His smile fades before it’s fully fledged. “Or we could do it. Will you help me, David?”


It’s hard to say no to the hope in his eyes, now that it’s based on something tangible.


“Of course I’ll help you.” Before he can react, I add, “But I won’t stay here. I will literally be on the first boat back to civilization.”


“You just said—”


“I can help from home, maybe find ways to put the word out about Almost Heaven. And I can come visit over the summer. We all can.”


He gives a resigned sigh. “I’d like that. You should bring Bailey, too, if her parents will let her come.”


“Can we sleep in this tree house together?”


“Don’t push it.” Dad glances behind him and up the stairs. “Speaking of which, have you seen the inside?”


“No, it’s always full of little kids.”


“There’s no one up there now.”


He doesn’t have to ask me twice. As I climb the winding staircase that wraps around the trunk of the towering beech, I hear voices singing “Abide With Me” down in the village.


Inside, the tree house is just like the one at home, only newer: same size, same shuttered windows, same shelves for books and toys. It’s like walking into the past and future all at once.


I go to the left front window, open its shutters, and lean out, elbows on the sill. From here the village looks serene, or maybe my impression is muted by the moonlight shimmering off the lake. I doubt Sophia thought her followers would absorb her absence so calmly. Of course, they’ll be pissed once Dad tells them about the money.


My father appears several feet to my right, leaning out of the other window. This seems the easiest way to start saying good-bye, like we’re players in a puppet show. But first I have one last question:


“Why did you buy those guns?”


He drops his chin to look at the smooth gray branches below us. “So you found the new one.”


“We searched your office for clues.” I consider mentioning the articles he kept about my baseball games last summer, but don’t want to get off track.


“There’d been burglaries in the neighborhood.”


“I didn’t know that.” I’m not sure I believe him.


“Your mother and I didn’t want to worry you.”


“Wouldn’t it have been safer—no, saner—to turn on the security system?”


“The company who installed it went out of business. We would’ve had to put in a whole new system. It would’ve cost thousands.”


“The gun could’ve cost more. I don’t mean money.” Hesitating, I run my thumb along the edge of the sill, the wood paler and fresher than on my own tree house. Finally I get the courage to say, “I thought you bought it to kill yourself.”


Dad goes still for a long moment. “Not since I visited here,” he says just above a whisper. “Not once.”


I was right, then, when I’d sensed a change in him after his “fishing trips.” “Will you ever come home to stay?”


“Yes.” His voice dips in tone and volume. “I already miss your mother terribly. Mara, too. I have a lot of work to do to earn their forgiveness, and yours.”


My first thought is, Yes, you do. But then I remember what Mr. Ralph told me that day in his office, though I was only half paying attention: It’s not our ability to get forgiveness that saves us. It’s our ability to grant it.


I don’t care as much about being saved as I used to. But I do care about getting on with my life, and I can’t manage that with this rage festering inside me, at everyone from God on down to my parents. I have to start somewhere.


The singers in the village switch to “Amazing Grace.” There seem to be more of them now, so they must have gathered together for strength and solace.


“I can’t speak for Mara and Mom, but I forgive you, Dad.”


He lets out a hard breath, speaking my name at the end of it. I search inside myself, expecting to feel magically lighter now that I’ve said the words. Maybe that comes with time.


Dad lowers his chin and closes his eyes. He might be praying or just thinking. It occurs to me that I barely know the man standing beside me. If he stays for good, I may never know him.


Finally, he looks at me, across the outside of the house. In his shining eyes I relive the moment we shared before that blank computer screen, when John’s screams echoed in our minds.


Sometimes that moment still feels like yesterday. But maybe here Dad can find a decent tomorrow.

CHAPTER 40

NOW

Remember the guy who built the world’s largest ball of twine? Turns out, he didn’t do it on his own. After he died and was “surpassed,” as Bailey put it, the people in his Kansas town built a gazebo over the ball to protect it from the weather. They kept adding to it themselves, even creating an annual twine-wrapping holiday, celebrated every August. It is now once again the world’s biggest ball of twine. He gets the fame, but his name would be nothing without the efforts of those behind him.

