Believe (22 page)

FORTY-THREE

When I got home, I called the hospital for what felt like the fiftieth time—still, they wouldn't tell me. I called Dave—but he still wasn't picking up my calls either. CNN said he'd been released on his own recognizance.

So I called Roxanne. No matter what I did, she'd always pick up the phone. “Is she recovering?” I asked.

Roxanne sounded tired. Morose. I could hear a lot of noise in the background. People talking. Phones ringing. She told me she was putting me on hold so she could find a quiet place to talk to me.

Sappy music played. Then a voice: “Next week, be sure to watch Roxanne Wheeler as she tackles …”

“Janine. I'm sorry.” Now I could hear her better. She still sounded upset.

“It's okay. I can stand being on hold.”

That made her sigh. “No. It's not that. I thought you knew. I assumed Armstrong had called you.”

“Knew what?”

Roxanne told me to sit down. I said, “She had the bone marrow transplant. Right? She should be in recovery. She should be getting stronger.”

“That's not exactly true.”

Bone marrow transplants were complicated things. Emma had been steadily improving until she contracted an infection. It was pretty common, but in this case, not good. Emma wasn't strong. She got weaker and weaker, so that the doctors had no choice. They induced a coma. Roxanne made sure to tell me that Emma's parents didn't blame me. She said, “There's no way to predict things like this.”

I was confused. “What do you mean, I'm not to blame?”

Roxanne said, “If she dies.” There was silence for a long time. “They are going to remove life support. She is very weak.”

I asked, “Can I see her?”

Roxanne didn't think that was a good idea. “There is nothing more you can do. You don't need to come in. And forget about that exclusive—it won't be necessary after all.” And then she hung up.

It might not be “necessary” for her, but right now, it absolutely was for me. I asked Lo, “Can you give me a lift to the bus?”

“What are you up to?” she asked.

When I told her, she wasn't happy. But she wouldn't stand in my way either. “Get in the car. I'll give you a ride.”

I had something to say.

FORTY-FOUR

Roxanne Wheeler had one excellent poker face. When I walked into her office, she looked like she wasn't expecting me. Like she didn't know her little game of chicken would work like a charm, like she didn't think I was capable of getting myself down the Blue Route to Philadelphia.

“You're just like your dad.”

“You knew my dad?” I wondered what she knew—what I could have known all these years.

She must have realized what this sounded like, because her voice got softer and kinder. “Right after I graduated, I interned for his magazine. When he walked into the room … everyone stopped and paid attention.” She patted my shoulder. “He was bigger than life. A great, great man. His death was such a tragedy.”

I asked her to tell me more about him—if he was a good boss or a hard ass, but her internship was short and that's all she had to say. She asked, “So what do you want? I told you …”

I told her not to bother pretending she didn't want me to show up. “I know what you said, but I need to make a statement.” She didn't blink. I straightened out my shirt and skirt. “Are you game?”

She pulled out a notepad, and only then did I see what looked to me like the tiniest Cheshire-cat, snake-in-the-grass smile. “Of course I'm game. But first, can I send you to makeup? No offense.” She sighed. “You'll thank me. The lights. They're harsh. This isn't high school.”

She sent a quick text, then led me to a beauty parlor chair in front of a large mirror. The room was bright, and I looked washed-out. A man with long black hair pulled into a ponytail appeared. In his white jacket, and wielding various ominous-looking metal instruments, he looked like he was ready to deliver twins.

“Tommy, this is Janine. We're going to do a one-on-one in the red chairs,” she told him.

Under any other circumstances, I would have complained. The make up was thick. My eyes looked too big. I was wearing blue, and this eye shadow was too green. “Trust me,” he said. “Can I play with your hair?” Before I said yes, he whipped out a straightening iron and gave me a sleek look—the kind that a lot of TV stars liked. “You know, you would look awesome with a short blunt cut.”

When I was ready, Roxanne led me back to the studio. She clipped a microphone to my lapel and barked some orders to the camera and sound people. Then she gave me a few pointers. “Just speak normally. When you're talking, look at me. The cameras will do their job. Try to be as natural as possible. If you mess up, we can always do a second take.”

The cameraman raised his hand, and a huge light shined in my face. A man in jeans and a T-shirt said, “We're taping.”

