Leaving Fishers

  “Mom?” Denise pushed her way into the kitchen. “Come on back.” Denise flashed a dirty look at Dorry, as if she knew Dorry had made their mother cry. Dorry felt a spasm of guilt for upsetting her family. She wondered if she was supposed to follow Denise and her mother out of the kitchen, if they even wanted her back at the table. But she prayed ten times, “Lord, thy will be done. Lord, thy will be done,” and her cold calm returned.

  Chapter

  Twenty-two

  SOMEHOW DORRY NEVER GOT AROUND to seeing Marissa or any other friends over Christmas break. She lived like a hermit in her room, reading the Bible and praying for hours on end. She called Angela twice a day. She barely ate. Once she heard her parents arguing in the hall—“We don’t have to put up with this,” her father growled. “How do we know she’s not in there smoking pot or something?”

  “We’d smell it,” her mother answered.

  Dorry stopped listening. Distantly, she was a little amused that her mother might know what pot smelled like. But she mainly blocked out everything about her parents. She refused every effort they made to draw her out of her room, away from her Bible and prayers. They had rejected God. She could not concern herself with them. She was not allowed to think about anything but Fishers.

  Most of the time, she succeeded. By the time they got back to Indianapolis, she could keep herself pure and above sin about two days out of every three. She hoped Angela would notice a big difference in her, a glow that didn’t show over the phone. At their first discipling session, just an hour after Dorry was back in town, she had to search for sins to describe.

  “I picked my nose once,” she finally said, almost defiantly. Let Angela condemn me for that, if she has to, she thought. There’s nothing else. And I’m so pure now, so beyond my old selfish self, I don’t care if she tells everyone else in Fishers what I did.

  Angela’s pen didn’t move. “That’s not really a sin,” she said evenly, not hearing or ignoring the challenge in Dorry’s voice. “Unless, of course, you did it in front of other people, and that made them question the rightness of being a Fisher. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?” Angela’s pen hovered over the paper, waiting.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I said no. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course,” Angela said calmly. “Let’s move on. Virtuous acts?”

  “Um—” Dorry said.

  “You don’t have any, do you?” Angela said.

  “I was busy praying,” Dorry said. “And reading the Bible. I told you. I didn’t sin.”

  Angela’s gaze was steady. “It’s true your sin numbers are down. They were low for your whole vacation. You know that’s good.”

  Dorry felt a little thrill of victory. See—Angela was proud of her. But Angela was still talking.

  “But your virtuous-acts numbers are down, too. You’re just a zero all around. You’re supposed to be a Fisher, not a zero.”

  The words cut into Dorry’s iron restraint, unleashing a flood of insecurity. I knew it. Angela always thought I was a zero. And she’s right, I am. And then Dorry was just mad, mad at Angela, mad at herself. Frantically, she tamped down the anger. God, let me turn from this evil. God, let me turn from this evil. Biting her cheek, Dorry muttered, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

  After that, every day was a struggle. If she focused on God and obeyed Angela and just didn’t think, she was all right. But at the oddest moments, her anger flashed out or she developed evil doubts or questions about Angela’s commandments.

  When Angela told her she needed to spy on a new member, to make sure he wasn’t sneaking cigarettes, Dorry stood outside in the cold for three hours one day, watching a single lighted window. The colder her feet got, the holier she felt. But when she reported back to her E Team, and everyone’s eyes focused approvingly on her, a voice whispered in her head, “This is wrong. What you did was evil.”

  When her parents got upset that her semester grades came back as mostly Cs with a few scattered Bs, she was serene as they screamed. “No, of course it’s not because I’m spending too much time with Fishers,” she told them resolutely. “They just expect a lot more at Crestwood. I’ve got things figured out now. I’ll do better.” Then she went to her room and sobbed silently, fighting the evil urge to curse Angela, Fishers, and God. “Help me do better. Help me do better,” she prayed again and again. She wasn’t sure if she was praying for her schoolwork or her soul.

