Believe Page 16

  I wasn’t so sure. “But my mother was with me right up to the end, I know she was. I heard her.” It had always been the one thing I was sure of. “She risked her life to save mine. I needed her. I still do.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. He told me to think back. I laughed—like I hadn’t done that every day of my life. “Maybe if you can accept your mother’s death, you’ll be able to move forward.”

  I didn’t see how this would help. It had been ten years. We couldn’t change what had happened. But still, I was willing. I followed him back into the room so I could lie back on the couch and close my eyes to search my shattered memory. “I remember holding my dad’s hand.” If it got too tough, I’d make my move for the door.

  “Good.”

  Then only flashes. “But that is all.”

  He talked to me in a low voice. His hands were smooth. He touched my scars the way I touched expensive silk. “Go back to that day. Where was your mother? Do you see her?”

  The last therapist hypnotized me. He took me into a tunnel and then out into the light of the synagogue. It terrified me, and I didn’t want to go back. When it came to the explosion, I didn’t want to remember any more than I do.

  Emma said, “When I want to remember something difficult, I try to remember something peaceful. I start with something I am sure of.”

  I wondered if she would still say this if she had fears to face. “But I have nothing.”

  Emma knew this wasn’t true. I had the memory of my father and the clouds. Our secret. I waited for her to tell Dave, but she didn’t. All she said was, “Go there, Janine. Clouds. Trees.”

  It took me a while to focus, but eventually, I found what I was looking for—the hotel room—the one in Israel. I knew it was ours, because I had pictures of this room. Two beds. One desk. The walls were stark white, except for a dark red stripe around the top of the wall.

  “Are you there?” Emma asked.

  “I am. I’m there. I can see the room.” I could remember my father standing at the sink; he was shaving. On the day he died, he probably let me smooth the shaving cream over his chin and cheeks. Lo told me he did that a lot. She said that the day at the Dead Sea, he’d told her that we had lots of little traditions: we stood at the sink together—every morning. Every night, he kissed me goodnight, as if I was a sleeping fairy-tale princess. On the weekend, he would drive me all the way to New York City to eat cheesecake.

  Emma asked, “Are you okay? What else can you remember?”

  I said, “I’m not sure.” The hotel room was one thing, but the synagogue … I didn’t want to go there. Even if I remembered everything, it proved nothing. It changed nothing.

  They were dead.

  I was here.

  Dave pushed me. “This will help you, Janine. Close your eyes and hold my hand. Pretend we are your parents.”

  I did it. Just to show him how wrong he was. I hoped for a flash, a glance, a hint—anything that felt normal. I wanted to know that my mother had been there. I wanted to believe that she hadn’t already deserted me.

  My left hand felt right. I remembered my father sitting there, holding my hand, patting my hand. She should have been on my right. But that hand was empty. No matter how hard Emma squeezed my hand now, in my memory, the hand sat on my lap.

  The next thing I knew, I could see the boy. I saw him walk in. I saw him stop in the aisle. When I was a little girl, I couldn’t know that there were people who were willing to die for a cause. Now I knew. I saw him look right at me. I saw the deadness in his eyes. He didn’t care that I was a child. He didn’t care that he was about to die. That, if everything went the way he envisioned, we all would.

  And then I felt the blast.

  I screamed like I was there. I tasted dust and fell to the ground. I begged for help, but today, my mom said nothing. My hands clenched into fists and burned like fire. It felt just like it did ten years ago, except now, when I screamed, when Dave held my hands, he saw no blood.

  My hands were fine.

  I did not hear my mother.

  She said nothing. She didn’t stay with me. She probably wasn’t anywhere near me. It made sense. If she’d been working, she would have been sitting somewhere else—to concentrate. Dave was telling the truth. I couldn’t have heard her, even if she’d still been alive.

  I breathed like I’d been running. “Now what do I do?”

  So I remembered—so what? Nothing was different. My hands were the same. The reporter from the retrospective would continue to believe I was wasting my life.

  Dave said, “Do you believe in coincidences?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  I sighed. I knew where this was going. “You think God brought us together.”

  “Twice.” He reached for my hands. “The first time, you needed me. Now, I need you.” Now he stared at my palms. “When I see your scars, I see the map of God.”

  I still didn’t know what he expected me to do. Ten years ago, I imagined my mother’s voice. Did I think I heard an angel? Or was I just doing what I had to do to stay alive?

  I turned to Emma. “What do you see?”

  She said, “I see hands that make things. I also see hands that are in pain.” She smoothed out her ugly dress. “I see hands that could help people, if you would only believe in yourself.”

  Dave said, “I believe.”

  Emma stood very still. “I do, too.”

  Something big had changed. “Can you take me home?” I asked him. “I have something I need to do.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  When people talked about being born again, they talked about epiphany—or seeing the light. Faith came upon them instantaneously. That’s what Dave said I gave him.

  A purpose.

  A mission.

  Hope.

  When Dave made me face the truth, that didn’t happen. I never felt a purpose, not even close. Dave and Emma were a long way from convincing me that I could help others. But I did feel something. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t magic—it couldn’t be magic—but in a way, it was just as powerful. It was an image I’d carried for ten years. Ugliness and beauty, all at once.

