Believe by Sarah Aronson Read Free Book Online Page A

documented performing extraordinary acts of strength and will. Most weeks, you could read about it while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store. A mother lifts a car to save her child. A man tackles a full-grown polar bear. It’s called hysterical strength. Dave Armstrong thought that this happened to him. Right before he saw my hands, he lifted very large rocks that normally he could never have budged.
    I said, “Do you think he’s going to make it? Do people like him—people who get hit by cars—what are their chances?”
    The policeman looked alarmed. My hands. They were shaking. “Are you okay?”
    My hands were bloody, shaking, spiny, crooked. They looked like old leather gloves that someone found in the bottom of a drawer. (Even people who recognize my face are shocked when they actually get a look at my hands up close.)
    â€œYes. I’m sure. I’m fine.” When he offered to drive us to the hospital, I told him, “We have a car. My hands always look like this.”
    After he left, we sat on the corner of the curb. We watched the police take a few pictures of the car before some guys came and towed it away. A cleaning crew came in and swept up the glass. Still, we didn’t talk. We didn’t move. If this had been on TV, and we’d been playing friends, we’d have rushed to the hospital. We might have even jumped into the ambulance.
    But this was real.
    We were left behind.
    Moving and driving and thinking and talking did not seem possible.
    Finally, when our legs and the street and the traffic seemed back to normal, we got up and walked. Miriam said, “You know, this isn’t your fault. Those reporters—they did this.” She had a skinned knee. There was gravel stuck in her palms. “That lady was crazy. Nobody really thinks you healed him with your hands.”
    â€œI know.” I did not heal him. My mother wasn’t there, and she wasn’t talking to me. I was just hallucinating. The PTSD. Halfway to the car, I confided, “You know, when I was holding his head, I heard my mother.”
    Miriam stopped walking. She looked scared. “What do you mean, you heard your mother?”
    Now I felt stupid. “I mean I thought I heard her. Like she was sitting right next to me.” I grabbed her elbow. “She said all the same things she said right before she died.” I waited for Miriam to respond the way I wanted her to. “Crazy, right?”
    â€œCrazy.” She was my best friend. She would be the first person to tell me if I’d lost it. “But to be honest, I’m not surprised.”
    â€œYou’re not?”
    She looked away, resumed walking. “You’re sad. It’s the anniversary, and you were just standing in front of your mother’s grave. You’re in mourning. Then we get chased by idiots and our friend was hit by a car. It’s really not that surprising that you heard her voice … that you freaked out.” She pointed to the sidewalk. “Look at that. My shoes. No one stole them.” We both laughed, even though it wasn’t all that funny.
    At the car, someone snapped my picture then ran away. Miriam shouted, “Loser!”
    I said, “Don’t waste your breath. They’re cowards. I think I turned away in time.” There were eleven business cards and a folded piece of paper under the windshield wiper. I gathered them up and balled them in my fist.
    On every one, scrawled handwriting offered different versions of the same thing: Call me. Let’s talk. I would love to meet with you. I will be brief. “So much for them leaving us alone on this sensitive day.”
    Miriam took them away. “We should give these to the police, in case Abe …” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what she meant. If Abe died. We could blame these people. They were the ones chasing us. We could get our revenge.
    This was their