  The only place she could relax her guard against evil was at the Garringers’, baby-sitting. She gave piggyback rides to Jasmine and Zoe, played peekaboo with Seth, held their hands in endless games of ring-around-the-rosy and London Bridge. She savored the kids’ hugs, which were totally spontaneous and had nothing to do with Dorry’s sin numbers or virtuous-acts score. She didn’t have to consult Angela before telling Zoe not to stand on the kitchen table. She still felt uncomfortable around Mrs. Garringer, but Mrs. Garringer was only there at the beginning and the end, to say in her melodramatic way, “Dorry, if you only knew what you’ve done for my sanity!”

  Sometimes Dorry felt guilty that she enjoyed Jasmine, Zoe, and Seth so much—that her favorite moments had nothing to do with God or Fishers. But then one day in early January, Angela said, “Dorry, you’re not giving enough to Fishers. Saving souls is very expensive. Remember how Jesus asked his disciples to give all that they had?” She waited, as if expecting Dorry to figure out what she needed to do on her own. She didn’t. Angela sighed, and added, “You need to give your baby-sitting money to Fishers.”

  “All of it?” Dorry asked, feeling the familiar spur of anger and doubt. “But that’s my college money.”

  “If God wants you to go to college, He’ll provide a way.”

  “Okay,” Dorry said, though inside she was seething. With Angela watching, she signed over a big check, clearing out her bank account. She hated herself for it. She hated herself for hating herself. She hated God and Angela both. She signed her name carefully.

  And then, handing the check over, she felt suddenly free. Look what I can do. Look what a wonderful Fisher I am.

  After that, when she began enjoying the kids too much, she simply told herself her work was holy, because she was baby-sitting to earn money for Fishers.

  Sometimes she even believed it.

  Chapter

  Twenty-three

  PASTOR JIM CAME TO SPEAK TO DORRY’S E Team. It was a momentous occasion—some of the girls baked cookies, and Mark, the leader, had clearly put unusual effort into cleaning his apartment ahead of time.

  Pastor Jim came into the room like visiting royalty. But his mournful expression instantly changed the festive mood in the room.

  “We are failing,” he proclaimed sadly.

  He sat on the floor. Quickly, everyone sitting on the bed or on Mark’s rickety folding chairs slid down to join him. Dorry knew why: Those who want to be first, should make themselves last. No Fisher could sit in comfort while Pastor Jim sat on hard, cracked linoleum.

  “We have good news to share,” Pastor Jim continued. “But in the last month, we have won only fifteen new souls for the Lord.”

  It sounded like a lot to Dorry. But she quickly adjusted her expression to one of sorrow, to match everyone else in the room.

  “Search your souls,” Pastor Jim said. “Can you account for this failure?”

  Angela answered first. “We don’t try hard enough,” she said. “We let our own sinful desires get in the way of evangelism.”

  Dorry felt a pang of guilt that Kayla, the girl she’d been responsible for at her first Fisher party as a Level Two, had stopped having anything to do with Fishers, and told Lisa, her potential discipler, “No offense, but some of you people are weird.”

  Pastor Jim was nodding thoughtfully. “God has spoken to me,” he said. “When I started Fishers three years ago, He told me to be gentle in our evangelism, to win people over with our love before revealing
the glorious news we carry. He said that was the way to sneak past humans’ fear of righteousness. But last night, He told me there is no time left for subtlety.”

  Dorry looked around, to see if anyone else knew what he meant.

  “I am sending you forth,” he said, “to shopping malls and street corners, to bus stations and the airport, to every place that people gather, to spread the word directly.”

  There was silence, then Mark said in a puzzled voice, “No more Fishers parties?”

  Pastor Jim shook his head firmly. “Parties are evil,” he said.

  Dorry was inclined to agree. She hated the ritual of fawning over a new person every week. She no longer infuriated Angela with her questions, but she was still awkward and uncomfortable. Maybe what Pastor Jim wanted—what God wanted—would be easier.

  “I am counting on you, the young people of Fishers,” Pastor Jim declared. “You are the ones with zeal. You are the ones willing to follow Christ unquestioningly.”

