Believe Page 19

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  People said, what comes around goes around.

  They didn’t know what they were talking about.

  Instead of taking the elevator downstairs, I went to her room. Emma was sitting in bed. I realized that in one way, I was as guilty as Dave. I saw only what I wanted to see.

  Now it was so obvious.

  Her arms were thin. Her knees stuck out. She was dying. It probably took every ounce of energy just to get through the day.

  “I feel stupid,” we said at exactly the same time, but neither of us smiled. This wasn’t funny. Not for her, not for me. I would never understand anyone being willing to die without a fight.

  She stared straight ahead. “Your hair falls out. You puke all day. You can’t get out of bed—even to go to the bathroom. I’m not going to be a martyr.”

  It sounded terrible. “But lots of people get better. There’s a girl from my school who—”

  “And just as many don’t.” She showed me a picture of herself before chemo. She was chubby. Healthy. Smiling. “My strain of leukemia is particularly—how do they put it—aggressive. Best-case scenario was pretty much off the table.”

  She was not going to convince me that what she was doing was the right way to go about things. “What about your parents?”

  She looked sad. “I miss them, but if I go home, they will make me go back to the hospital. They located a match.”

  “For what?”

  “Bone marrow.”

  I begged her to reconsider. I’d seen the PSAs about bone marrow transplants. They saved lives. They worked real miracles. “Don’t you miss your friends? Don’t you want to live?”

  Her posture stiffened. “Yes, I want to live, but no, I do not miss being the spunky sick girl that people have to visit to feel less guilty about their own good luck. I don’t want to risk spending the rest of my life in a bed. If I can just stay with Dave until I’m eighteen—then I can go home. My parents won’t be able to force me to do anything.”

  I looked at the picture next to her bed. A smiling threesome, not that different from mine. But these parents were alive. They loved her. They wanted her to live. Her mother should not have to read a Book of Death to know how her daughter was feeling at the end of her life.

  I held up my hands and let her see every line, every scar, ever disfigurement. I said, “Do you still believe I can help you? Do you want to try?”

  At first, she didn’t move. She didn’t have to tell me—she was scared. She wanted me to try. She still wanted to believe. She put her hands on mine, and we closed our eyes. This time, I knew what to do. I pictured her getting stronger. I asked God—whoever he or she or it was—to pay attention.

  I prayed. I spoke directly to God. If there were any justice at all in this world, she would get better. This girl deserved to be healthy. She was good. She helped other people. “Make her better. Let her live.” I scrunched my eyes tight. And then I listened. I waited. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice. I knew—if there were any hope of this working—that that was what had to happen. I had to feel the way I felt when Abe began to breathe. I tried to conjure up optimism and hope.

  But nothing happened.

  I squeezed her hands tighter, but all I could think of was that line from the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, the line that made me so mad.

  He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and say Amen.

  I prayed desperately. “Help her. Now. Come down off your high holy place and help her. Mom, talk to me. I know you weren’t perfect, but I need you. Don’t abandon me again. I need one little miracle. I need to hear the words. I don’t want Emma to die.”

  No voice spoke. My mouth was dry like dust. When I opened my eyes, my mother was not here; Emma’s eyes were not closed. She said, “You can’t fix me.” I was pretty sure she’d been looking at me almost the whole time.

  I grabbed her hands. “Let me try again.”

  She told me to leave. “If you care about me, walk away. Live. Next time you go to a party, go for me. Next time you kiss someone, kiss him for me. You complained how people look at you? When people find out I have leukemia, they treat me the way you are looking at me right now. Like fine china or a contagious disease or a ticking clock about to stop. They think they can tell you exactly what you should do. The reason I left home isn’t because I want to die. It’s because I want to live. On my terms. I want to live a normal life. For once, I want to be just like everyone else.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  I wanted to heal her.

  I wanted to touch her hands and make her better.

  I didn’t know what I was thinking.

  I called Miriam and told her what happened. I begged her to pick me up—there was no one else I could talk to.

  We sat in the car outside the hotel. “She’s dying,” I said. “How did I miss that?”

  Miriam tapped the steering wheel. She fiddled with the defrost and air conditioning so that the front window wouldn’t fog up. I said, “The worst part is, she’s dying and she expects everyone to sit back and watch.”

  “It’s definitely tragic,” Miriam said, but she didn’t think there was anything I could do. “It’s her life. This is what she wants.” Only Emma had the right to say what she was willing and not willing to do.

  That stunk.

  No one should be allowed to give up like that. Because no one could know when it would end.

