Believe by Sarah Aronson Read Free Book Online Page B

fault. Not mine.
    She turned on the ignition, and Abe’s iPod flipped on. It was a song about love. She yanked it out by the cord, tossed it into the backseat, and stepped on the gas. She took a corner too hard and rolled over the curb.
    â€œStupid song.”
    No. It was my fault.
    I told her to slow down. “He is going to be okay. I’m sure of it. He was breathing when they took him to the hospital.” She accelerated through a yellow light. I reminded her, “When I held his hand …”
    â€œYou don’t know that.” She sped past a stop sign. “I told you we shouldn’t have run.”
    Now it seemed so obvious. I should have held my ground and said, “No comment.” Or for once I could have listened to their questions. It’s not like they ever asked questions that had actual answers. It was one of the things that made talking about faith so irritating.
    There were just words. No proof.
    If I had posed for pictures, Abe would be sitting where I am now. He would be singing some sappy song and getting on my nerves. Miriam would not be driving like a lunatic.
    My phone beeped. There were three messages from Lo—all minutes after we split up. She wanted to know where I was. “Are you okay? Please check in.” Dan called, too. His messages were always a little awkward. He asked, “How was the thing?” And then, after five seconds of dead air, “You know you can call me. Okay? Bye!”
    As the first raindrops hit the windshield, I left Lo a purposefully vague message: I’m fine. Don’t worry. Will call you later. Miriam flipped on the wipers to the fastest speed. “You’re not going to tell her what happened?”
    â€œNo.” I shook my head. “You want me to tell your mom?”
    â€œI’ll call her later.” Miriam didn’t have to elaborate. I understood too well. If she told her mom, it would make it real. If we talked any more, we’d need an explanation. When lightning flashed, she pumped the brakes. She drove extra slow.
    As long as I’d known her, Miriam had hated driving in bad weather. Her greatest fear was being hit by lightning. She was spooked by it. I had no idea why. It wasn’t like you heard about people dying from lightning strikes on a regular basis.
    Two minutes and three thunderclaps later, she pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. We were at the hospital. Abe was hurt. The water rushed over the windshield.
    â€œWhat if?”
    â€œDon’t say it.”
    â€œBut what would we do?”
    The rain fell harder. Neither of us moved.
    (This is what it feels like to be in shock.)
    Lightning flashed, two sticks at a time. I tried Lo again, but now her phone was out of service. Miriam gripped the steering wheel. I said, “We’re safe in the car, right? Because of the tires. The rubber.”
    She stared straight ahead. “Yeah. I think so.” We sat still and watched the rain. It was all we could do.
    I heard my mother.
    I was sure Miriam didn’t believe me.
    I said, “She did sound very real. Very alive.” At the same time, lightning flashed a split second before the thunder sounded.
    Miriam looked confused. Then she looked mad. “Do you really think that’s important?” Then she opened the car door, and even though she had to be terrified, she stepped determined into the storm and started running.

NINE
    â€œI hate hospitals.”
    Miriam crossed her arms over her chest. Her teeth chattered. “That’s understandable.”
    I hated the smell. I hated the lights, the doctors in their white coats, and the nurses who smiled, even when they knew they were about to hurt you. Miriam didn’t know what it felt like to be told that everything was going to be okay, when that was a lie.
    But now Abe would.
    The emergency room was full of wet people. Every seat was taken. The line to the receptionist was long. We grabbed handfuls of