Believe (10 page)

EIGHTEEN

Up close, the believers looked like regular people.

The truth was a lot of them were. I recognized some of them: the lady from the library desk, the butcher Lo went to, the guy from the mini-mart who always gave me a mini peppermint patty—on the house. If I ran into any of them anywhere but here, I'd say hello.

I never pegged them for zealots. Maybe they were just here to get on TV.

“Hi Janine,” my eighth-grade math teacher said. “We've been waiting for you.”

Someone with a stump for an arm said, “
Humanity
has been waiting for you.”

There was a guy without a leg, one with no legs at all, and a girl with massive scars on the entire left side of her face. There were six people with walkers, five more in wheelchairs. One of them looked like he was my age. I tried as hard as I could to focus on the door, the tree, the window—anything but his smiling, eager face—but it was hard not to stare back. The guy
was looking at me. They were all looking at me. They wanted me to look at them. I could feel it.

They all wanted something from me that I couldn't give.

It didn't matter. Every step, their hands reached out to me; they touched me; they asked me, please, to touch them back. They told me their troubles. One man told me he was in severe pain. Someone else was sick. Pretty soon there were requests and cries and hands all over me—on my face, my clothes, my arms, shoulders and legs.

“Please don't touch me,” I said. It was overwhelming, intense, scary. I wanted to scream for help. I wanted all of them to back off. “Please give me space.”

I needed air.

Now.

The boy in the wheelchair—the one who smiled at me—he had a really cute dimple—rolled forward and shouted, “Back away.” He also had big shoulders and arms. Nice hair, too. In a flirty sort of way, he balanced on his back tires. I felt sort of nasty even noticing. This wasn't a party. He wasn't here to ask me out. But if we had been at a party, I might have said yes. That's how cute he was.

A lady in a vintage preppy pink cardigan and kelly-green skirt stood next to him. “My son was not born in this chair. He shouldn't have to live the rest of his life this way.” He looked a little embarrassed, the way I did when Lo offered her yoga wisdom to my friends.

I looked at him—not her. “You're right. He shouldn't. Nobody should.”

It really was a shame. He had such a sweet smile. And really green eyes, too. The way he looked at me, I could almost shut
out everyone else here. When he held out his hands, I forgot to pull mine back. Our fingers almost touched. “Will you bless me?” he asked, not moving his fingers. “Will you give me a chance to heal?”

I froze.

There were a hundred people and twenty cameras. They were all staring. It was absolutely silent.

I couldn't heal him.

But I couldn't move either.

Before I could figure out what to say, he lunged forward and grabbed my hands. He had a tight grip. A few people gasped.

I stumbled forward, and the hamsa dangled in the air between us. “I'm sorry you can't walk.”

His hands were sweaty and hot. He didn't let go. “Just you watch,” he said. “Someday, I'm going to. Someday, I'm going to be strong enough to get out of this chair.” He sounded just like a wounded soldier or an athlete when they were getting carted off the field. Thumbs up. All optimism. He was the kind of guy who probably made others feel good about humanity.

He was also strong. I tried to pull away, but he would not let go. I couldn't move. I couldn't get away. This was making me really uncomfortable.

My hands were burning.

I should have worn something with pockets. I should
always
have pockets. I should make a mental note to never ever go outside again the rest of my life without pockets.

Even when he closed his eyes and started praying, I couldn't squirm away.

I looked for someone to help me, but every single one of them had their eyes shut. They were smiling, too, like it was a
beautiful day and everything was possible. It made me feel left out. Even here, surrounded by people as unlucky as me, I was still alone. I was still the different one. I couldn't close my eyes without seeing the things I never wanted to see again.

He squeezed my hands one more time and asked
me
for strength. Then he let go. “Thank you,” he said. His eyes were hopeful.

The whole thing made me feel terrible. This kid was probably no older than me. How did these people believe in a God that would do this to him? Why did he believe that the same God that made him paralyzed still cared? How could all these people continue to pray and hope and close their eyes and smile?

I turned away and started walking through the crowd, but now more hands smothered me. I opened my mouth to breathe or scream, but my throat was closing fast—my hands prickled, like when you slept the wrong way. I dropped to my knees. No one backed off. I was back in the synagogue, and the boy was covered in bombs. No one noticed that I couldn't move or get up—that I was dying here—right in front of all these people.

Except for Dave.

He heard me. He knew.

He told them to back off, and he pushed through the crowd. By the time he was standing over me, I was gasping for air; my hands burned. He picked me up and held me like he did ten years ago. He told the group in a very loud voice, “Janine Collins is here. Please greet her with love. And faith. And compassion. Welcome her. I know you are all anxious, but for now, let her relax. We want her to feel safe. We want her to come to us when she is ready, so that we can all pray together.”