  Dorry had heard Angela and some of the other disciplers complaining that the older Fishers were just not as committed. And she’d noticed fewer and fewer adults at the Sunday services. Were they dropping out? She’d heard of a few younger Fishers leaving, including Lara, the girl who’d taken her to her first Fishers party. Several of the disciplers had assured Dorry’s Bible Study group that they made valiant efforts to win back ones who strayed. But her Bible Study group had all agreed: If the dropouts didn’t return, it meant they had never truly been saved. For, knowing the truth, how could anyone choose hell?

  “The kingdom of God is relying on you!” Pastor Jim thundered. His voice was overpowering in Mark’s tiny apartment. Dorry found it impossible to think at all while he was talking.

  She nodded automatically with all the others when they made plans to meet Saturday morning at eight. They would chant “I am the way and the truth and the life . . .” for two hours, then be at the Crestwood Mall when it opened. They’d go in teams of four, and hand out brochures about Fishers and salvation.

  But Saturday, as Dorry reached for the door to sneak out to Angela’s waiting car, she heard a voice behind her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” her father boomed.

  “To the mall. With my friends. It’s—I left a note.”

  Her father picked up the scrap of paper from the kitchen table. Dorry had written only, “Be back tonight.” Angela had advised her not to tell her parents anything she didn’t have to.

  “That’s it!” her father exploded. “Today of all days—”

  Dorry looked at him blankly.

  “It’s your mother’s birthday, for Christ’s sake!”

  Dorry had forgotten the date. Now she remembered her mother saying something about going out to eat. Were Donny and Denise and their families coming in for the day? Dorry couldn’t remember. When her mother had told her the plans, one morning before school, Dorry had been busy praying over breakfast so she could tell Angela she’d gotten her full two hours of prayer in.

  “Sorry. I forgot,” Dorry said now. “Angela’s waiting—” She turned to go, but her father stalked across the room and blocked the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere, young lady. Not today. You’re going to stay home and spend time with your family and be nice to your mother. All day.”

  “But Angela—” Dorry protested.

  “I’m not done,” her father said. “You’re going to pull your grades back up and get your act together and—”

  “My act is together,” Dorry said. “I’m doing God’s work.”

  Once she would have felt foolish saying those words to her father. Now she felt holy, sublime. She tried to step around him.

  “No!” he shouted. “You’re not going anywhere!”

  “Let her go,” Dorry’s mother said quietly behind them.

  Dorry and her father both turned.

  “Let’s not fight this battle today,” Dorry’s mother said. Her hair was still matted from sleep, and her bathrobe hung unevenly, as though she’d pulled it on in a hurry. She looked old and tired. Her eyes were bleary. “I just want a quiet birthday. If Dorry doesn’t want to be here. . .” She stopped and tried again. “If Dorry doesn’t want to—” She turned around and went back into her room.

  Dorry’s father looked at Dorry. He stepped back from the door. “Be back by noon,” he growled. “Or else.”

  “I—” Dorry said.

  Outside, Angela honked the horn. Dorry stumbled out the door.

  “Did you oversleep?” Angela asked as Dorry slid into the car.

  “No,” Dorry said dazedly. “My parents—I—I was just talking to my parents.”

  She knew it was a sin not to tell Angela about the confrontation. Angela needed to know every temptation Dorry faced. Angela could figure out a way for Dorry to avoid having to be back by noon. Probably Angela would even praise her for sacrificing her parents’ approval for the good of God’s kingdom. But Dorry couldn’t listen to praise while her mother’s pained, “If Dorry doesn’t want to . . .” still echoed in her ears.

  Dorry was numb and desperately praying for help by the time they reached the mall. She said, again and again, “Are you saved? You must be born again to avoid the fires of hell.” But she didn’t listen to people’s responses. She didn’t care that most people threw the brochures in the nearest trash can. In her mind, she kept seeing her mother’s hurt face. One minute she could see everything right—Jesus had said he would come between parents and children. Defying her father was like defying the Devil. Her parents were unbelievers. But the more she prayed, the more she doubted. How could the Devil get into her mind even as she talked to God?

