Believe (11 page)

TWENTY

First I called Miriam, but she didn't answer. She was probably still saving the farm with Samantha. I hung up.

Five minutes later, I called again and this time, I left a message in my most casual voice. “Hi. It's me. Sorry I didn't make it, but I need to talk to you. You're not going to believe it, but Dave Armstrong was at my house. So was Roxanne. Abe's talking to her right now.”

I could just imagine her sitting there with Samantha, listening to my message after having tried all day to figure out how to attract the very people I wanted to get rid of. I tried to sound neutral. “It was a madhouse. Call me when you can.”

I stared at the phone and willed it to ring. Maybe she was busy. If she was screening calls, she'd listen and call me right back. I looked at my phone. “Ring now.” I counted to ten. But it didn't work; she didn't call. Her phone was probably in her purse. She'd hear my message later. But just to make sure, I picked up the phone to see if it was working.

(It was.)

Lo said, “You know, if you didn't want Abe to make a statement, you should have said so.”

I didn't want a lecture. I said, “He wouldn't have listened. He's got stars in his eyes.” I asked her if she thought he was jealous of me—if all this time, he had wanted to be my friend just so he could get his name in the press—if perhaps, he saw this opportunity and took it.

“Janine. He got hit by a car.” She encouraged me to refocus my energy. Nothing was going to improve if I sat around imagining the worst.

Sharon nudged her. “You're forgetting something.”

Lo smiled. “Why don't you go upstairs?” she asked in a slightly coy voice. “Do something productive. Make yourself a dress.”

“Not today.” Neither one of them understood anything about the creative process. I couldn't just sit down and start sewing. Before I could make anything, I needed to sketch. And buy material and notions. I needed to be in the mood. (I wasn't. Not by a long shot.) “You really expect me to sew after everything that's happened?”

Lo reminded me that throughout history, life's distractions had inspired a lot of great art. “I think this would be a perfect time to start something ambitious.”

That sounded a lot like Ms. Browning's advice. But still … I didn't know. I had no ideas, no vision, no motivation. “I don't have the right material.” After the critique this afternoon, I doubted myself.

My fingers were stiff. I hadn't stretched them all day.

Lo told me to lift my arms and stretch my chest muscles to open up the heart chakra. When I just sat there, arms at my sides, she reminded me that I always felt better after I'd spent some time working. “Please, Janine. Take my advice. Play around. Experiment. You don't have to make anything. Just practice. You know that's how we improve. A little bit each day.”

Yoga wisdom. Blah. “Nothing is going to make me feel better today.” I considered telling her about the critique, but I didn't need any more pity. Not now. “Maybe I shouldn't bother applying to art school.” I stepped back. That kind of talk always pushed her buttons. She hated quitters.

“Janine. Just go. Stop whining. Get over yourself. For once in your life, be humble. Do what I say. Get out of here and go make something. Don't set out for perfection. Just play.”

I trudged up the stairs to my room and dragged my remnants basket out of the closet. There was some nice silk, but there wasn't enough to make more than a shirt. I found some corduroy and a long swatch of gold taffeta that some day was going to make a great dress for a wedding. I rummaged through a small bag of notions. I had sequins, black buttons, and a million zippers.

Lo was wrong. I was drawing a blank.

Completely uninspired.

I didn't want wool. Denim was too stiff. Usually, one of my personal sewing goals was making something great with material that didn't cost a lot, but today, I wished for something magnificent and expensive.

I wanted to play with something beautiful.

I didn't want anyone to say I got into school for being the Soul Survivor.

Lo called up the steps. “Did you find it?”

“Find what?”

“Look under your desk.”

There was a package wrapped in silver paper with a card that said: “I remember how much you loved this cloth” followed by twenty x's and o's. I opened my door and yelled to Lo, “What did you buy?”

“It's not a hand,” she said, laughing.

I almost cried when I ripped open the paper. The bolt of fabric was lush blue/purple and slightly distressed. I remembered this. There was no way you could forget fabric like this.

I caressed it. I rubbed it against my cheek. The cloth was silky and soft. Even better—it was just this side of unexpected. I spread it out over my bed. Then I grabbed my sketchbook. I closed my eyes and envisioned my mother.

This dress was going to be serious. It was going to make a statement. It was going to be exciting and different. If I could just get it together in time, Ms. B. wouldn't be able to do anything but change her mind and give me the thumbs-up—and every school I apply to will say yes.

