Believe by Sarah Aronson Read Free Book Online

wasn’t sure if I was alive or dead. This kind of silence made time stop.
    It made me feel like I was walking through water.
    And I couldn’t speak.
    Just like before, I was suffocating. I was alone. My hands curled up and sent sharp pains to my neck and head. But this was not rubble, and it wasn’t Jerusalem either. I was not fighting for my life.
    This was Abe.
    He was in the middle of the road.
    Miriam called 911. “Our friend was hit by a car. In front of the white church. No I don’t know if he’s breathing. I don’t know if he’s got a pulse.”
    Somehow I stood up, and my legs worked. Somehow I was able to walk into the street, and kneel at his side, and check his pulse and his breath, and even though it sounded weak, it was definitely there. I shouted, “Abe. Can you hear me?” There was blood pooling under his head. His eyes didn’t look like he saw me. I knew I shouldn’t move him, but his head was bleeding like crazy. Somehow I remembered to press my hands against the wet, hot wound.
    And wait.
    I listened for the sirens. They seemed too far away. I lookedup at the clouds. A camera captured the moment. Click, click, click, click, click.
    I didn’t care how many pictures they took. This was Abe. I begged him, “Don’t die.” Click . “Please, Abe. I know you can make it.” Click. “You cannot die right here in the middle of Marsden Avenue.”
    Click, click, click, click, click, click, click, click.
    There were more people now, and they all shouted and cried and gave me advice at once. I focused on Abe, on his blood and his breath. I felt Miriam standing near. I told him, “We have tickets to three concerts. And I need you to help me with chem. I thought we were going to go somewhere crazy this summer.”
    â€œStay calm, Janine. Help is on the way.”
    I wondered if I was going insane. That sounded like my mother—here—in this crowd—telling me all the things she said ten years ago. I looked around, but of course, she wasn’t in the crowd. Only when I looked at Abe could I hear her:
    â€œYou can do this, baby.”
    â€œYou are not alone.”
    â€œHang on, Janine. You have a holy soul.”
    I understood I was imagining this, but it was nice. It felt good. Like there was hope. For a moment, I let myself smile. Click. Because my mother was here, I sincerely believed that Abe was going to make it.
    As the ambulance pulled up to the scene, a woman shouted, “That’s Janine Collins—the Soul Survivor. We’re witnessing a miracle. Look at him. She’s healing him with her hands.”
    The medics didn’t care. They ran toward us and pushed me away. I fell on the ground, on my knees, onto my hands. Ilistened for my mother to tell me what to do next, but she was gone. All I heard were the medics. They said, “He’s in trouble.”
    Click, click, click
    The cameras were all around me. A Nikon D4—the camera of choice for many photojournalists—is capable of shooting eleven frames per second. (After having enough of them shoved in my face, I looked it up.) If these guys had held their fingers to the shutter, they’d have close to a thousand frames by now.
    Of me. And Abe. He wasn’t going to die. Not if I could help it. This was not his fifteen minutes, I promised myself.
    I looked up at the clouds and bargained: If he gets better, I will work harder. I will be nicer. I’ll help Miriam with her farm. If Abe will just get through this, I will try and be a better person, too. I will do interviews. I’ll talk to Dave. I’ll face every single one of my fears.
    Click. Click. Click.
    Click, click, click, click, click.

EIGHT
    After the paramedics drove away, the policeman thanked us. (I assumed he was just trying to make us feel hopeful.) “I hope your friend makes it. You did a good job. Like a pro.”
    During a disaster, average people have