Believe (15 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

When I got home, no one was around. I opened the refrigerator door and grabbed everything that looked good. I ate an entire half-gallon of rocky road frozen yogurt. Leftover salad. Three slices of turkey on one piece of bread.

Brian walked.

The whole thing was crazy. It didn't make sense. There was no reason why the feeling and strength in his legs returned. No reason that didn't involve some sort of faith. And miracles.

And me.

I ran upstairs and looked at the half-finished dress. I needed something to do—something to calm myself down—but I had no idea what to do with it. I didn't know how to make it authentic. I didn't know how I was going to figure out what I wanted to say now that I knew my mother didn't want me, now that it seemed my hands might have just healed two people.

She said, “You have a holy soul.”

This couldn't be what she meant.

I was halfway through a slab of cheese and some crackers when Lo walked in the door with Abe and a whole lot of pissed-off body language. “Hey,” I said, ignoring the slamming door and hands over her chest, his disappointed posture. “Sit down. I have so much to tell you. You aren't going to believe what happened.”

“That's funny,” Lo said, although she wasn't laughing. Abe limped to the kitchen table. His hair was sweaty. His face looked flushed. He looked mad, too, although neither of them was willing to say why.

“Did something happen?” The usual scenarios flashed across my mind. Another bombing. Another article. Had I healed someone else?

Lo tapped her finger on the table. “No. Nothing much.” She wouldn't sit down. “Did you forget something? Something you were supposed to do?”

“I don't think so.”

Lo looked at Abe. Abe looked at Lo. I shrugged my shoulders. “I really don't know what you're talking about.” I tried not to smile, but it was tough. I was too happy. “If you're not going to tell me, can I tell you what happened to me?” I put some water on the stove and took out three teacups. And some sugar.

“Sit down,” Lo said. She didn't want tea. She didn't want me to say another word. “Janine, this isn't a game. Did you arrange for Roxanne Wheeler to come to Miriam's protest?”

The protest. Crap. “I'm such an idiot. I completely forgot.”

Lo stomped past me and took the kettle off the stove.

“I told you she spaced,” Abe said. He shook his head. “Whatever you were doing, it had better be good, because we were all freaking out when you didn't show up. Miriam was sure something terrible had happened to you.” Abe could be so dramatic. “The thing was a total debacle. Roxanne couldn't believe she brought out her crew for nothing. She really does not like being stood up.”

I smirked—couldn't help it. All things being equal, this served Roxanne (and Miriam and Samantha) right. I said to Lo, “This is not my fault. I was trying to do Miriam a favor. I thought you would be proud—I put her needs ahead of mine.”

Lo—of course—was not proud. She was furious. “Miriam had me calling all over town. Why have a cell phone if you don't keep it on?”

“It was on.” I pulled out my phone—just to prove to her that I was not as irresponsible as she thought I was—and of course, the thing needed to be charged. “Look. I'm sorry I said anything. They wouldn't leave me alone until I called Roxanne and told her I'd be there.” I wanted to tell her about Brian. “Trust me—I didn't mean to blow her off. I was going to go. But then I got distracted.”

“You got
distracted
.” Lo poured herself a drink that wasn't tea. “And what if you hadn't been? What were you going to do then?”

Abe said, “If I were you, I'd call Miriam right now. You should listen to your messages. And come up with a better word than ‘distracted.' That is, if she'll talk to you.”

I plugged in the phone. Crap. I had twelve messages. Message #1 was short: Miriam sounded excited. “Hey J. Where are you?” By Message #8, her voice was shrill. By Message #12, she sounded like she'd been crying or shouting or both: “Where were you? What happened? How could you just ditch me? The protest was a total disaster. When you didn't show up, people left. They called me a fraud. Roxanne didn't take a single note. No pictures either. She accused Samantha of stealing your phone and pretending to be you. She called her
in over her head.
And
a poser
.” At this point, Samantha said something not so nice about me and our friendship. “You should know Roxanne told Samantha to grow up. She told her she had better things to do than write about a bunch of spoiled, entitled kids and a stupid old tree.”