I draped it across the dress form. I pulled it off and draped it again. It was never smart to jump in and start cutting. First you had to get to know your cloth. You had to see how it moved. You had to see how it sat on a body. You had to make sure that it could really truly become exactly what you wanted it to be. You had to see your creation before you made it.

After almost an hour, I was ready. I had a plan. My fingers were as limber as they were ever going to get.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I transferred my vision to a pattern. When I was sure that it was right, I pinned. Then I sharpened my shears and began to cut. When I needed a break, I put on some loud music—a playlist meant to help me concentrate. The fabric was delicate. I had to cut slowly and carefully. A dress could be ruined with shoddy cutting.

Another hour later, I switched playlists and began to pin. Usually, this was the boring part. But today, I didn't mind.

There were some dresses that felt like work. Others felt like they were copies of other peoples' work. This felt original. This one practically made itself.

This was going to be beautiful.

I was going to get in to Parsons. And RISD. And FIT.

I imagined meeting the admissions director at Parsons. She'd look at my finished work and applaud, confiding in me that she had had low expectations for me—my celebrity and all—but that in person, my work was impressive and sophisticated—and I might as well pack my bags now. I could just hear her saying, “I can't wait to get to know more of the real you.”

The authentic me, just like Ms. Browning wanted.

At least I hoped so.

I'd known Ms. Browning long enough to know that she'd want me to sit back and slow down. That the day of a bad critique was not the day to make a dream dress. But she was wrong. I was sure of it. I was sure there were plenty of people who hadn't taken all her advice and had still gotten into great schools and had great careers. Why did she think she knew everything? Just because she had experience didn't mean she was the only authority.

I was a designer. My work was good. This was the real me. I went to the closet, got out the iron and board, and set it up. I ironed some seams. Then I sewed them. On the dress form, the collar looked good. Two hours later, so did the bodice.

I had no doubts. Then I had a few doubts. Then I snagged a seam. I could hear her telling me, “This isn't authentic. Why do you think this dress has anything to do with your mother? What were you actually trying to say?”

I gripped the hamsa. Now I wasn't sure. Maybe I knew nothing. Maybe I had just wrecked this amazing fabric.

(Sometimes I hated my imagination.)

Heart. Soul. Mind. World. Protection. I started to wish, then I stopped. I could do this.

Maybe this didn't have to be so hard.

My grandparents waited a long time to give me this piece of her. It must mean something. That's why I had that dream. That's why I was hesitating now. It must mean that there was something else I needed to know now. About my mom.

It was a sign. A clear one.

I put down my work and found Lo. “I want to see it,” I said.

She hated it when I talked out of context. “Want to see what?”

“The Book of Death.” I sighed. “My mom's last journal.” Now that I'd said it, I could hardly wait. I needed to read it. Before I could finish the dress, I needed to know what she wrote before she died.

Lo hesitated. “Today? Now? Haven't we had enough excitement already? Why don't you wait? We can read it next weekend. After all this nonsense is over.”

“No,” I said. “I need it now.” When she started to argue, I told her it was mine. “You said I could have it whenever I wanted.”

“It's in my closet. Top shelf.” Before I turned away, she added, “If you change your mind, I can tell you what it says.Or we can read it together. You don't have to do this alone. Some of it will upset you.”

I paused. “Of course it's going to upset me.”

We stood eye to eye. She blinked first. “Make sure you read every word. All the way to the end.”

I was pretty sure she was still talking when I went upstairs and found the book. I brought it to my bed and opened it to the first page. On the inside cover, it said, “You can't demolish the rules until you know them by heart.”

I liked that. Already I felt my ideas coming into focus.

In the margins, unlike every other journal, there were no doodles.

TWENTY-ONE

I kept reading. I read about her telling my dad and picking out what she wanted to wear to her interview. I read about the day the job was officially hers and the research she had to do to get ready. Even though I knew the ending, I wanted to share her excitement. I wanted to feel her anticipation.

But after fifteen more pages of more of the same, I had to admit: I was bored and completely uninspired. I wanted a memory or a story. I wanted something new. I wanted to read about me and Dad and some things we did or funny things we said. I wanted to read about what kind of kid I was becoming—what I liked to do with her.

I wanted to read if going back to Israel meant reconciling with my grandparents. Maybe they had changed their minds. Maybe they were ready to accept all of us.

But there was nothing. Page after page, there were no funny stories, no sad ones. There were no stories period. It was like my father and I didn't even exist.

The dress seemed far, far away.

In this journal, she was excited about meetings and plans, assignments and new people and interviews that she needed to set up. Historically speaking, my mom was about to do something really exciting and meaningful. She was going to talk about important issues that just might change history. She was going to do her best to encourage the process toward peace.

