Believe (21 page)
Authors: Sarah Aronson
FORTY
On the bright side, my dress and I made the front page of the local section of the morning paper.
All the fingers blew toward the left. The skirt billowed. Lo asked me if I wanted to save the pictureâfor my portfolio. The caption said, “Historic Tree Removed. New Municipal Building Planned.”
I sat at the kitchen table, and Lo reached for a pink teapot commemorating the Queen of England's jubilee. On its side was written in loopy, dainty script: “Where there is tea, there is hope.”
“I thought this would be appropriate,” she said.
She didn't know Emma was dying. (For a moment, I wondered what pot she'd pull out if she knew I'd called Roxanne.)
I sipped my tea while Lo made breakfast, humming a little bit like Abe. In general, I was pretty confident I had done the right thing. Now I just wanted something to happen. So far this morning, my phone had been silent. No news about Emma. Nothing from Abe. Nothing from Miriam.
Lo made French toast. Usually, she saved that for a special occasion. “You and Miriam will get beyond this. Just be patient. Be calm and compassionate.”
I hated being patient. Compassion was something you had for lost kittens. “So, you don't think I'm the worst person in the world? You're not going to tell me I deserved all this?” I didn't just mean Miriam. I meant all of it.
She sat down opposite me, her hands on her mug. After ten years, she still wore her long hair pulled back. She still liked those long, flowy dresses that hide your figure. They never really looked goodâbut women wore them to be comfortable.
Her face looked older, but she was still the one who'd walked into my hospital room, determined to make me smile. “None of this is your fault. You got trapped in a game.” She put her hands under the table. She seemed very ill at ease. “Dave never should have dragged you into his mess.”
I agreed, but I also recognized that if he'd left me alone, I wouldn't have met Emma. She would be dying right now. “It wasn't all bad. Some of it was almost ⦔ I paused. I looked away. “Nice.”
Lo agreed almost solemnly. “It must have been exciting to think you could help those people, to think you could actually heal them, that your parents had died for a reason.” She paused. “How
did
you feel? What was that like?”
At first, it was just my eyes. They itched. Then my lip quivered. I stood up out of my chair, walked around the table, and stood in front of Lo. “It felt good,” I said.
It was hard to admit. But it was true. It felt good to think I could help people, that my parents hadn't died for nothing.
She stood up, too, and held my hand, and we left the kitchen to sit down on the couch. I leaned into her, and she sighed and opened up her arms. I put my head on the soft place above her breast and below her neck. My head fit perfectly there. It always had.
I stared out the window to the empty front lawn. “They believed in me. They thought I was special.” I swallowed hard. I couldn't look at Lo. “They liked me. They trusted me to help them.”
I rubbed my eyes and reached for a tissue. I needed to blow my nose. To my surprise, my face felt wet.
Lo smiled. “Janine. You're crying.”
At first, it wasn't much. But once it started, I couldn't stop. I cried the way a person who has been saving all her tears for ten years should cry. Tears turned into sobs, and my whole body shook. I laughed and cried some more, and it felt good. And honest. Lo said nothing more until her shirt was cold and damp and covered in snot, and I was quiet. “I don't think I have to tell you that there are many ways to do good work, no magic required.”
“I wanted to heal them,” I said. “I did. It felt so exciting to think that maybe my hands were powerful. That maybe a boy could learn to walk because of me, that maybe Abe had ⦔ Out loud, it sounded so stupid, but the truth remained: for those few hours when I thought I had healed Abe and Brian, when I sat in that prayer circle, when I made the clothes and remembered my dad, I was willing.
I believed, too.
I squeezed her arm. “Now I know I'm not special. My hands really are just ugly hands. My dresses are just okay. Maybe I really do need to face my fearâthat all these terrible things happened to me because ⦔ I didn't want to say it. “My own mother didn't love me.”
Lo shook her head. “Now, that is not true. Not remotely.” She said, “Your parents loved you.”
I wasn't so sure. “Then why did my mother want to leave us? And don't tell me it's complicated.”
Lo reached for the Book of Death, but then she stopped. I waited for her to grab a picture of my parents, but she didn't move. “First, let me tell you a story.”
I didn't need a storyâespecially one with some moral. I looked away, out the window, to the empty lawn and the quiet street.
“To make money for food, a father and his daughter performed in a carnival. The father held a pole, and the daughter stood on top of that pole. It was a trick that demanded a great deal of concentration.”
Lo and her yoga stories. They always started this way.