That wasn't nice.

I called her cell, but no surprise, Miriam didn't answer. I tried her house. Her mom told me to give her a little more time. “I'm sure you can understand. She's very upset.”

Abe took her side. “So where were you anyway?”

I turned to Lo. “Before you start screaming at me, let me tell you, I didn't do any of this on purpose. My plan was to go to the protest, even though I didn't want to be in the same room as Roxanne.” I looked at my scars, and I wasn't imagining it—they looked like they were fading. “But when I left school, I ran into Dave. He took me to his hotel. That boy in the wheelchair? He can walk. I went to see him, and it's incredible.”

Abe looked confused. “The young guy? The one who held your hand?”

Lo picked up the empty teacup and slammed it on the counter. She told Abe to get into the car. “I'm taking you home now.” To me, she said, “You went to his hotel?” I looked at the cup. It was chipped. She said, “I'm going to try and calm down. I don't want to fight anymore.”

I went up to my room and lay on my bed. I refused to feel guilty. I should have been honest—really, I should never have agreed to call Roxanne—but now that it was over, I didn't feel all that bad about letting Miriam down. The truth was, she and Samantha used me. They talked about doing the right thing, but it was easy for them—no one knew who they were—their cause was so not complicated. They didn't consider my feelings at all. They should have asked Roxanne directly instead of trying to trick her into talking to them.

I reached down under my bed and picked up the retrospective and reread the article. Then I looked at the pictures. They were not public property. This reporter got them from someone—someone who had access to my personal property—someone who knew me pretty well.

I thought about it. I considered every ex-boyfriend, every girl who'd ever looked at me the wrong way.

Dan?

No. It couldn't be him.

The more I thought about it, the more I was sure it had to be Samantha who leaked them. She probably stole those pictures from Miriam. All this time, she didn't want to be my friend. She was just looking for ways to make me look like a fool.

I looked at the half-finished dress hanging from my closet door. Ms. Browning said I needed to respond to my world. I think she meant that day. The day I became the Soul Survivor, the day my parents died.

Could I put what I was feeling into this dress? Could I reference my story and create something authentic?

I looked at the lines and the fabric. I picked up a swatch of extra material and rubbed it against my cheek. Then I looked at my hands. I really looked at every line and every scar and every angle. I forced myself to be completely honest.

I listened for Lo to come home, to hear her familiar stomp around the house. I waited for her to come upstairs, but she didn't. She stayed away.

1:00
A.M.
2:00
A.M.
Still no Lo. No phone message. She probably went to Sharon's. I stared up at the skylight. It was impossible to sleep.

When it was early morning, I got up and picked up the phone and called Israel. My grandmother answered on the second ring.

“Shalom, Janine.”

Even though I almost never called, she knew who I was. Even though she knew it was still dark here, she didn't sound surprised to hear from me. At first, I didn't know what to say. It was awkward. She told me my grandfather wasn't near the phone, that he was already out … working. “I put those boxes in the mail,” she said. “I hope they'll help you get to know your mother a little better.”

“What do you remember about her?” I asked.

My grandmother probably had a hundred answers to this question. “She was always full of energy. She always wanted to be the best, no matter what she did.”

That didn't mean much. “No,” I said. “What was she really like? What made you mad? Did she make you laugh?” I didn't want to hear sound bites. I wanted the truth. Details. Stories. “Tell me one thing she did that no one else knows about.”

I listened to her breathing.

There were miles between us.

“Of course, she made us all those things,” my grandmother began. “She was our daughter. We loved her very much. She always had to be the center of attention.” Then she began to laugh. “Once she signed up to play piano for a talent show. But she didn't know how to play. When I asked her what she thought she was going to do, she just shrugged. It didn't matter.” Now she sighed. “Even when she was very young, she was determined to be famous.”