When he put me down, people surrounded me. They said, “Amen.” Others rocked back and forth. One girl pointed at me. “Look at how the light reflects off of her.” When I passed by, they all bowed their heads.

From the center of the crowd, Dave Armstrong exalted the power of God. “We are your servants,” he shouted. “Deliver us!”

The front door flew open.

Lo stepped onto the porch. She pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed me hard by the arm. “Go inside,” she told me, shoving me with enough force that I almost fell into a girl about my age. “Now,” Lo said. She glared at Dave.

He embraced her like they were old friends. “Leora. I tried to call you, but …”

“Let go of me,” she said.

As I pushed my way toward the house, past the girl and an old woman with two black teeth, Roxanne shoved her business card into my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Abe told me so much about you. He's lucky you two are friends.”

I said, “I'm not interested in making a statement.”

She said, “That's your prerogative.”

That was a lie. This wasn't my decision. I no longer had a choice. She was never going to let this drop. She had a story, maybe even a big one. My mother would have done exactly the same thing.

NINETEEN

Lo slammed the door. She drew the curtains. She yelled at Sharon to get away from the window. “Stop staring at them. That's just what they want.”

Sharon didn't think it was safe to turn our backs. “Leora, please. Let me call the police. You really don't have any idea what these people might do.”

Lo would not agree. “I don't want to make a scene.” She dropped to the floor into
savasanah
, the corpse pose, as if that would make everyone disappear.

It was almost funny. I said, “Lo, get up. It's already a scene.”

She didn't laugh. “The last thing we need,” she said, still not moving, “is Roxanne Wheeler or anyone else telling the world that I had a bunch of God-fearing people hauled off and arrested. Trust me. Then we'll have a scene.”

She closed her eyes while, outside, Dave began a call and response. To drown them out, I turned on the TV. Unfortunately, it was the worst hour on the schedule, the time when the stations resort to reruns of
Housewives
, game shows, or messed-up people telling their secrets to the world. Weekday afternoons were about full disclosure and airing your dirty laundry; there was no market for privacy.

On one show, a mom bragged that she gave her fourteen-year-old son condoms—so he would be prepared—and the entire audience applauded. They thought she was being smart. Proactive. On the next channel, a former child star sat on a red couch talking about the recent death of her sister. Breast cancer. The doctor said it was one of the number-one killers of women. Sharon tried to remember the woman's name but couldn't. “I remember that girl. She was always so cute. I saw her movies a hundred times.” Now her mascara was too thick. Her skirt was way too short for the talk show camera angles, so as it rode up her thigh, she had to sit with her legs crossed and her arms glued to the bottom of her hem. I didn't understand why this woman had to share all these personal details about her family. She wasn't running an organization for better access to mammograms. She was just talking … to get on TV.

“The tragedy reinforced my belief in God,” she said, smiling warmly at the strangers in the audience. Her voice definitely sounded coached. It was raspy and low, and she breathed deeply after all the important thoughts. “Her death made me realize that I cannot control everything around me. Thank God I have my faith. I do my best work when I take time to know God. Every night, I hear her talk to me. She is at peace.” Then she mentioned her newest project. Wild applause and a short clip of the new show followed. Studio audiences loved it when people shared their private business with the world. They loved it even more when lemons became lemonade.

“Is it just me, or is the entire world talking about God?” Politicians. Actresses. Sports heroes. Former pilots. “Since when did religion become news?”

“It's always been this way,” Lo said, “at least since 9/11.” She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up into a cobra pose. After twenty seconds of deep breath, she sat back and rested on her knees. I flipped the channels, in search of anything inoffensive, entertaining, or objective. No sports. No talk shows. No self-improvement. Lo said, “If it upsets you, turn it off.”

I settled on a rerun of
The Simpsons
. “It's not upsetting— I'm just sick of it. I don't get why people get so wrapped up in telling people what they believe—why anyone cares.” Faith wasn't news. It was a personal topic. It should stay private, not public, and that actress should have stayed home and taken care of herself. She shouldn't want to risk being known as a person who used her sister's cancer to maker herself more famous.

I turned off the TV.

I wanted quiet. But I didn't get it.

Now there was nothing to drown out the Dave Show outside. He said into his microphone, “I'm here today to tell you: I don't believe in coincidences. Ten years ago, I was not just in the right place at the right time. God had a plan for me. And today, that continues. I knew it then, and I still know it now.”

I stood at the window. He looked and sounded like one of those bad fortune-tellers that come every year to the annual fair. They ran their fingers over your palm and told you how successful you were going to be. As he talked, I tried to get Abe's attention. He was standing by himself—his parents were standing closer to Dave, where there was nothing to lean on. Abe needed the rail, a step from the front porch. About four feet away. I took my chance.

I rapped on the window until Abe turned around. “Come in. Now. I'm not mad.”