  You could call it love.

  Or strength.

  Or confidence.

  Whatever it was, I was willing. I was willing to hear more. I wanted to look for more. I was willing to look at everything in a very different way. For the first time, I was willing to ask “What if?”

  When I left Dave, I left with ideas.

  THIRTY-TWO

  This time when I got home, I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t in the mood to talk. This time, I couldn’t wait to start drawing.

  I had no doubts.

  In my head, I saw designs that I knew were authentically me. I saw an entire collection of clothes that reflected my view of the world as well as the world’s view of me.

  It might be the most superficial example of enlightenment ever realized, but this was who I was. No apologies necessary. Fashion was the way I expressed myself.

  And now I had faith.

  “Is anyone home?” I grabbed my sketchpad. My hands felt electric. My ideas couldn’t wait. Once I got them, I’d start sewing. I would work really hard, and finally, the world would see what I wanted my life to mean. As I drew, my ideas became clearer. I knew there was no way it wouldn’t blow Ms. Browning away. This portfolio was going to make her jaw drop. She was going to have no problem recommending me for Parsons. This portfolio made a statement. It said, “Here I am.” It said, “I am going to be big.”

  My own hypocrisy made me laugh. Up until this moment, I hated fame—the very thought of it made me ill. But now I knew that wasn’t exactly true. I wouldn’t mind being famous, if it was on my terms. If I was being honest, I’d admit I wanted to be seen for the work I did, not just the story.

  I kept drawing. I wanted to write my own story.

  Two hours later, my fingers were numb. I heard
Lo’s keys in the door.

  “You look different,” Lo said when she came to my room. “What happened?” I jumped off the floor and hugged her and then I hugged Sharon.

  “I’m inspired. I feel like I was hit by lightning.” I told them everything. About Brian. And Emma. And my memory. And that I was sorry. “I’m sorry I called Roxanne. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to Dave’s. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything the second it happened.” Then I went back to my sketchpad. I pushed it into her hands. “Look.”

  Sharon said, “Wow.” I’d sketched three very interesting shirts, a jacket with pants, and four very different dresses. The last one—the one that Emma had inspired—was amazing, if I said so myself. The lines were classic, but the detailing made it anything but.

  “I’m going to make it now,” I said. “With the material you bought.” I was determined to show Ms. Browning something before Easter break.

  Maybe we could still go look at colleges. At least one.

  I ran upstairs, got the half-finished dress, spread it out on the floor, and dismantled as much of it as I could. It took a long time. Fine-point scissors were not my favorite tool.

  Lo was confused. “What happened?”

  I kept working. “Today I realized I’m never going to be great at anything until I face my fears.”

  “Your fears?” Lo asked. She sounded skeptical.

  “Yes. Just like my mother said. I’m going to be brave. I’m going to make something that says something big about me.”

  I felt a little bit like a genius.

  I took the biggest pieces of fabric and began to pin it to the interfacing. I had to work slowly and carefully—I didn’t want to snag anything. Reworking fabric was tricky business.

  When the pins were in place, I took the time to iron out any new wrinkles. Then I walked upstairs to the machine.

  Dress-Form Annie’s lipstick had smeared, like she’d just gotten home from a great night out. She looked happy, but a little bit wild, which is how I felt, too, as I began to cut and sew. First, I made cap sleeves. Then a slightly deeper V at the neck. I added boning to give the bodice a defined structure and shape.

  It looked good. Better than good.

  Next came the skirt. I used every ounce of fabric to create volume. Then I pulled out an old crinoline I’d found at a secondhand store a few months ago. At the time, I’d thought it might look cool under a formal dress. But now I knew why I’d been drawn to it.

  I put the dress on Annie and stood back. It was getting there. It just needed some detailing. The authentic touch.

  I searched my basket of remnants for interesting swatches. The fabrics were all different. Some were smooth and silky—they made my palms tingle. Others were coarse. They reminded me of my scars.

  My hands.

  They had changed my life.

  I traced my hands onto a piece of cardstock and cut them out.

  I was inspired.

  “What if I cover this dress with hands?” When Lo looked confused, I ran upstairs for the dress, the swatches, and Annie. “What if I make a dress that says I am more than my hands?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lo warned me that a dress covered in hands might attract the wrong kind of attention. “Just relax for now. We can talk about it over break. Maybe we can take a trip … get some inspiration?” She thought a dress with hands would attract the kind of attention I tried to avoid. She thought I was acting a bit manic—even for me.

  That was okay. I expected her to doubt me. That’s what often happened when a real artist tried something new. “I’m tired of fighting it. I’m already exposed. No matter what I make or do or say, before I walk in the door of any college and program, they’ll already know who I am.” I traced my hand onto a coarse piece of denim, cut it out, and slapped it against the dress form. “I’m tired of waiting. They’ll have an opinion about me, good or bad. They’ll want to see my hands.”

  Lo and Sharon didn’t disagree. They couldn’t. They knew I’d lost my chance to make a true first impression a long time ago.