“Most people assumed that to make their trick work, they had to look out for each other, but the father explained that they didn't. The father's first responsibility was to himself.”
“That seems odd,” I interrupted. “What about the golden rule? You know, do unto others?”
Lo smiledâobviously she was the one who taught me that. “The man worried about his strength, his posture, and holding the pole as perfectly as he could. The daughter concentrated on her job, her strength, stepping steadily on her father's knee, then chest, then shoulders. They each stayed safe because they each had a separate responsibility.”
She opened the Book of Death to a page right before the end.
We have to make an effort.
We have to listen to our hearts.
We cannot miss the opportunity to do something spectacular.
It made sense. I understood. I wanted to make spectacular clothes.
Lo said, “Your mother thought that if she didn't take that incredible and important work opportunity in the Middle East, she couldn't be the best mother to you. I know this hurts to hear, but she couldn't be whole unless she took care of herself first. She had to do it, Janine, but I'm sure she would have come home in the end. I promise you. I knew my sister almost as well as I know myself. She loved you.”
I listened. I thought about it.
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe my mother loved me.
But no matter how much I twisted her words, it didn't ring true.
I said, “I think, more than anything, my mother wanted to be a famous reporter.” She was seduced by a big job with a lot of exciting perks. She chose that over me and my dad. This wasn't about responsibility. This wasn't sacrificing something important to do the right thing. It wasn't even about being whole or doing the right thing or love or even coming back. “My mother left us. She was selfish.”
And I had been acting just like her.
I told Lo everything. I told her that Emma was dying and that she ran away from home because she wanted to be left alone to make her own decisions about life and death. “I called Roxanne. I thought I could save her. I told her everything I knew about Emma, so she could find her parents and get Emma help. But now, I'm not so sure I did the right thingânot for her. I think I took everything she wanted away from her. And the worst part is, Emma doesn't know anything. They could be on their way.”
Lo grabbed her purse and bolted for the car. “If they get to her first, they'll treat her against her will. There won't be anything we can do.”
All the way there, I called the hotel, but Dave's line was busy. Lo kept her eyes on the road. “We may be too late.”
I begged her to drive faster. “I don't know if I can stop it, but I need to explain.”
FORTY-ONE
There were two police cars in front of the Hotel Bethlehem. There was also a news van. Roxanne stood outside the entrance talking into the camera, describing what happened inside, just moments before.
Already, there were gawkers.
Click, click, click, click, click.
“Dave Armstrong, pastor and well-known speaker, has been hiding an underage cancer patient against the instructions of her parents. After receiving an anonymous tip, we called the police and found her here. Her parents have been frantically searching for her for months.”
I thought I'd said no press. I thought we had a deal.
As Roxanne continued to tell the story of finding Emma's parents and telling them she knew where their daughter was, Dave walked out in handcuffs, flanked by police. One of them told him to walk as quickly as he could to the patrol car. The other hid his face with a pillowcase.
Just behind them, two officers walked with a woman and a man and Emma.
This wasn't what I thought it would look like.
I thought they would embrace her. I thought she would be relieved. The ending was supposed to be a happy one: parents and daughter reunited, daughter healed to live a long life, to tell the world how it was wrong to hide from your family and even more wrong to give up on life.
I wanted to tell her how important she was to meâhow all I wanted to do was heal herâit was the perfect happily ever after.
But this wasn't a story. It was my world. The camera was rolling.
Click, click, click.
Roxanne, of course, reported my arrival. “Janine,” someone shouted. “What do you know about this girl?”
I knew I only had a moment. I grabbed Emma and pulled her back into the hotel lobby. Her eyes were cold. She stood on the marble stairs so we could see eye to eye. “Why?”
“Because it was the only way I could help you. But trust me, I didn't ⦔
“You didn't what? Think about what would happen to me? Think about what I wanted?”
I begged her to forgive me. “I did this because you helped me. Because I want you to get better.” I told her that sometimes, the ends justified the means; sometimes someone had to take responsibility and do what needed to be done. Even though this was a big messâand I knew I should've done it differentlyârunning away had been wrong. Giving up had to be wrong. I said, “You need treatment. There isn't anyone hereâincluding youâwho believes you can get better any other way.”
I gave her the hamsa. “Take this,” I said. “So you know I'll always be there for you. So that when you're better ⦔
She threw it on the steps, and I heard it crack on the floor. I picked it up. The stone was glass. It now had a thin white line down its center.