Baseball is kind of the same way. Everyone thinks the pitcher stands on the mound all alone. We get credit for the win and the blame for the loss. But each pitch isn’t chosen only by us. The catcher and the manager give the signals, and if there are runners on base, the infielders signal whether I should try to pick them off.

Pitchers may stand ten inches higher than everyone else, but we’re not alone. Until we throw the ball. Then the universe of possibilities narrows down to one outcome that we have to acknowledge and learn from, then move on.

Off the mound, moving on has never been my strong suit, but I’m trying. Mom got me signed up for individual therapy for the first time. It’s not fun—I am seriously considering buying stock in Kleenex—but I’d be a hypocrite if I refused after I pushed my father so hard down that path.

It’s a path I still pray he takes, because no Rapture is coming to take him away, I’m sure of that now. I have a hunch the Second Coming is a metaphor for a better world that we can make here on earth. Or maybe instead of coming to fix the world himself, Jesus’ll pop by to celebrate with us when we’ve fixed it ourselves.

Despite my questioning and wandering, I still have faith, and I still believe in seventy-times-seven second chances—for me, for Mom and Dad, for Sophia. Even for the man who killed my brother, a man who battled his own demons and lost.

Lucky for me, Coach Kopecki believes in second chances too— with consequences, of course. He made me a relief pitcher, because it wouldn’t be fair to guys like Brandon Cross who’ve worked hard all season, like Brendan Rhees, if I waltzed back in and took their starting spots. At this point, I’m willing to be a batboy just to have a place on the team.

This evening is the Middle Merion Tigers’ final regular-season game, and my first regular-season game with them. If we beat Lower Merion tonight, we go to the playoffs; if we lose, our season is over. It’d be partly my fault for going AWOL for forty days.

But I can’t dwell on that now, because Brandon has loaded the bases with no outs in the top of the seventh and final inning. We’re leading by a single fragile run. The visiting Lower Merion fans are clapping and stomping, dying for a comeback rally.

A rally I have to save us from. No—a rally I will save us from. Kopecki gives me the signal. I come out of the bullpen fast, almost banging my face into the chain link gate that sticks a little when I push on it. As I jog to the mound, I hear what sound like scattered boos but are actually fans shouting, “Coooooooop.”


I try not to smile at the sight of Bailey stretched out against the chain link fence, arms spread above her, shouting my name. Her posture reminds me of Juno playing Cat Versus Wall. She’s flanked by the equally enthusiastic Mara and Jonathan-not-John. I mean, Jon, since that’s what he really goes by.


Behind them on the front row of bleachers, my mother sits, with Mr. Ralph and Mrs. Ralph on one side, and Eve and Ezra Decker on the other. Eve was also on that first boat back to civilization, and just as I predicted, she never asked me for another kiss once she had other options. She seems better off without her parents, which I can totally relate to.


Soon the Decker kids and Bailey will go with Mara, Mom, and me to visit Almost Heaven. Dad’s promised to come home for good by Thanksgiving. I’ll believe it when I see it.


The FBI caught Sophia trying to board a plane for the Cayman Islands a few days ago. She’ll be charged with embezzlement and money laundering, but, as Dad feared, it could be months or longer before the funds she stole will find their way back into the hands of the Rushers.


We’re doing okay here, moneywise. Since Mom and Dad paid off the mortgages and the cars last year (so as not to leave any debts behind), the three of us are starting to climb out of the budgetary abyss. Mara will go to Penn State after all, on her own dime and federal loans. I might even go to Middle Merion High come September, since public school is cheaper than home-school or community-college courses. But I’d rather not give up my independence.


Once on the mound, I’m allowed eight warm-up pitches. Through the first six and a half innings, Brandon and the pitchers for Lower Merion have owned this pile of dirt. They’ve worn divots the size of their shoes near the pitching rubber, and the landing spots hold the patterns of their cleats, not mine. Being a reliever means taking someone else’s space and making it your own, fast.