I should have been proud. I shouldn't have expected every page of every journal to be about me. For a moment, I put the book down. Then I picked it back up and skimmed a few pages. I considered going back to an old journal. Maybe she wanted this book to be just for work.

Then I saw the letter, M.

M wants me to bow out.

Now I was interested. M was for Martin. My dad.

According to Mom, he thought that the assignment, as exciting as it seemed, was taking too much time. He said they didn't need the money and that there were plenty of qualified correspondents and that she was not the best for the job—not by a long shot. According to her, he said she was too opinionated, too biased, too connected. In large capital letters, she wrote that he was unfair, that she had worked hard for this big break, and that my dad—of all people—should understand that.

I didn't remember reading about an agreement, and I was sure she'd never called him insensitive before. Only two things were clear: they were not happy. And I was still not on the page.

I wanted to say, “Stop fighting. You know what it means.”

I wished I could ask, “Are you really fighting because of me? Do you really want to leave me?”

As I read and they fought, I didn't understand why my dad even wanted to go—or bring me. It was only a month-long assignment. Couldn't he see how out of sync they were becoming—that she had a dream? The dad of the other journals would have supported that. But in this book, every time she got excited, he said no.

Now I knew they were fighting about me.

Two entries and four pages later, even though I knew that the three of us went to Israel during the second week of April, I was actually surprised when we got on the plane together. We had five days before the meetings and reports began. I looked for the events that Lo told me happened, the days that matched the pictures: Drinking Coke. The first time we ate falafel. Building sandcastles on the beach in Haifa. But my mother wrote nothing about these events in her journal.

The whole thing was about syntax and scoops and some nice feedback she got from the network.

She did not call my grandparents. That surprised me.

I took out my pictures. I stared at our faces, our bodies, how we posed.

We were there. Together. She looked happy. So did he. But now I was sure they weren't.

I went back to the book.

Five days before she died, the whole page was filled with stars and smiley faces. Her first broadcast was set to tape and air after she attended a big meeting at a synagogue. I knew what meeting that was. It was the meeting that killed them. It was the meeting that made me famous.

I had to be reading this wrong.

I read it again.

But the words didn't change.

I took a deep breath. It wasn't like I thought they never disagreed. But it was never like this. They loved each other. They loved their work. They loved me. I knew they did. They didn't hate each other.

That wasn't possible.

I looked for the retraction. The remorse. An asterisk with a note explaining how embarrassed she was to have written such junk, even though she had no reason to believe anyone but her would ever read it.

Instead, I found their so-called agreement.

She told him to go, get out, take the kid, too. Her words hurt; they stung. But he stayed. I didn't understand why. Why would my dad take this? My only explanation: he knew she didn't mean it. She must have been mad about something else.

She must have still loved me.

But then I turned to the page before the bombing, the day we went to the Dead Sea. The tone of her words seemed confident. Even the letters themselves were bigger.

These were her last words.

Understand.

No, I didn't.

My first response: my mother's job was more important to her than her family.

I grabbed the Dead Sea photo. If I believed the journal, these smiles were faked. These people weren't having fun. They were lying to keep me happy—to create a picture that was wrong.

I went back to the book, turned the page over, and looked for something more. But there was nothing. Just the mission. Just the desire for work. And peace. It was so weird. She sounded like Dave. Like a fake, insincere preacher who was looking for cash. After that, the lines on the pages were empty. She was dead. I shook out the book. This was not the end of the story. It couldn't be.

She was my mother. She was the person who kept me alive. She was the person who gave me strength when I didn't think I could wait one more minute. She was the person who sacrificed herself for me.

All my life, I thought they were happy—the perfect couple. I trusted those pictures. I thought they told the truth. I thought she loved me.

This writing—it didn't even sound like her. I had to be reading it the wrong way. She walked away from Israel; this was a job—she didn't want this life. I thought she chose my dad and me. The three of us in one frame.

I read it again. I looked for clues, but there were none to find. The truth was plain. It was clear: her life was in the Middle East. She didn't want to be part of our family anymore. She didn't want to be just a mother. She didn't care about being a wife. She hoped we'd understand.

I understood.

I threw the photo on my bed.

I ripped off the hamsa and hurled it across the room.

I grabbed a pen and wrote on top of her words, “I hate you.” It wasn't enough. I reached for a thick marker and scrubbed out every word, until the black seeped into the next page and the paper started to disintegrate. No one would ever read these words again. No one would ever be able to see that she didn't want her daughter.