Emma walked away, and I followed her outside. The cameras turned on usâI didn't care. I tried to shove the hamsa into her hand. “You have to take it. It represents luck. And healing.” I followed her all the way to the street and the car that was waiting for her. “Her name was Karen Friedman. She died after a suicide bomber blew us all up.”
Emma stood with her parents and stared at the cameras, but she wouldn't look at me. “Whatever happens next, I didn't want this. I should have been given a choice. You should have let me make that choice.”
Then she turned around and sat in the back of her parents' car.
Her mother shook my hand. “Thank you.”
I gave her the hamsa. “Please take it. It's for protection. I hope it gives Emma the healing hand she wanted.” Emma looked small in the back of the car. She looked scared. I said, “I hope someday she will forgive me. Even if she can't, I will be glad she's alive.”
She shook her head and finally looked at me. “It doesn't matter what happens next.” Her eyes glared at my hands and made them burn. “You had no right. I will never forgive you.” She slammed her door shut.
FORTY-TWO
On the way home, the phone didn't ring. We didn't talk. Every time Lo started to say something, I turned and looked out the window.
I didn't need a lecture. I knew what I did was wrong. But I couldn't imagine letting her die.
When we pulled into the driveway, Sharon stood on the grass. I ran past her, away from Lo, up the stairs to my room. I gathered up all my picturesâthe ones of my parents as well as the shots of me, Abe, Miriam, and Danâand put them in a drawer. Then I folded up my remnants and put them away, too. I shoved Annie into the closet. I covered the sewing machine with an old throw. I picked up the retrospective and ripped it to shreds.
Slow and heavy steps approached. Sharon said nothing about the mess. “Roxanne called.” Emma was on her way to a hospital in Philadelphia. Her surgery was scheduled for first thing Monday morning. “It was the right thing to do,” she said. “Your heart was in the right place.” Hearing her say it didn't help.
I lay on my bed. There were clouds in the sky. One looked like an eagle. I didn't cry. Instead, I decided to walk to the farm.
All the equipment was gone. No one stood outside the nursing home. The streets were quiet. Already, I couldn't remember what it had looked like when there was a farm and a tree and my friends.
Now the land was clear. The vegetables were all gone. The tree was a stump. It was almost level with the ground.
I turned around and went home. I wanted to be close to the phone. Emma would be in surgery soon.
I tried to pray. I thought good thoughts. I almost wrote Emma a letter, but the only thing I could think to say was, “I'm sorry,” and “I hope you get better.”
I called the hospital, but no surprise, her parents wouldn't take my call. The nurse explained that it wasn't personal. Emma's family had left a message to tell all well-wishers that they would release a statement when the time was right. In the meantime, no visitors. No friends.
What felt strange (even though I shouldn't have been surprised): Dave wouldn't answer my calls either. And Miriam and Abe were totally AWOL. Her mother told me they were taking the week to look at collegesâa last-minute decisionânothing personal. She rambled for a while. She thought I knew.
On the third day with no news, four boxes from Israel showed up on my doorstep. Three were addressed to me. One was for Lo. I brought them one by one to my room. They were heavy.
I decided to get it over with.
In the first box, I found my mom's jewelry and, wrapped in bubble wrap, a small glazed sculpture of a girl sitting on a stool with her legs crossed. She looked like she was thinking about something important. My mother's initials were carved into the bottom.
She also had a pretty impressive button collection. Mostly political things and ribbons for different causes. Some with those empowering sayings people like to post to pump themselves up.
Wherever you go, go with all your heart.
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
Couldn't disagree with that one.
In the second box, I found my dad's files. Photograph after photograph from his papers in New Jersey and Pennsylvania as well as national magazines. Some of them were boring, but some made me pause. Especially the faces.
There were also pictures of us. One was in a frame decorated by a few remaining stale Cheerios. There were glue marks where some of the Cheerios and decorations had disintegrated or fallen off.
Pretty soon, my entire floor was covered with ten years of bubble wrap, newspaper, and memories.
Lo walked up the stairs with some archive boxes and empty scrapbooks. She picked up some of the photos and sat in the window seat to look at them. She didn't ask about the sewing machine. Or Annie. Or where my fabric was. Later, she didn't make a single sarcastic comment when, lucky for me, the president made a major announcement about the economy, and Emma's story was reduced to a few words on the endless news crawl at the bottom of the screen. That happened sometimes. Sometimes your story broke at the right time. Sometimes it happened when there was something actually newsworthy to report. If that happened, it was forgotten.
At the end of the day, we sat in my room and talked.