Roxanne smiled at the camera. “I am here today with Janine Collins, the Pennsylvania girl known as the Soul Survivor. As you know, ten years ago Janine was the sole survivor of a synagogue bombing that took almost seventy lives. Just in the past two weeks, she has been in the news for presumably healing two young men, but as we all know, one of them turned out to be a fraud.” She nodded at me, and I tried to look relaxed. “Janine, tell us. You have been in the public eye for the last ten years. Tell me what that's like. How has your life been changed by the cameras?”

I cleared my throat.

“As you said, I was a survivor of a bombing. In that bombing, my parents died and my hands were badly injured. I spent more than a year in a hospital. People from all over the world sent me money and gifts and good wishes. And for that, I am grateful.”

Roxanne started to ask another question, but I shook my head and focused on the camera.

“Over the years, some of you have wondered if there was a reason this happened to me. Some of you thought that because this happened in Israel, my hands might be a symbol of something more. I don't blame you. The magazines and newspapers and broadcasts that have followed me kept those rumors and my story alive. So did Dave Armstrong, the man who first found me.”

I took a deep breath. I knew the words. I just had to say them.

“When people have asked me about God, I've always said the same thing: I don't believe.”

This was harder than I thought it would be. “I felt this way because I was bitter and angry. For a really long time, I felt used, maybe even persecuted. I wanted to be left alone. I didn't think that I could care about a God that would sit back and watch my parents—and so many other people—die. I didn't understand why anyone else would either.”

It never made sense.

It still didn't. Not really.

“But then my friend was hit by a car, and I met people facing death and illness and hardship, and all of them—and I mean every single one of them—still believe. Not just that—they are grateful for what they have.”

Roxanne raised her hand, one finger up, like she wanted to say something. Or maybe she was flipping me the bird.

I didn't wait to find out.

“You've heard about one of them. She was a girl who believed that faith would save her. She was so determined to stay out of the hospital that she hid from her family. When she told me this, I couldn't accept it. I didn't understand. I wanted to help her—I wanted to be what everyone had told me I was—a healer. So I betrayed her confidence.”

This was so hard.

But it felt right.

“Even though she asked me not to, I told her family where she was. Maybe you saw it on TV. They brought her to the hospital, gave her the transplant she didn't want, and now she's in a coma.” I swallowed hard. “She could die—because of me.”

Even though she knew about Emma's condition, Roxanne acted surprised. “Is there no hope?”

I said, “Of course there's hope—ask Dave Armstrong. There is always hope, but she's in trouble because I thought I knew what was best. I forgot. I am not a healer.” I stood up. “Do you hear me? I am not a healer. My hands are just hands.”

Roxanne's face stayed still. She held out her arm and motioned me to sit down. “If she dies, will you feel responsible? Do you think Dave Armstrong should be prosecuted?”

I stared straight into the camera. My palms were burning, and all I wanted to do was rub them together hard. “I think we should pray. Pray for hope and faith. I don't care what religion you are or even if you don't really believe anything at all. I'm just asking you to think about her. Believe for her.”

I took off the microphone. I smiled at Roxanne. I was pretty pleased with myself. “So, when are you going to air this?”

She looked at the cameraman, then at me—part annoyed, part shocked, part amused. “This isn't a church, Janine. You can't come here and make a confession and expect us to play it. Did you really think you have that kind of authority?” She told him to give me the disc, if I wanted it—for a souvenir. “I hate to disappoint you, but we can't run this. This is a news station. If you want forgiveness—or redemption—go to church. Or temple. Over here, our job is to report news. I thought you knew that.” She told me to go home. “What you just said … no one wants to hear that.”

FORTY-FIVE

As it turns out, even if the world stops caring about you, it does not stop turning. The next day, I took Annie out of the closet. I wiped off her makeup. I rethreaded my machine and made myself a brand-new dress. There was nothing else I could imagine doing.

It had short sleeves, a scoop neck, and a cinched waist—pretty standard for what they were showing in the stores—pretty much what most of my friends are wearing. For fun, I mixed a few fabrics against the grain. The effect was interesting, and yes, it was cute—really cute. Ms. Browning said she was happy to see me taking my time. She thought this dress looked great. Lo said she'd wear it in a heartbeat.

“I'm not sure that's a good sign,” I joked, but when I wore it, I caught Dan checking me out. It was our “nothing is mutual” rule in action. The second I seemed over him, he missed me.

That's how things continued until the end of the school year.

Dan stared.

I dressed up.

The phone did not ring. We were beginning to think my story might finally have run out of gas, when Sharon told Lo to turn on the TV. Roxanne was scheduled to talk to Dave.