  This was a chance I had to take.

  What could be more authentically me than a dress covered in hands?

  I gave the cardboard hands to Sharon. “Trace as many as you can onto these fabrics.” Then I sharpened my best shears and handed them to Lo. “You get to cut.”

  Cutting hands out of silk was not a very easy task. I told Lo not to worry if she made a mistake. I joked, “Remember, they don’t have to be perfect.”

  After we had a nice-sized pile, I began to tack them by hand to the dress. I confessed that I did not go to school. They confessed that they covered for me. “We hoped you were with Miriam,” Sharon said. “But when we called looking for you, she sounded pretty upset.”

  I put down my needle and thread. “I tried to call her, but she doesn’t want to hear my side of the story.”

  Lo clenched the scissors. She stopped cutting. “She’s your best friend. She is suffering … in part, because of you. What you did … it was very thoughtless.”

  “You always take her side. If she’d just call me back, she’d understand why I didn’t go to the protest.” I went on, “Why is it all on me? Why aren’t you calling her out for using me to attract attention?”

  “Because she wanted to make our world better—that was all.” Lo’s face was long. “Her request had nothing to do with celebrity. She’s been your loyal friend for a very long time, and when she needed you, you ditched her.”

  I said nothing. Lo was right. I broke my promise. I let Miriam down. “If you’ll help me now, I’ll corner her tomorrow and apologize first thing.”

  She said, “You’ll be humble?”

  Humble was not what I was thinking, but I would have agreed to anything. “Yes,” I said, mostly to get her off my back. “I’ll be humble,” I said, even though I was feeling exactly the opposite. I was going to show the world that I was ready for the big time.

  I was going to show the world who I really was.

  They traced and cut. I finished reshaping the dress, and when that was done, I picked up a pile and start tacking the hands to the skirt. Every time I touched them, the fabric frayed. I liked it. “Don’t bother trimming the threads. I like them like that. It makes them look creepy and imperfect.” Almost like trees. “It makes you want to look.”

  We worked until all our hands cramped, a few minutes before Roxanne’s first installment of “The Power of Faith.”

  “Should we?” Sharon asked.

  The dress already looked awesome. I had no use for humility; there was nothing Roxanne could say that would surprise or hurt me. “I don’t see why not.”

  I turned it on. Roxanne thanked the regular anchors. Her bright red power suit showed a tad too much cleavage. But her hair was perfection—very Jackie O. Her pumps were kick-ass. She stood in front of a desk, and behind her was an extra-large computer screen. On cue, the camera panned back so we could focus less on her lipstick and more on the screen. She told us that what we were about to see would inspire or aggravate. It was a perfect story for the Easter/Passover season. A story about faith and miracles.

  Then she looked straight into the camera. “Faith challenges everyone,” she said. Big long pause.

  Sharon laughed. “You think?”

  Another camera shift. Roxanne turned her head so she was facing to the side, but looking forward. “It is the topic of our generation, the center of war and politics and everyday life.”

  Lo said, “I can’t disagree with that.”

  I continued to tack down hands until the dress weighed a ton. The whole time, I half-listened as Roxanne talked about how faith had permeated our culture. One football player regularly thanked God for helping him succeed. A straight-A student prayed before every test, even though her parents told her that God was too busy for such little things. She showed us a picture of an Iranian girl who risked her life by expressing her views on a blog.

  Roxanne promised that her first
guest would change the way we thought about prayer. (The whole time, the phone rang. It started, it stopped, then it started again. We ignored it.) I expected her to interview a minister. That would make sense. Or maybe an interfaith panel. People liked seeing some diversity on specials like this.

  Instead, when she was done with her intro, she queued up a homemade film.

  I dropped my needle. It was Brian in his wheelchair. At Dave’s house. First he sat in the chair and attempted to navigate a block of sidewalk. Then he worked out in rehab. Then he punched a wall. Over that image, Roxanne said, “There is nothing I can say to prepare you for what you are about to see.”

  Lo asked, “Is that?”

  “Just watch.”

  The movie ended. Brian emerged in his chair—in the studio. Then without warning, he stood up and walked. He pumped his fist and jumped up and down, just to show off. Lo said, “She’s right. I don’t believe it.” Sharon asked, “How long was he paralyzed?”

  “Two years,” Brian told Roxanne. “I spent two years in a wheelchair.” He tried to describe the moments he knew he was sick as well as the moment my hands began to work their magic.

  Roxanne’s eyes looked really surprised and beautiful. That gray shadow on the lid smudged into the crease for depth did great things for her. She asked her questions with increased earnestness: “What was it like being in a wheelchair?”

  “Terrible.”

  “What was the activity you missed most?”

  “Lacrosse. With my dad.”

  “What do you want to do first?”

  “First, I want to thank Janine Collins and Pastor David Armstrong.” Roxanne showed some footage of me holding Brian’s hand in front of my house, then the group of us praying at the hotel. The picture was fuzzy, our faces not too clear. The angle was bad. Lots of shadows. But it still looked like praying. Brian said, “When Janine Collins prayed with me, God heard my prayer. Either that, or she healed me.”