the Messiah seems nervous, aware of the shift in the murmuring crowd; he doesn't hear Masterson's plea. The Angel calls again, sharply, “Lord!”—and only then does the actor realize he's being addressed. He again summons the beatific look of the savior, spreading his arms wide.

“Dear Father,” he intones, “bless these faithful few, and may they always have the courage to align themselves with the Church of goodness and rightness. Keep watch over your prophet, Frick; may he return quickly to his senses.”

But then the Messiah ducks, and there's a crashing sound—someone has hurled a glass from the bar; it explodes against the wall behind him. The sight of the savior ducking for cover is not inspiring, and the crowd begins to boo. My body trembles at the sound, as if it's music—beautiful, swelling music. I feel a calm, happy warmth spread from the center of me. The jeers grow louder and louder, as Frick tries to wrestle his way out of the Peacemakers' grip, and I watch giddily as Ted Blackmore makes a break for it. He darts off the side of the platform, into the waiting arms of the crowd. Masterson doesn't notice; he holds a fistful of the Messiah's robes and spits unintelligible words into the actor's ear. But the Messiah's face is sharp with fear; he shakes his head.

“I'm sorry,” he says, the mike picking up every word. “This is too much for me. I just don't have the training.”

Michelle Mulvey lets out an anguished cry, and she too goes running—but the Peacemakers, their allegiance shifting with every passing second, are ready for her; they catch and hold her in place. I turn my head to seek Harp, aloft on Julian's shoulders—she doesn't see me; she's beaming at the scene her camera records. There's a violent push then that knocks me forward. The Messiah is backed against the wall, looking frightened, and Frick continues to shout incoherently. The Believers struggle toward the platform; I realize with a cold panic that a stampede is about to break out, that I'm standing right at the head of it.

The world is watching, and if we're going to win, we need to do it with as little bloodshed as possible. But how to calm them? I search the crowd around me for my friends—Elliott or Birdie or Colby, even one of the New Orphans, anyone who can help me hold back this tide.

Then I feel a tap on my shoulder: Edie Trammell stands beside me. I don't understand how she made her way through the crowd without injury. I'm half convinced she just materialized here, feeling her presence needed. Beside Edie stands Joanna. Their hands are entwined.

“Edie!” I cry over the thunder of outrage behind me. “We need to hold them back!”

But Edie just turns to me, winks. Then she bounds up the platform, pulling Joanna with her. She plants herself in front of the cowering Messiah and stares expectantly at the crowd, waiting for them to silence themselves, and astonishingly—as if they've been shamed into harmony by Edie's watchful eye—they do.

“Brothers and sisters,” Edie says when she's sure the room is listening. “I know your confusion and your anger. We have put our faith—among the most precious of our human abilities, our capacity for believing without seeing—into a cruel lie. The Church of America is a lie. The deluded, hateful beliefs of a maniac, monetized and profited from by this man”—she waves dismissively at Pierce Masterson—“and his associates. We've lost our families. Some of us have lost our freedom. We're here to tell you what happened to the so-called saved Believers of the first Rapture.” Edie nods to Joanna. “But before we do—”

I hear a scream and the pop of a gunshot. The crowd erupts once more. I cry out and leap forward, my eyes on Edie, but she stands unhurt, looking surprised. She glances over at Masterson with mild interest, and when I follow her gaze, I see his right shoulder horribly dark with blood. He drops the pistol he'd taken from his holster, clapping a hand over his wound. Masterson turns a pale glance to someone at the front of the crowd. Kimberly stands there, giving him a cheerful wave, Dragoslav perched on her shoulder. Masterson begins to wail.

Edie watches him sympathetically, then glances down at the Peacemakers. “Would one of you be so good as to take him out of here? Thank you
so
much,” she says, when two hustle forward to comply. “You're
so
helpful. God bless you. If there are any doctors in the house, could we get Mr. Masterson some medical attention? It would be a shame if he were to pass away before he's prosecuted for his crimes.”

The hush of the crowd seems to have taken on a new tone, a watchful stillness—they're transfixed by Edie's calm warmth, her control, her apparent disinterest in the fact that she has just narrowly escaped an assassination attempt.

“What I wanted to say,” she continues, “was this: The world is dark, and frightening. This country is huge and unknown. Some lie in wait, wanting to manipulate us, to turn us against one another—for money, or for power. It doesn't matter. All I know is they will not be able to do it if we hold tight to one another. If we find in ourselves the capacity to love without fear or condition, to accept the humanity of others as simple, irrefutable fact. I believe we are capable of this. I believe we're each of us good enough to work toward this. Who knows how much longer we have? Who knows when and why we'll eventually vanish into oblivion? It's easy to hide ourselves away from one another, to cloak ourselves in distrust, to extend our love to only a few, and privilege our own welfare over the fate of people we've never met. But I believe the business of being human is so much bigger, and so much better, than that.”

I feel a warm hand slip into mine. Peter stands beside me, looking exhausted. His right eye is shiny with a burgeoning bruise, and he has a deep gash across one cheek. With a frown, he touches the corner of my bloody lips. He inclines his head to the side, and together we turn away from Edie to make our way through the crowd. They're listening to her, faces open and calm, some crying. I can't help but wonder—if the first charismatic speaker to stand up in front of the nation following the fall of the Church had preached a message of violence and doubt, would the people of America have clung to that just as quickly?

Peter glances back to make sure I'm still with him, and I smile, happy he can't hear my cynical thoughts at this moment. Slowly we make our way to Harp, who films Edie's speech from her perch on Julian's shoulders with an expression of deep amusement. When she sees us, she taps Julian's head; he crouches to let her dismount. Harp hands him her camera and kisses his cheek; I watch his face flush as he straightens. My best friend skips over to us and leaps onto me, folding her legs around my waist. I laugh in my surprise, and a nearby Believer, attentive to Edie's words, hushes us with a prim frown.