These days, no thanks to me, Roxanne had a regular spot at the evening show table. Some of her recent reports included: The upcoming heat and how to stay cool. Our local congressman and his fight for more jobs. The pros and cons of casinos. Lately, I thought she might still be happier doing her own thing.

But tonight was big. Tonight she was interviewing Dave.

He looked handsome in his suit. Emma's parents looked surprisingly good, too. They reported that even though Emma was still in a deep coma, there was so much reason for hope. The teddy bears and gifts and donations were greatly appreciated. They had every reason to believe that she would recover—they just couldn't say when.

I had a bad feeling about this.

But there was also good news. Dave told Roxanne that Brian's mother had been arrested for fraud; the district attorney and Emma's parents had decided not to prosecute him for kidnapping. He was very grateful for this. “Very soon, we will resume our mission.” He smiled and put his hands together, palm to palm. He was good at this. He really knew how to look pious. He said, “Emma's faith is such a source of inspiration. Even in a coma, she has taught me many things.”

Her mother seemed unnaturally happy about the situation. “Yesterday, she was visited by thirty-two people. Every single person who visited her said they felt euphoric—like they were touching a living, breathing angel. You could see it in their faces, and in hers. They came in feeling sad and low, but they left enlightened. Isn't that a miracle?”

They never said “healed,” but they talked about Emma like she was no longer a living girl, like she didn't have the right to open her eyes and find her own story. They talked about her the way they used to talk about me, but they didn't mention me. Not once. No doubt, this was intentional.

Dave had a new story.

Of course, since they didn't mention me, they also didn't mention Mom's hamsa—I didn't expect them to—but somehow I sensed it was there.

I went back to the kitchen to drink tea with Lo and Sharon. I waited for the phone to ring—for someone to ask for a comment—but the house stayed quiet. “Do you think it's over? Do you think Dave will never talk about me again?”

Lo couldn't be sure, but she thought Emma's story wouldn't last forever. “I think we should just be grateful it's quiet,” Lo said. She said Emma's situation was sad. It was terrible that Dave and her parents would use her this way.

I said, “People need to believe in something.” That was one of the things I was sure of.

What I wasn't sure of is how I felt about it.

I asked Lo and Sharon, “Do you think I should have taken the opportunity to say something more to the world?” The truth was, I'd been so determined to disappear. Now that I had what I thought I wanted—freedom and anonymity—I felt more and more let down.

For the first time, no one was talking about me. No one cared what I thought. There were no reporters at my door. The believers were gone. No one cared that I survived the bombing, and maybe they wouldn't ever again.

“I blew it. I really blew it. I had a chance to do something spectacular, and all I did was make a mess.”

They wouldn't say.

There wasn't anything they could say.

But I still wanted to believe that something good had come of all this. “I just hope Emma made peace with her parents. I hope they listened to her and that maybe she even agreed to the transplant. I hope that some day, when she wakes up—if she wakes up—she will understand why I did what I did.”

I expected Lo to assure me that I couldn't have known what would happen, that I was not to blame, not at fault, but instead, she picked up the Dead Sea photo. I wondered if, for her, my parents were still a happy, devoted couple.

I wondered what her last memory of them was.

“Tell me the truth. What did you talk about when you saw my mom at the Dead Sea?”

She said, “I wanted to leave home. Your mother wanted to take the job. We talked about every possible scenario. You do know things were tense back then.”

“You mean because of my mom, or because you were gay? My grandparents were that closed-minded? You couldn't get them to accept you?”

She sighed in a sad way. “This is not about my being a lesbian, although that wasn't exactly an easy thing to talk to them about.” For a second, she almost smiled. “Janine, your grandfather can be opinionated, but I told you—he was never a religious zealot. It was just a fight between two stubborn people.” When I looked confused, she tried to explain. “He thought he knew better. He hated feeling out of control. He had ideas about family and marriage that didn't exactly work out. But he had to have figured he had years to make it right.” She said, “And then your mom died, and there was nothing he could say or do. It must have been terrible for them. To think their daughter died not knowing that he still loved her.”

I thought about that. “That's terrible.”

Lo nodded. “He lost a lot when your mom left. I wish they could have talked.” She was sure they would have. “But then it was too late. They missed their chance.”

She walked across the room and retrieved her favorite old photo album. She stared at a picture of the family—two girls in high-collared blouses and long skirts. My grandfather wore a suit. Everyone looked serious. “You need to know them. He is a good man. In his spare time, I think he still writes poems. But he is also a driven man. Strong but quiet—and extremely private. Living in Israel was his dream because he believed in a world that served the community first. With him, there was no such thing as ego. The individual always came second.”