  Miriam was pretty sure I didn’t know all the facts. “If the treatments make her sick … if they’re really that bad … if it doesn’t work on her cancer …”

  “That’s a crock.” I knew what it felt like to be left behind—to have so many questions—and I didn’t wish that on her parents. I also knew what it was like to be in the hospital—how scary it was. All those numbers. All those decisions. The doctors weren’t allowed to tell you that a treatment is 100 percent effective. They were taught to give you odds. But there was always a chance.

  Always.

  Miriam’s phone jingled like a xylophone. I said, “She’s just being stubborn. If she can get a transplant, she should take it.”

  She stared at her phone. When it jingled again, I said, “You can get it, I don’t care. I just want you to know I didn’t mean to blow off the protest.”

  The next time it rang, she picked it up. Her voice immediately sounded happier. She said yes and no a few times, then she laughed. When she hung up, she changed back to serious. She asked the million-dollar question. “If chemo is that bad—if you knew you were ultimately going to die no matter what you did—shouldn’t you have the right to live the way you want to?”

  I wasn’t sure. Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe I just wanted Miriam to be on my side. Maybe I wanted her to come over to my house, sit in my window seat, and worry about whether any animals were tested making her nail polish. “I think you have a responsibility to live. I don’t think anyone should be willing to give up and die.” When she looked unconvinced, I said, “The only thing she can be sure of is that she’ll die if she does nothing. She doesn’t know what will happen if she takes the treatment.” I looked out the window. I didn’t like talking ethics. I was uncomfortable talking about choosing death.

  But Miriam would not let up. “I know you really care about her, but this isn’t your problem. It isn’t about you.”

  She didn’t understand. “But I can do something. I can tell her family where she is.”

  “And what do you think will happen then?” Miriam asked. “You’ll be the hero? She’ll thank you forever? I’ll forgive you? Roxanne will tell the world that you are the greatest person in the world—that the disappointed people can rally around you after all?”

  She knew me too well.

  When I started to argue, Miriam told me she was done. “Do what you want.” She drove in silence until we arrived at my house. “But if I were you, I’d talk it out with Lo. Remember: Emma is your friend. She trusted you. That has to mean somethi
ng too.”

  I said goodnight. It meant a lot. That was the problem.

  At 11:12, I watched Roxanne interview Ted. I watched the footage I’d already seen, and I listened as Ted informed the world of everything I already knew: Brian and his mother fooled Dave and me. Brian’s mom wanted to be famous. Brian hoped that he would be, too. I cringed when Ted said, “I don’t know how the kid sat in that chair as long as he did.”

  The second the show went to commercial; the phone began to ring. Lo said, “You don’t have to get it,” but I disagreed. I needed to do something different.

  I said that I never was and never would be a healer. I said that I accepted responsibility for people believing I could help them. I apologized to everyone I could think of for things I did and did not do. I was so contrite, I probably sounded pathetic.

  (Or humble, as Lo would say.)

  By 2:30 A.M., Lo took out a big amber bottle and poured herself a nip. The house was quiet. I made ten official statements, all the same. Lo thought I was very brave. She made me hot chocolate.

  I wondered what my mother would say.

  When Lo was too tired to talk anymore, I went upstairs to my room. I put the hamsa around my neck and read the journals. My mother was passionate. She had principles. I may have hated some of them, but she did what she felt she had to do, every step of the way. She listened to her gut.

  I needed to listen to my gut. I needed to do the right thing for Emma.

  When the sun began to rise, I opened my eyes and dialed the number, and I wasn’t surprised when she picked up on the first ring. There were a few things I wanted to say to Roxanne Wheeler, but at this hour I had to keep it brief, simple, and direct.

  This was for Emma.

  “She has cancer. She is hiding from her parents.”

  Roxanne took down every detail. She asked a lot of questions. How old is she? What kind of cancer? Do you know what her parents do? How long has it been since she ran off?

  I didn’t know much.

  “Just promise me,” I told her. No press. No pictures.

  “What’s in it for me?” Roxanne asked.

  I offered myself. After Emma was reunited with her parents, I promised to sit down for an interview—that exclusive she wanted. I promised to tell her everything I knew—about the bombing, about Dave, about what it was like to be the Soul Survivor, to be famous for being found.

  I picked up the Book of Death. I was going to do this, because I still wanted to believe in happy endings. This story could not end in death. More than anything, I didn’t want Emma’s mom to look for answers in a book.

  I wanted to do for her what she did for others.

  Roxanne reviewed the details one more time. She thanked me for trusting her, which I found extremely funny. Emma trusted me, but I didn’t expect she would understand.

  It might still be an act of selfishness. Miriam might be right—maybe I could never redeem myself or my mother.

  But Emma would live. That justified everything.

  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 picture—for 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 good—but 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 fear—that 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 story—especially 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 smiled—obviously 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.”