Blah. I had hoped she'd wanted more. But when I thought about it, I couldn't say I didn't want to be successful, too. It was natural. We all wanted to do things that would leave a legacy—to be remembered for. No one dreamed of leaving this world in total anonymity. The problem for me: anonymity wasn't possible. Publicity was a hassle, and it wasn't even reliable. The picture they'd drawn of me wasn't right. I didn't want to be the Soul Survivor. I wanted to do something. I wanted to be known for something other than
that day
.

I didn't want anything that came out of
that day
.

My grandmother said, “I'm sure you know that we didn't always understand or agree with her, but we were always proud of her accomplishments—especially when she decided to return.”

That was so sad and ironic. “Do you think she knew that?”

“Yes. In my heart, I know she did.” My grandmother said she believed that, even though she also accepted that she would never really be sure. “We were devastated when she died. We wish we could have had even one more chance to see her, one chance to make things right. That's one reason we want you to visit. And why we gave you the hamsa.”

After we hung up, I could finally sleep.

I didn't dream. When I woke up, I didn't even peek in Lo's room. I didn't want to tell her I called Israel. I didn't put on the hamsa. The only thing I wanted to do was get to Bethlehem. Forget school. I called a cab. When I told him where I wanted to go, he stepped on the gas a little too hard. “Aren't you that girl, the one they were talking about on TV?”

I wished I could drive. Or had sunglasses. Or had changed my hair. I considered telling him to pull over and let me out. But I needed to see Dave. I tried not to sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Yes I am. And I'll say a prayer for you if you don't tell anyone. Just take me to the Hotel B. As fast as possible.”

The rest of the trip, he didn't say another word. I tried not to think too much about what I was doing. I knew I had to see Dave and Brian and Emma, but I had no clue how all this fit together.

There was something I was missing. I was sure of it.

Lo would probably be angry, but Dave wouldn't. He would say, “You have to trust your gut.” And then he'd clasp his hands together and thank the Lord. “This is the meaning of faith.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

When she opened the door to Dave's suite, Emma said, “I knew it was you.”

I said, “You look great.” I meant it. Her hair was blown out loose, and it framed her face. For the first time, she looked older. Her makeup was impressive, too. Her eyes totally popped. Good girl—she'd kept her lips a shiny neutral.

From the door, I saw at least five other people. Three at the round table—now moved back to this side of the room; two more at a low coffee table. Classical music played in the background.

Emma could tell I was hesitating. “Come in. Don't worry. Nobody here is going to mob you. We have too much to do.”

A man in the corner said, “As you go, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.' Heal the sick, raise the dead, and cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.”

“Matthew,” Emma said. When I looked confused, she shrugged. “From the Bible.” She told me that the man had just found out that he had more time to live than the doctors had originally given him. “It's a very liberating thing,” she said. “To have no more doubts. He feels the power of God. He prayed for these results for a very long time.”

I had doubts. The man should be thanking his doctor.

And yet, I wanted to know how you could trust in something that you couldn't see. So I walked over the threshold into the room. I reminded myself there was something here I needed. I had to find it.

No buts.

I met a guy whose daughter was shot in a school and a woman with four kids with AIDS. Both of them were stuffing envelopes—invitations to hear Dave speak. An older man sat down next to me and showed me a flyer he was making on the computer. He told me that, three years ago, he had dedicated his life to Dave's mission and he'd never regretted it. “When my strength was gone, God gave me strength.” He said that my story helped him find a reason to get up in the morning. “Listening to Dave makes me want to be a better person.”

“Why did you join?” I asked Emma.

She'd had a good friend with cancer. A sad story. Diagnosed at ten, the treatments never worked completely. Her friend suffered for a long time—her illness ate her alive. “I was so angry and resentful. I blamed God. My mother took me to hear Dave speak. He made me think. He questioned what I was doing on this planet—if I was doing anything to make it better. I thought about my friend. And that was that.”

She looked at my hands. It made me uncomfortable.

“Sometimes I still get mad. I want answers. Guarantees. But then something good happens. Like coming here. Meeting you. Brian.”

Now the room seemed too small. I said, “I think what you're saying is interesting, but I don't believe in God.”

