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  “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 to
ok 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.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  For a moment, I felt safe. I relaxed. I didn’t think. I let him tell me about family and home and God, and I didn’t get anxious. I trusted him. I didn’t look for reporters or cameras.

  That was not smart.

  “Do you promise me this isn’t about publicity? When he flinched, I paused. “Why did you take the job here?” I stood back and looked him straight in the eyes. “You know, I’ve never believed in coincidences either.”

  Dave Armstrong had this way of looking guilty and innocent at the same time. “No, it wasn’t a coincidence. I wanted to come here, during this year, during this time. I had a hunch that something amazing might happen if I did—there was something magical about this date. So I contacted the college. I arranged for my own funding. I wanted to see what would happen.”

  He planned this. But that didn’t make sense. “But you couldn’t have predicted what would happen with Abe. Or Brian.”

  “I don’t have to predict,” he said. “I trust.”

  I nodded. Trust. It wasn’t something I was feeling at the moment. “Or maybe donations were down? Maybe you felt like your star was fading?”

  He blushed. I was right. Dave Armstrong needed publicity. He was afraid of no longer being in the news. He liked being well-known.

  Guilty.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Before I met you, I had a great life. A happy life. Although I have to admit, I was a bit of a blowhard.” He smiled. Innocent. “I made a good salary and had many friends. If I wasn’t the most influential scholar in the world, I was at least satisfied with my situation.”

  Emma said, “And then fate brought you to Jerusalem.”

  He continued, “I went there to find a new angle for a book I’d been wrestling with. I tried to get into that synagogue, but they closed the door in my face. It turned out to be the most profound rejection of my life. I was close enough to feel the bomb. Surrounded by death, I heard God’s voice, and then I heard yours. I changed. And I did good work. I helped people. Tell me you can appreciate that much. Tell me you understand why I had to come here—why I had to get myself back in the public eye.”

  I understood, even though I hated it. “Unfortunately, this isn’t the life I want.”

  He held me by the shoulders. “Unfortunately, I can’t leave you out of it. Your story is my story. When I decided to come here, I prayed that you would talk to me.” He looked up at the ceiling fan. “And you did.”

  It was just too convenient. “Let’s just say—for argument’s sake—that I did heal Abe and Brian. What if it never happens again?”

  Emma said, “Hope is never cruel. Hope is how we get through the day.”

  Dave looked at her the way I imagined a father would. Then he turned back to me. “It’s true. It’s nothing you should be afraid of.”

  I wasn’t afraid. “You’re making me sound selfish. Like I’m holding something back, when you’re the one using me.”

  Emma said, “But look what you did.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m telling you. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t save anyone.”

  Dave told me that miracles never seem logical or believable. “What happened to you when you touched Abe and Brian? Think hard. Did you feel a light? A sense of destiny?”

  I couldn’t tell him. “I wouldn’t call it a light. Or destiny. More like fear.” I told them about the chase and the church and the sound Abe made when the car hit him. “I thought Abe was dead. I thought I had killed him.”

  Emma said, “You must have been terrified. That sounds like the worst nightmare.”

  Every time I had doubts about Dave, Emma said something that made it sound like I could trust them. “I was out of my mind. We had just left the cemetery. It felt like my entire life was surrounded by death.” It might have been the most stupid thing I’d ever done, but in that moment, I decided to trust them, to tell them the whole story. “So I held his hands.”

  “Nothing else?”

  I hesitated.

  Emma looked at me. “What happened?”

  I shook my head. “It was nothing. Just scary. Just like the synagogue.”

  Dave nodded. “You heard her, didn’t you? Just like before.” He pressed me until I admitted it.

  “Yes. I heard my mother’s voice. But it wasn’t anything like the first time. This time, I was hallucinating. She was dead.” When he looked confused, I said, “This time, it was more like hearing a recording. The same words. The same sounds.” I faced the flat-screen TV. Now that I’d told them, I felt so much better. “Lo thinks it’s my PTSD.”

  Emma thought that was shortsighted. “Or it was an angel.”

  I cringed. Dave wrote something in a notebook. “Did you hear her again when you held hands with Brian?”

  “No. That’s the thing. I didn’t.” When Emma looked disappointed, I said, “But I didn’t know Brian.” There were so many people. I’d just wanted to get inside the house. “I was angry—not scared. Maybe I missed something.”

  Dave said, “You miss your mother.”

  “Of course I do.” I got up. I needed some space. I walked to the window, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the balcony. I didn’t want to tell him any more.

  He followed me. Pointed to the Moravian Church. “You know, the founder of the Moravians was burned for his heresies. Because he believed.”

  I looked back at the room and Emma. There was no way out of this conversation.

  It was so ironic. If he had saved my mother, neither one of us would be where we were right now. I might not have ever met Abe. Maybe we would have moved to New York
. It wouldn’t be odd to hear her voice. Dave might have gone back to being a professor.

  I said, “She should have lived.”

  He agreed. “I wish she had. In her own way, she might have changed the world. She was a brave woman. She had a compelling voice. If you think about it, we wanted the same things.”

  “No. I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. What I mean: she was alive. Don’t you remember? I told you to find her. I told you that she talked to me.”

  THIRTY

  I never believed in conspiracies, but I often wondered if on that day, he had realized what was happening—what he was setting in motion. I knew it was a cynical way to think, but the facts spoke for themselves. In saving me and only me, he helped create a perfect headline and story: One survivor. An American. A child. In a land that people were willing to die for. He said, “Are you saying …” Then he paused. He leaned against the railing. The sun was bright behind him. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been by ourselves. Now that we are, is there something you want to ask me?”

  I had always wondered if that was why they stopped looking. Did she die? Or did they realize that they had their story—and it was a good one. Did they know my story would become a source of hope in a time when that kind of thing was in really short supply? “Is that why you didn’t go back?” I asked. “You understood politics. You knew what was unfolding. Did you believe that one survivor was better than two?”

  For a moment, I thought he might cry. But then he put his hands on my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. I leaned toward the door; he wouldn’t let me go. “To live all these years with these fears. I’m so sorry. No wonder you’ve only begun to realize faith.” As the wind picked up, he embraced me. “Janine, I’m absolutely positive your mother was already dead when you heard her voice. If there had been any chance of finding her—or anyone else—alive, we would have gotten them. I never would have left her to die.”