Believe (5 page)

NINE

“I hate hospitals.”

Miriam crossed her arms over her chest. Her teeth chattered. “That's understandable.”

I hated the smell. I hated the lights, the doctors in their white coats, and the nurses who smiled, even when they knew they were about to hurt you. Miriam didn't know what it felt like to be told that everything was going to be okay, when that was a lie.

But now Abe would.

The emergency room was full of wet people. Every seat was taken. The line to the receptionist was long. We grabbed handfuls of brown paper towels and took our spot behind a bunch of old people, a young man who smelled like he hadn't showered in three weeks, and a man and woman with a young kid. She held him next to her and pressed a towel to his ear. He screamed in pain, but nobody in line seemed to notice.

“What happened?” I asked the lady, trying to dry off my arms and legs as fast as possible.

“You don't want to know.” That was probably correct. As I stood shivering—it was unnaturally cold in this waiting room—the red on the towel spread. It was looking bad. I didn't understand why they didn't go to the front of the line. That ear could be falling off. Or his brain could be bleeding. You heard about things like that. The parents thought they were doing the right thing, or being polite—maybe they thought those were the rules—but the whole time, the kid was in trouble.

I told her to speak up. “I don't think anyone would mind.” As the towel got redder and redder and redder, my head turned hot and my palms sweated and tingled, and for the second time today, I tasted dust. I was soaking wet. My ears rang. I imagined my parents, covered in blood, dying under the rubble.

First my ears. Now my eyes. I told Miriam, “I need to sit down. I think I'm going to be sick.”

There was blood on the floor.

There was also blood on my hands. Not figuratively—literally. In the middle of my palms—a dark splotch of blood in the center of each palm—just like Dave Armstrong had described. Look at it one way, it's a splotch. Look at it another way …

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. I didn't want anyone to see them. This was just the kind of thing that made people freak out. If they saw the blood, they'd photograph my hands. They'd make assumptions. Then they'd write stories. That was how the media worked.

How the ER worked: When the kid with the ear passed out, he finally got some attention. They wheeled him away. Two groups of sick people later, we made it to the front of the line, but we still had to wait. The receptionist told us there was
another emergency. “Just a moment,” she said, reaching for the phone. “It's been a crazy day.”

I shoved my hands in Miriam's face. “Look.”

Miriam looked at my hands like they were perfectly clean, like I was hallucinating everything. “What do you want me to see? They look the way they always look.” Two minutes later, we watched an ambulance pull up to the door. There was a lot of commotion. We couldn't see it, but we could feel it.

Someone said, “The rain is causing a lot of problems.”

Although in reality it was less than half an hour, it seemed like an eternity before the receptionist was ready to talk to us. Miriam took the lead. “We're here to see our friend, Abe Demetrius.” She spelled his name three times. “An ambulance brought him here. Not just now. A while ago.” She whispered, “He was hit by a car.”

The woman stared at her computer screen. “He's in surgery. I'm sorry. Only family can go back.” She gave us directions to the chapel, the cafeteria, the waiting room, the ladies' room, and the gift shop, but other than that, there was nothing we could do but wait. She wasn't really sorry. It's like when people tell you that everything will be fine. It was just something they had to say when things suck.

Miriam, however, was not in the mood to take no for an answer. “Please? We were there when it happened. We feel terrible. We're his closest friends.”

I almost thought it might work, but the answer was still no. The receptionist simultaneously typed and talked the way some people patted their heads and rubbed their stomachs. (It was actually very impressive.) “Please take a seat. Or go home. Wait for his family to get in touch.”

As the next person pleaded her case, I told Miriam we should take the woman's advice and get out of here. But Miriam wasn't leaving. She grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me to the ladies' room. In front of the long mirror, she washed her face with a small mountain of cool foam soap. Between the two of us, the only makeup we had was one tube of lipstick. She put it on, then wiped it off, then applied it again. On off, on off, she was getting a little bit manic.

She muttered, “He better be okay. He has got to be okay. That lady didn't have to be so rude.”

I grabbed a paper towel. I rubbed my hands. In the fluorescent light, they looked clean. The soap made my face feel tight. It burned my eyes. When I closed them, all I saw was blood and death. The boy with the bomb. Abe lying on the ground. The kid with the ear. I wondered if everyone had it wrong.