“A little like Emma?”

She pushed the hair off my face. “Just like Emma.”

I wanted to hug her, but she wouldn't let go of the album. “If you want me to know them, why don't we visit?” I reminded her of the father and daughter in the story she told me. I said, “The way I see it, they had to stick together.”

I closed my eyes, and from somewhere deep in my memory, I heard my parents fighting. I was in my bed, hugging my raggedy green blanket late at night. I heard terrible, ugly words about love and hate and work and me. I heard my name over and over again. The next thing I remembered, Dave Armstrong was lifting up the final rock. The pressure on my hands disappeared. He was in awe—amazed, I guess, that I was really, truly alive. Even though I was stiff and sore and mangled, I reached up to him and opened my hands to the light and the smiling faces and excruciating pain.

For a moment, I thought I saw my mother's face. But it wasn't her. The face that suddenly came into focus was never hers. Now I realized that the face I always saw, the face that comforted me when I was scared, was Lo's.

She said, “Your mother was not the first person to seek fame and a legacy. But then she died, and someone had to think about you. Someone had to decide what to do. Someone had to be …”

A parent. My parent. My mom. I said, “I'm so glad it was you.”

She smiled. “I love you.”

I nodded. “I love you too.” I looked at a picture of her, my mom, and my grandparents. “It's not too late for us.”

“Maybe.” She looked sad. “When I decided to bring you here, your grandparents were hurt. And mad. And in mourning. They were mad at me. I was mad at them. I wanted them to live here. To help me. Back then, I wanted to be a lawyer.” She and Sharon held hands. “You need to know, it took a long time just to get to the point we're at now. We argued over everything. We argued about where to raise you … and whether to destroy your mother's last journal. They wanted to erase the past. But I knew you would handle it. I knew it then, and I know it now. Nothing changes when we hide. Everything works out when we are honest with each other.”

Before she could start lecturing about practice or contradictions or humility, I ran up the stairs to my room for the Book of Death. “This is yours,” I said, handing it back to Lo. “Do you want it? I think it's done its job.”

Lo turned to the back of the book, two pages before the end. It was a page I'd skimmed in a rage. My black magic marker made it hard to read.

Before they go back, we are going to do what I should have done—what Martin wanted to do—a long time ago. I am going to call my father. I am going to forgive him and tell him about my life, my marriage, and Janine. He needs to see us. He needs to know Janine. We need to make peace.

I need it too.

They will go, but I will stay. This land is too important to me. It is more than a job—it is in my gut. It is something I have to do. Someday, J will understand. Someday, when she is a little bit older, I will sit down and tell her everything and she will be proud. This is our homeland. My father was right. I need to do the right thing. Someone needs to step up and take a stand.

Lo brought out the box that was addressed to her. It was still unopened.

For every old picture I found, Lo told me a story about my mom and my grandparents. They weren't all bad stories either—my grandfather was a lot more than a tyrant. I said, “He might not have been the best father, but maybe he could become a better grandfather.”

She said, “That would be really nice.”

At the bottom of the box I found a whole stack of high-school history papers. They are all about politics, women's rights, Anwar Sadat, and injustice. Held together by a rubber band were her Jewish studies papers.

She didn't have a computer, so most of them were written by hand with original handmade covers. I peeked at the corner. Leora Friedman. “Wait a minute. These are yours?”

Lo shrugged. “Your mom wasn't the only activist in the house.”

I pulled out a blue-and-white book. It was called
Leora's Book of Prayers
. “Do you mind if I open it?”

We paged through it together. There was a Jewish prayer for just about everything—meals, bread, the first day of school, the first time for anything. Toward the back, I found the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead.

Her face looked the same way it did when she saw the hamsa. “I made this book when I was a little younger than you are now.”

On the next page, there was a big heading: My prayer for peace. Underneath the title, I couldn't believe it—she had traced her hand. The prayer was written all over the hand.

“Lo, is this yours, too?”

“Yes,” she said. “It's mine.”

It was a pretty nice hand, but like most hands, it wasn't perfect. The little finger curved to the side, and the knuckles on the second and third bulged. I reminded Lo what my grandmother told me. “My mom had this dream. About people holding hands. That's why they gave her the hamsa.”

She said, “I remember. We used to talk about that image. Like one big long chain. Or maybe a circle.” She smiled. “We all had that dream. When we go back to Israel, I bet you will have it, too.”