This made her look sad. “I think you're just angry.” She stood up next to a picture of the manmade Star of Bethlehem, shining brightly. “When I found God, we found peace. And strength. Her illness gave her things that she would never have had otherwise.”

I'd never met anyone this naïve. “The point is, it wasn't fair. None of it is. Your friend. Me. My parents.”

“I disagree. I think we should look at it another way. You lived, Janine. Your parents died—and that is terrible—but you lived.” She stared at my hands. “Why can't you be grateful? What's the point of being so bitter?”

I pushed my hands in her face. If she wanted to see them, she should take a really close look.

She did. Without embarrassment. “Your palms look like a map.” She wasn't the first to say that. “But if you look carefully, they also look like flower petals. They are blessed.” She smiled. “Really, they're quite beautiful.”

Dresses made of flowing silk were beautiful. Tailored pants and jackets with sharp edges and angles were beautiful. “No. They're ugly.” I yanked them out of her grasp. “At least give me that.”

She half-laughed. “So they're beautiful and ugly. You may not like them, but I do. They're interesting. They catch your eye and make you think. The way your fingers splay—they look like they're grabbing something.”

“I hate my fingers. They ache all the time.”

“You shouldn't hate them. They're powerful. Your hands have done great things.” When I told her she was making assumptions, she said, “Beautiful things are nice to look at, but it's the imperfections in life that people remember. It's how you deal with tough things that shows who you are.” The other people in the room turned and agreed. The man with the dead daughter said, “I like ugly. Always did. Ugly makes me stop and linger. Usually when you see something that isn't perfect, there's a good story behind it.”

Now I had to laugh. These people were so honest. I'd never met anyone who could resist staring at a fake leg, a scar, or even a mole, but most people weren't brave enough to admit it.

Emma said, “Your hands make me think. Your hands attract other hands.”

That stopped me. “Say that again?”

“Your hands. They attract other hands. At the same time, they have power. They're your story. They …”

“Be quiet, please.” I closed my eyes and saw an image of a dress. “Do you have some extra paper?” I needed to sketch before I forgot it.

First, I just made shapes. Then I thought about perspective, about what people found beautiful. And what turned people off. I thought about my hands and how maybe Emma was right about one thing. Maybe my hands did both.

Emma looked at the sketch. “Wow. That's cool.”

It wasn't finished. Just a start. “I need to work on it.” I didn't want to tell her how excited I was.

But she could tell. “Will they be real hands, or hands like the one on your necklace?” When I said, “Real,” she noticed I wasn't wearing the hamsa. “Why aren't you wearing it?” She added, “It was so pretty.”

I closed the notebook and inched closer to the door. “I'm never wearing it again.”

She invited me to come with her to her room down the hall. “Tell me what's wrong. Don't deny it—the second I mentioned the hamsa, you looked different. I can tell you're upset about something. Why did you come? What do you want? You're acting strange.”

I said, “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't.” This was the kind of thing I would normally share with Miriam. Or maybe Abe, if he was in a serious mood, if he could keep himself from singing.

Emma pressed me for an answer. “When something is bothering me, I always feel better getting it off my chest.”

I shouldn't trust her. But I did. I told her everything.

“All this time, I believed my parents were happy—that they were heroes. I thought we were a happy family. But I was wrong. In the journal, the only thing she dreamed of was fame and power—and leaving us. That's what she wanted. To be famous.”

I waited for Emma to empathize the way Miriam would, but her face showed only minimal sympathy. “So … you feel sorry for yourself.”

I felt my cheeks turning red. “Yes. No.
I don't know.
Maybe.” I looked on her bedside table. There was a picture of her with two smiling adults. You could tell they were her parents because they pushed their heads next to her and smiled so wide their eyes disappeared. I said, “You look like your mom.”

She said, “But I'm a lot more like my dad.”

I used to believe I was exactly like my mom, but now I wasn't sure. I didn't know who I was like. “How would you feel if everything you thought you knew about your parents was wrong? If you spent your whole life believing one story, only to find out that it was made up for your benefit?”