I wasn't blessed. I was cursed.

My mother was dead. She wasn't there.

My hands were clean.

I looked at my phone. It was almost out of power.

Two hours later, a youngish man with a thick beard and a huge tattoo of an eagle sticking out of his collar took over. Miriam practically ran to the desk. “Abe Demetrius?” she asked, like it was a question. “Can we see him? Can you tell us how he's doing?” When this receptionist looked no more moved than the last one, she stamped her foot and waved me over. “Do you know who this is?”

This was not a good idea. “Miriam!”

“What?”

“Don't go there.”

“Do you want to see him, or not?” I started to walk away, but she grabbed me by the sleeve. “This is Abe's friend, Janine Collins. Look in your newspaper. Or better yet, check the magazine rack. You can read all about her.”

He began to laugh. “I knew you looked familiar.” He rummaged under the desk and pulled out today's newspaper. “Some of the nurses were just talking about you. They could still remember exactly where they were when you were …” He paused.

I hated moments like this.

“She's the Soul Survivor.” Miriam smiled, like she'd just won a bet. “Now can we see him?”

The receptionist reached for his phone, and the eagle on his neck stretched out. “How cool is this? The little girl in the rubble. You still look the same!” He pressed a few numbers. “Hold on a minute. I'll tell the family you're here.”

I never understood why anyone liked tattoos, especially big ones, and even more than that, big ones you can't hide. “Sixth floor of the main hospital.” He pointed to a box full of masks on top of his desk.

“Do we need to wear them?” Miriam asked.

“Hospital policy,” he said. “But could you sign one first? To Lydia.” He turned a little pink. “My mother is a huge fan.”

After I had signed four masks and a prescription pad, we walked through the crowded lobby, past the TCBY, the Sbarro, and the gift shop, which had a huge stack of the retrospective issue. An oak door was marked Chapel. Underneath: “He who
gives his life for the holy cause will have his sins forgiven and a place reserved in paradise.”

Miriam grabbed my arm. “That's not good, is it? That they admitted him.”

I said nothing.

Instead, I pushed the elevator buttons. Up. Close. Open. It was all too slow. When the door finally opened to the sixth floor, we faced a little kid in a wheelchair and a family and six balloons. “Get well soon” and “Happy 6th Birthday.” Miriam started to cry. I wanted to throw up. Behind them, there was a big whiteboard behind the nurse's desk. Demetrius, 611. Abe's door was open.

This time we didn't ask for an invitation.

TEN

He looked dead.

Abe's parents stood at either side of the bed, hands cupped, heads down. At the foot of the bed, with his back to us, was a man in formal black pants. Abe's parents nodded and swayed as the man spoke to them about the greatness and mercy of the Lord.

They didn't see us.

“Dear Jesus, Divine Physician and Healer of the Sick, we turn to You in this time of illness. O dearest Comforter of the Troubled, alleviate our worry and sorrow with Your gentle love, and grant us the grace and strength to accept this burden. Dear God, we place our worries in Your hands. We place our beloved Abraham under Your care and humbly ask that You restore Your servant to health again. Above all, grant us the grace to acknowledge Your holy will and know that whatsoever You do, You do for the love of us. Amen.”

Then they all stood very still with their eyes closed. And prayed.

The man told them to lean on God. For support and guidance. For strength. He said in a low voice, “You are not alone.”

Dave used to say that all the time, too, especially when I was crying in pain. When I was struggling to move my fingers or just plain upset that my parents were dead, he used to say, “The Lord is with us when we need Him.”

That always got on my nerves. It didn't make sense. By definition, anything that kills your parents or gives you excruciating pain is not sitting by your side.

I touched Miriam's shoulder and motioned to the elevator, but Miriam didn't move. “Let's go,” I said as loudly as I dared—I wanted to get out of here—but my voice carried, and they all looked up.

“Girls,” Mrs. D. said, extending her hands to us and pulling us into the circle. “Come in. Join us. We're so happy to see you. We're so grateful for everything you did.”

This was not what I was expecting.

We walked up to his bed and the machines and stood over him. This was so wrong. His face was too slack. His skin didn't look right. There were too many tubes sticking into his arm and nose and I didn't want to know where else. At least one machine beeped regularly. Another one hummed. The whole thing made no sense. What did he ever do to deserve this?

Mr. Demetrius said, “We heard you were brave.”