It was a lie, but I was worried. He looked sick, and when he came inside, I could see his toes were blue and swollen. I grabbed him by the good arm and helped him to the closest chair.

Lo grabbed a bag full of ice. “Put your leg up. Or do you want us to take you back to the hospital?”

He scooted his chair next to the window. “If you don't mind, I really want to hear what Emma has to say.”

“Who's Emma?”

“This girl who belongs to Dave's congregation. She came with him to visit me.” I pinched his arm on a purple spot, just to remind him how annoyed I still was. He didn't flinch. “You have to meet her. Everything she says makes sense.”

I looked at the girl he was pointing to. She stood next to Dave and wore silly saggy pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and a big floral scarf tied around her head and chin. She looked like she came from another time. Or planet. “You're kidding me, right?”

He wasn't kidding. “Just wait. Her philosophy about faith is very challenging. As soon as Dave finishes up and the press leaves, she'll have something to say.”

I was a skeptic. “She has a ‘philosophy.' How impressive.”

Abe did not appreciate my sarcasm. “Janine, before you make fun of her, you should try listening to what she has to say. Her story might change how you see things.” He said, “In a lot of ways you are alike. She doesn't like publicity either. She says she doesn't want the story to ever be about her. She wants the cause to be the star.”

I laughed. “I guess Dave's good with that.”

It took a while, but after the crowd thinned out, Dave introduced her. He called her “his good luck charm” as well as “an angel sent from heaven.”

I was a little disappointed (but not totally surprised) when she said absolutely nothing I hadn't heard a million times before. How God was with us when we needed help—that we needed to not be afraid to access our own spiritual strength. The whole thing was as rehearsed and fake as the talk shows on TV and even more woo-woo than Lo's yoga pals, but Abe was impressed. The believers totally bought it. They said “Amen” and “That's right.” When she said that we all needed to accept the bad with the good, that faith and God were most important when we were suffering, that we should be humble and not conceited, Dave picked her off the ground and embraced her like she was God's gift to the religious universe.

“You think she's amazing?”

“Yes.”

“No.” I told Abe to close the window. I had never bought into the holy sufferer routine before, and I wasn't about to start now. “She'd be more convincing if she wore something that fit.”

He never understood why clothes were so important to me. “Emma is modest. She doesn't care about clothes. She thinks that greatness is fostered from within.”

This made me laugh. “That's so untrue. Just some people think that ugly clothes make them look smart. Or sincere. Look at Dave. He dresses for authority.” I pointed to Abe's leg. “Why did you go for the colorful cast? I'm sure you could have gotten a white one.”

Abe ignored the dig. “Well, Emma is better than that. She cares about people. She doesn't run away from who she is. She doesn't need all the superficial things that most people”—he meant me— “seem to live for.” Before I could ask him what that was supposed to mean, he pulled out his phone and typed.

I grabbed his phone and read the text. He was such a hypocrite. “Listening to gospel with Janine Collins. You're posting
that
to Facebook?”

He wasn't embarrassed. “If you haven't noticed, people follow me, J. A lot of people wait for my status reports.”

I waited for him to laugh, but he wasn't joking. “Abe, you really should think about how much you want to share.” Fame wasn't as great as he thought it was. Especially that kind of fame.

He should understand that.

He put down his phone. “Janine, you saved my life. You made a miracle.” He got up and stood close—too close—like boyfriend close—like he-wanted-to-kiss-me close. I took a giant step back. “Why can't you accept it? I'm alive because of you.” He turned back to his phone. He started to sing, then stopped. “It would be a crime to keep something like that a secret.”

When his mother barged in the front door, I tried to talk some sense into her. But she had no time to sit down. “Come on, hon,” she said to Abe. “
Your friend
just called. We have to go.”

“Your friend?”

“She means Roxanne,” he said, in a not-very-guilty way. “Janine—just try and see this from my point of view.”

I prepared myself. If he told me that the world needed to know what I did, I was going to strangle him right here, right now. “I thought you already spent two hours with her.”

He looked away. Now he was guilty. “I held out for a lot. I gave her a lot of conditions. For you.”

I said, “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Janine is right,” Mrs. Demetrius said. She didn't recognize sarcasm. “We better go. Roxanne is a very busy woman.”

“Then go ahead.” I paced back and forth. I didn't want to scream at him in front of his mother. “Tell your story. Make a ton of money. But when you're famous and no one will leave you alone and you hate it, don't say I didn't warn you.”

When they were gone, I went to the kitchen and ate three brownies. Lo told me to slow down. “It would serve all these people right if they never got better.” It was a terrible thought, but I understood. She was scared.

Outside, the believers began to leave. From the window, I watched the boy in the wheelchair. His mom helped him toward a car. Before he got into the car, he looked at me and waved.

My hands tingled. I was scared, too.