“You think you're the first person to find out something not-so-great about your family?” She took the picture of her family and put it facedown on the bed. “You're upset because your mom was passionate about her work—that she had an ego. Because she wanted some time away from you and your dad. You had this big romantic notion about what her life was like, and now that's all messed up. You feel hurt because they fought over what was best for you. Because your aunt didn't tell you the truth.”

“You make it sound trite.”

“No, you do.” She shook her head. “Janine, if they didn't love you, it wouldn't have been a hard decision for any of them. If their choices had been easy, she probably wouldn't have needed to write it out.”

This was not what I wanted to hear. “You can say that, but you weren't lied to. Your parents support your decisions. Your parents are alive.” I sighed. “All these years, I thought we had this magic bond—because I heard her voice—because she loved me that much. I thought that was what made me special. Now I know she just wanted to get away from me. I'm so mad I could scream.”

“So scream.” I looked up, and Dave was standing in the doorway. “Scream. Get mad. Have a good cry.” He walked into the middle of the room and stood next to me in front of the vanity mirror.

He was tall. His blazer took up most of the reflection. I wanted to get to the door. “You act like this is no big deal.”

“That's not true.” He did not move. “I just wish you'd stop punishing yourself. Instead, think about what your parents wanted for you. Think about your own goals. Look at your hands and into your heart and speak to God. Be humble and face your fears with the strength God gave you.”

That was funny. My mother was all about facing your fears. Her mottos were: Be brave. Be strong. Go out and get what you want. Lo, on the other hand, wanted me to be more humble. She thought humility was the big ticket to success.

Putting them together didn't make sense. To face your fears, you couldn't be humble. When you were humble, like Emma, you stayed in the shadows. God had nothing to do with this.

I tried to inch toward the door, but he was in my way. “I don't want to be brave or humble. I don't believe I was chosen for anything. I think people just say things like that to explain why life sucks.”

Dave took a deep breath. He sat down so we could see each other eye to eye. Sitting that close to him, I was afraid. I wanted to get out of here. He talked in quiet, wispy breaths that floated away almost the second he said them. “Think about the odds. In that small building, where everyone else died, you lived.” His voice got even quieter. “You lived that day for a reason. You know it's true. Of all the people in that place, God saved
you
. God chose you. Only you. There has to be a reason.”

Emma told him to stop lecturing. “Dave, she's not ready.”

This was feeling very intense. I said, “It isn't fair. I don't want any of this.” The expectations people had for me—I didn't want them.

Dave didn't care about other peoples' expectations. He said that fairness had nothing to do with it. “Now that we
know
you can heal the sick, you can't walk away. You must face your destiny. You must help those who need you. We believe in you. We always have.”

“Shut up!” I pushed Dave as hard as I could. He had said too much—gone too far. “This is not my destiny.” I pounded on his chest, but he didn't budge. “You have what you wanted. A ministry. A book. Fame.” When he wouldn't let me walk out the door, I said, “Why can't you leave me alone?”

He looked at me with fatherly eyes and arms open wide. “Because we need you. Because we care about you. Because you need us. Even if nothing miraculous happens again, we want to get to know you. No matter what happens next, I will always be there for you.”

That's what he said when he pulled me out of the rubble.

“Even if I do nothing?”

“Even then.”

I fell in and held him tight.

He said, “Don't cry,” and of course, I didn't. But it felt good—hugging him. No matter how mad I was, he was the man who found me. He saved me. I didn't remember my parents, but I knew him. I didn't want to be mad at him. I was grateful to him. Maybe even in a humble way.

What had happened ten years ago had been the greatest gifts I ever got. He cradled my hands as the paramedics took me to the hospital. He told me over and over again that everything was going to be okay. And it was. I lived. I would never understand why.

Now he rubbed my back. “I'm sorry, Janine. Forgive me. I had no right to ask you to do anything. You don't have to be anyone. You are our family. Just the way you are. You are safe here with us.”