Lo couldn't believe that my grandparents had collected so many clippings. Every story my mother ever wrote; every picture my father ever took. In the bottom of the second box we found an article about my mother's assignment and a notice announcing the event at the synagogue. It was circled in red pen. I said, “I wonder if they were planning to go see us?”
The house was really quiet. I looked up at the skylight. There was nothing to see. No moon. No stars. Just black sky. “Should I have kept my mouth shut? Let Emma die?”
Lo looked at the clippings all over the floor. We heard the doorbell ring, then the door slam. It was Sharon. “Okay to come up?” she yelled.
“Okay,” Lo called back. Then she got up from the window and sat on the floor next to me. “I think there will be days when you'll regret what you did.” (I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about Emma.) “But there will also be days when you can be proud that you did what you thought was right, even though it would have been easier to do nothing.”
Something good must have happened, because when Sharon walked up the steps, I didn't recognize her. Usually, her footsteps were tired. Today they were quick.
She took her seat in the window. Everyone liked the window seat. It was comfortable and cozy at once.
“We need to talk to you,” Lo said. They had an important announcement to make.
“Are you moving in?” I guessed.
They smiled. “Yes. If it's okay with you.”
I said, “Of course it is,” and “Oh my God,” and “I'm so happy.” As they hugged each other and me, I wondered if they had to do this, if they felt that they needed each other close to take care of me.
Then she looked aroundâat the empty boxes and memorabilia. “You guys have been busy.”
I said, “We have one box to go. We can do it now. Or later. I'm not in a rush.”
Lo said, “Let's do it now.”
Together, the three of us opened the last box. This one looked like it was meant for Lo. It was filled with old clothes. A bunch of T-shirts with Hebrew lettering. Lo gave the orange one to me. “I think I stole that one out of your mom's closet.” There were also pictures of both Mom and Lo when they were in the army. In most of the pictures, they stood to attention, but some were more casual. I found one picture of Lo cuddled up with a boy, which sent everyone into fits of giggles. She told Sharon, “That's Eitan.” I was confused. Lo told me, “I almost married him. In a funny way, he was a lot like Abe. A good friend. But in the end, nothing more.”
In the press, a week is an eternity. In high school, it's even longer. When I went back to school, everything seemed different. There were no reporters. Ms. Browning didn't say anything about my portfolio. No one asked me about Brian. I thought that was a good thing. A step in the right direction.
At the end of the day, I waited for Miriam at her locker. For her, time had changed nothing. She didn't want to talk. “You need to leave me alone,” she said. “A lot has happened.” We didn't need to make a list. We both knew what she was talking about. “Being friends with youâit's never been easy. You say you don't want to be famous, but if anyone everâfor one split secondâforgets who you are and what you lived throughâyou make sure they remember.”
My head spun. That was not what I was expecting. “I'm sorry, Miriam. Please. I'll change. I'm clueless. I need my tripod. I do want privacy. This is Samantha's fault. I think she's the one who leaked those photos of me.”
She laughed. “It isn't
your
tripod. It's
ours
. It
was
ours.” She grabbed her stuff. “And don't blame Samantha. She is a good friend. You should have given her a chance. I know for a fact she had nothing to do with those photos for the retrospective.”
That got me. “How do you know?”
She dropped her arms and looked me straight in the eye, so I knew she was serious. “Because I was the one who gave them the pictures.”
I shook my head. “No you didn't.”
She said, “A few weeks ago, that reporter showed up at my house, and she showed me what she was going to print about you. She said you were wasting your life; you were a disappointment to the world. She said that after being saved from the rubble, you owed it to the people who died to be a better person.”
“It was a ploy,” I said. “To get you to talk.”
“And what if it was? If she was going to write an article about you, I wanted it to really be about youâthe real you. The way she talked about youâshe didn't know you.” She looked tiredâlike she was explaining something easy to a child. “Maybe she was religious. Maybe she admired your parents. In any case, I gave her the pictures. I told her who you really were. A great friend. I told her that you were totally there for me and Abe.” She paused, took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell the world that you were more than a survivor and that someday, the world would hear more from youâwhen you were ready. I wanted everyone to know that we don't care whether you're famous or not. You lost your parents. You were injured. I wanted that woman to understand that you didn't deserve what she was saying.”
“You know me.”
She slammed her locker shut. “I wanted everyone to know you. That's why I did what I did. But since, then, I've been thinking. I think I said all that, even though the truth was, you have never been that great a friend. What I said was as unreal as what she was going to write. I described the friend I want you to be.”
I said, “I can be her.”
Miriam turned to go. “I hope so.”