Mrs. Demetrius agreed. “We heard you did all the right things.”

They held our hands. “It is such a blessing that you were there. Such a blessing that the Lord was listening.”

I couldn't believe they were thanking us—how they could honestly use the word
blessing
when Abe was so obviously messed up? I wondered if something went wrong during the surgery, because he could breathe when he was lying in the street, but now he needed a machine. On the street, he looked hurt, but he didn't look so gray.

I grabbed his hands. “Abe! Open your eyes! I know you're in there. I just know it. You're going to be fine.”

The priest looked horrified. He tried to pry my fingers off Abe, but Mrs. Demetrius told him to let me pray the way I wanted to. “She's the girl we told you about. His friend. The one who survived the bombing.” She outlined the highlights of my biography. “Today is the tenth anniversary of the day she survived.”

One machine beeped faster. “Did you hear that?” I asked. I went to find the nurse. “Did something go wrong? Is he in any pain?” I needed to know. “Why is he hooked up to all this stuff? He was breathing on his own when he got in the ambulance.”

The nurse told me to calm down, that we needed to be patient, that with all emergencies, you had to wait and see. The doctors did everything possible. Every test. Two surgeries already. She explained that they had to sedate him, but that this was only a temporary measure, a solid medical decision, nothing that unusual under the circumstances. Abe's father butted in to say that there was no doubt the situation was grave—Abe lost a lot of blood and hit his head really hard—but there was also no reason to believe he wouldn't wake up.

Mrs. Demetrius took my hand and put it back on Abe's. The priest said in a formal voice, “We were just about to read
some Scripture. If you want to, you could join us.” He handed me a Bible. Mrs. Demetrius said, “We would love to hear you read. After everything you have lived through, it might make us all feel better.”

Saying no would be wrong.

Saying no would be selfish.

I held the book open to the page she wanted to hear. It had been read before, many times. The corner was almost torn. The page was slightly crinkled. “Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared.” Abe's parents closed their eyes and listened. I kept reading. “Beware of him,” I said, clearing my throat, “and obey his voice, provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him.”

Abe's mom squeezed my hand. “We know Abe can hear you. We trust that the Lord will heal Abe's body.”

I didn't agree. The Lord—these prayers—they didn't work. But there was no way I could stop now.

“But if thou shalt indeed obey his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries.” There is stuff about an Angel and some people who may or may not believe. The machine beeps. I feel lost. These words make promises, but I don't understand why anyone thinks they can help. I don't know who is ye and thy and thine. “And ye shall serve the LORD your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee.”

I felt trapped.

Tricked into saying words I did not understand or buy.

I gave her back the Bible and grabbed Abe by the shoulders.
“Abe. Please wake up. Please. Just open your eyes. I know you're in there. I know you can hear me.”

His mother cried. She grabbed me and held me in her arms. Her body shook with fear. “Janine, we know you're scared. We know you're suffering, too.”

“This is not your fault,” Miriam added. “You did not cause the accident. What you're doing right now … it's all we can do.”

That's what made me mad. There had to be something else to do.

When Mrs. D. pushed the Bible back into my hands, I gave it back. I couldn't fake it. I was scarred, broken beyond repair. These words made promises that never come true. I leaned over Abe, gave him a hug, and walked as fast as I could to the elevator. I said to no one, “I'm sorry, but I can't do this. I need to go.”

The Demetriuses thought that praying helped, but they were wrong. It never did. It didn't take sickness away. It didn't save anyone.

Outside, I walked faster. The air had that after-storm smell—fresh and cold and light—but I couldn't calm down. They believed that God was going to take care of Abe, but I knew that doesn't always happen. Sometimes, bad things happened. Sometimes, no matter what you wanted, God did nothing. They could keep praying, but they'd never convince me that anyone or anything was listening.

When I got to Miriam's car, I called Lo, but no one picked up. Then Miriam called. Probably to tell me I wasn't going anywhere without her.

“Janine?”

“What?”

She sounded like she'd been crying. “You have to come back. Right now, J. Come back.”

“Why?”

It took her a minute to calm down. “After you ran out the door, Abe held up his hand. Then he nodded. And when I said your name, he smiled. Janine, Abe is going to be okay. The doctors are with him. Come back, so you can see for yourself. They are calling it a miracle.”