“Ugh.” Harp sticks her tongue out at the woman when her back is turned. “Let's get out of here. I need some
air.
”

She drops to her feet. Together we move in the direction of the door, but I stop when we reach the staircase.

My mother descends, red-eyed, her whole front soaked with blood. The sight of her brings it back like a bad dream: Winnie. I break away from Harp and Peter and maneuver through a cluster of entranced Believers. My mother sees me then and she stops on the last step, her whole body shuddering as she weeps.

I rush to her and pull her close, smelling her sweat and the tang of my sister's blood; she folds her arms around me and cries into my hair. My eyes well up too, but I try to hold it together. There will come a day when I'll have to really feel Winnie's loss, when I'll think of everything she did for me, the oasis she provided in a country that wanted me dead. I'll have to imagine then all the sunny future days we will not spend together. But for now, I have to hold it in. My work isn't done yet—we still need to flee the hotel and the city before the wildfire destroys it all. One day, I'll let myself think of the sisters Winnie and I could have been—the sisters we haltingly, happily were. But not today. My mom pulls away and reaches into her bag. She pulls out a set of keys and hands them to me: Winnie's.

“Diego told me to give you these,” she whispers. “He said he'll be down soon and he'll bring—he'll bring her with him.” She begins to cry all over again. “I'm sorry . . . it's just—I thought we were going to be a family. Earlier, when we were all together—I was so happy. I thought we would be able to take care of one another.”

“We're still a family,” I tell her. “You and I. And Winnie and Dad, too. Just because they're gone doesn't mean we're not a family.”

My mother glances across the crowd at the platform on which Edie stands; then she turns back to me. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “I know you're right. I just—I don't want to let you down, Vivian. I want to be a good mother to you. I want to be the
right
kind of mother.”

“There's no right kind. Just be yourself, Mom. Just be yourself and be there for me, and seriously—that will be enough.”

“Okay,” Mom says, but she's distracted now. Her attention has been caught by Edie's warm, thunderous voice, and I look at my old classmate with her. Edie leans in to the Messiah to speak clearly into his microphone; she talks passionately of her belief in a God with a plan for us, a God who won't let us die alone. I glance at my mother. Her mouth opens slightly in her absorption.

“Mom? We need to leave soon—the fire is getting close. I'm going to go out and bring Winnie's car closer to the front gate, okay?”

“Mmm?” Her arms slip from around me and she begins to drift toward the back of Edie's rapt audience. “Okay, sweetie. I'll be here. Just let me know . . .”

I gaze for a moment at the back of her head, her long curly hair I love so much. Harp edges over, a careful expression on her face, waiting for me to react. Maybe she thinks my heart is breaking. Even I'm surprised that it's not. I know now that my mother will always be searching. I can't divert her from her quest for herself; I can't insist that I alone should be enough for her. She is more than just my mother—she's a person all her own, and she has a right to seek answers. She's just not satisfied yet. I realize that a part of me loves that about her, even as it hurts. I make a pact with myself at this moment: Even if my mother never finds the thing that turns her life into the story she wants to tell, I'll always be there for her. I'll always care.

But that doesn't mean I won't go searching too.

Harp takes my arm, and together with Peter we walk down the short set of steps and out into the night. The sun hangs lower in the sky now, and for the first time since we came to Los Angeles, I feel a slight, shivery breeze. We make our way down the long drive, past the people who still mill outside on the winding lanes, tending to the wounded and discussing the evening's events in low, outraged tones. On Sunset Boulevard, Winnie's car still sits where she parked it, all the doors flung wide open. I see it sparkling in the sun. The smell of smoke is stronger now, and when I look up, I see the black cloud hanging ominously over the hotel. It's time for us to move.

“Edie needs to get everybody out of there,” Peter observes.

“Let's give her a few more seconds,” I say. “It's a nice speech.”

“Besides,” Harp adds, a little sarcastically, “she's laying important groundwork for the up-and-coming Church of Umaymah.”

Peter's eyes widen. “You don't really think that's what she's trying to do, do you?”

“Trying?”
Harp echoes. “Probably not.
Accomplishing?
Almost definitely. But I'm not complaining. Life is long and dumb and devastating. People should believe whatever they need to believe to get by. And let's face it—whatever's in Edie's head is probably better than most. Still, I wish she'd wrap up.” Harp puts a hand to her stomach, frowning. “If we don't burn to death first, I'm definitely going to die of hunger. Aren't they supposed to have good Mexican food here? I'd sell my soul to Beaton Frick for a motherfucking burrito.”

I laugh. Then I glance at Wilkins's watch, and what I see there makes me shiver with a loose, giddy surge of pleasure. I hold my wrist out so Harp and Peter can see.

“Look.”

Both the minute and the hour hand are solidly on the twelve, but as we watch, the second hand swings past. 12:00, Pacific Time: the first minute into the day after the apocalypse.

Harp starts to laugh; racing away from us, she throws herself into an awkward cartwheel in the middle of the abandoned road. Peter seems unable to speak. He slips his arm across my shoulders and kisses me on my bruised head. We have to go back inside, find my mother and our friends, get everyone out of the city before it turns to ash. After that—who knows? We have no real idea how much time we have left. I only know I'm capable of facing it so long as I have these two people by my side. I drink in the sight of Winnie's abandoned car waiting for us. I think of wind in my hair, the salt of ocean in my mouth, the radio blasting—Peter in the passenger seat, tapping the beat on his knees, and Harp in the back, singing at the top of her lungs. The keys are in my pocket. There is still so much work to be done. The horizon ahead is unreachable, but on the way, there are so many possibilities.