  Several times she almost turned to Angela and cried, “I’m in sin. Help me.” What a relief it would be to let Angela take over. But Angela was busy. Dorry clutched her brochures like a lifeline, and asked another stranger, “Are you saved?”

  For once, the stranger didn’t move away immediately. Dorry actually looked at him. He wore an official-looking blue shirt and a badge that said “Security.”

  “Can’t you religious nuts read?” he asked. “There are signs all over this mall saying, ‘No solicitation.’”

  “I—” Dorry gulped. “We’re just evangelizing.”

  “Do it somewhere else. It’s not allowed here.”

  Dorry felt a rush of hope. Maybe her decision was made for her. She glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. She could be home by noon.

  “Wait a minute—what are you talking about?” Mark protested, rushing to Dorry’s side.

  “Soliciting—or evangelizing, if that’s what you call it—isn’t allowed inside the mall. This is private property and the store owners don’t want your kind scaring away the shoppers.”

  “It’s a free country. We can spread the word of God anywhere we wish,” Mark said. His stance was brave: chin held high, scrawny chest thrust forward like a boxer before the match.

  “Oh, brother,” the security guard said, shaking his head. “Let me put it this way: Stop harassing people or I call the cops.”

  “We harass no one. We are doing the will of God,” Mark said. “Arrest us if you have to. We will be martyrs for God’s word.” He held his wrists out as if he were waiting for handcuffs.

  Dorry thought, Happy birthday, Mom. Can you get me out of jail? Her parents would never forgive her. She leaned over and vomited at the base of a potted tree.

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  EVEN AS SHE RETCHED, DORRY KNEW THAT throwing up was a reprieve. She was sick. Angela would have to take her home. She wouldn’t be arrested. She was sick. She wouldn’t have to go out to eat with her parents and endure their wrath about Fishers.

  When she got home, Donny and Denise and their families were all milling about the tiny apartment. Dorry mumbled hellos and said, “Happy birthday, Mom,” and headed straight for bed.

  “Wasn’t she sick all Christmas break, too?” Donny’s voice rumbled behind her. Dorry put the pil
low over her ears so she didn’t have to hear.

  She stayed home from the Fishers service on Sunday because she was sick, and sat like a zombie in the midst of her boisterous family. She avoided her father. Angela called several times, and gave her lengthy discipling sessions over the phone.

  “Pastor Jim thinks the Devil intervened with you vomiting and kept us from our God-given glory of being martyrs for Christ,” she reported Sunday night. “You aren’t really sick, are you?”

  “No,” Dorry whispered, though she didn’t really know. If in doubt, confess.

  Angela made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Oh, Dorry. You are so deep into sin. Are you even saved?”

  “Of—of course I am!” Dorry insisted. “You told me I was.”

  “Maybe the Devil fooled me,” Angela said with a bitter laugh.

  Dorry’s stomach churned. It was empty—she hadn’t eaten in two days, even rice cakes. She felt light-headed. She saw her father watching her across the room. She took the phone around the corner.

  “Angela,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for evangelism. Doesn’t it say in the Bible that different people have different talents? That we’re the body of Christ and some people are eyes and some people are ears and so on? Maybe God wants me to do something else for his kingdom.”

  “Do you know what verse that is? Can you quote it exactly?” Angela asked.

  “N-no,” Dorry mumbled. “I just found it on my own. We haven’t done that verse in Bible study—”

  “Exactly,” Angela snapped. “And do you know why? That’s the kind of thing that can confuse a Level Two Fisher. Listen—you read what I tell you to read, and you do what I tell you to do. And you will evangelize!”

  Angela ordered her to reread the Bible Study verses she’d memorized fifty times each to make up for her sin, and to pray for three hours a day for God to reward her evangelism next week at the mall. For they would be going back. Dorry didn’t dare ask what would happen if they were arrested.