Believe Me

by Tahereh Mafi

  It makes me ill.

  They’ve romanticized me in their minds, these people, romanticized the very idea of my existence, and often objectify me in the process. Every time I looked this young woman in the eye she would visibly tremble, her feelings both indecent and sincere, the mixture of which was almost too uncomfortable to recount.

  I thought she might be more at ease if I stared at the animal as I spoke, which I did, and which seemed to calm her. I told her about the dog—explaining that he needed a bath, and food—and which she generously offered to take into her care. As I sensed no actual danger from the girl, I accepted her overture.

  “Does he have a name?” she’d asked.

  “He is a dog,” I’d said, frowning as I looked up. “You may call him a dog.”

  The young woman froze at that, at our sudden eye contact. I watched her pupils dilate as she grappled with an emotional combination too often flung in my direction: abject terror and desire. It confirmed for me then what I’ve always known to be true—that most people are disappointing and should be avoided.

  She said nothing to me after that, only scooping up the reluctant, whining animal into her trembling arms and shuffling away. I’ve not seen either of them since.

  It would not be an exaggeration to say that this day has been a thorough disappointment.

  I push back my chair and get to my feet, taking the foil bowl to go; I plan to save the food-adjacent mass for the dog, should I ever see him again. I glance up at the large clock on the wall, noting that I managed only to kill another thirty minutes.

  Quietly, I acknowledge I should accept this day for the nonevent it turned out to be—and, as it appears unlikely I will see Ella tonight, I should go to bed. Still, I’m demoralized by this turn of events; so much so that it takes me a moment to realize Sam is calling my name.

  I pivot in her direction.

  She’s waving me over, but I have no interest in a conversation right now. I want nothing more than to retreat, fester in my wounds. Instead, I force myself to clear the short distance between us, unable to generate even a modicum of warmth as I approach.

  I stare at her by way of hello.

  Sam is even more exhausted than I first assumed, her eyes held up by lavender half-moons. Her skin is grayer than I’ve ever seen it, her short blond hair limp, falling into her face.

  She spares no time for formalities, either. “Have you read the recent incident reports from”—she looks down at her papers, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand—“18, 22, 36, 37, 142 through 223, and 305?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you noticed what they all have in common?”

  I sigh, feeling my body tense anew when I say, “Yes.”

  Sam folds her arms atop her stack of papers, peering up at me from her seat. “Great. Then you’ll understand why we need Juliette to tour the continent. She has to make appearances—physical appearances—”

  “No.”

  “They are rioting in the streets, Warner.” Sam’s voice is unusually hard. “Against us. Not against The Reestablishment—against us!”

  “People are impatient and ungrateful,” I say sharply. “Worse: they are stupid. They don’t understand that change takes time. Clearly they assumed that the fall of The Reestablishment would bring instant peace and prosperity to the world, and in the two weeks since we’ve been in power, they can’t understand why their lives haven’t miraculously improved.”

  “Yes, okay, but the solution isn’t in ignoring them. These people need hope—they need to see her face—”

  “She’s done televised broadcasts. She’s made a couple of local appearances—”

  “It’s not enough,” Sam says, cutting me off. “Listen. We all know the only reason Juliette isn’t doing more is because of you. You’re so worried about keeping her safe that you’re putting our entire movement in jeopardy. She did this, Warner. It was her choice to take on The Reestablishment— it was her choice to carry this burden. The world needs her now, which means you have to get your shit together. You have to be braver than this.”

  I stiffen at that, at the surgical precision of her blade.

  I say nothing.

  Sam exhales in the wake of my silence, something like a laugh. “You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be with someone whose life is constantly in danger? You think I don’t understand how terrifying it is to watch them step foot out the door every day? Do you have any idea how many attempts have been made on Nouria’s life?”

  Still, I say nothing.

  “It’s really fucking hard,” she says angrily, surprising me with her language. Sam pushes both hands through her hair before rubbing her eyes again. “It’s really, really, really hard.”

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  She meets my eyes then. “Look. I know you’re not doing this on purpose. I know you only want the best for her. But you’re holding her back. You’re holding all of us back. I don’t know exactly what you two have been through—whatever it was, it must’ve been serious, because Juliette’s clearly more worried for you than she is for herself, but—”

  “What?” I frown. “That’s not—”

  “Trust me. She and I have had a lot of conversations about this. Juliette doesn’t want to do anything to scare you. She thinks you’re processing something right now— she wouldn’t tell me what—and she’s adamant that she won’t do anything risky until she’s sure you can handle it. Which means I need you to handle it. Now.”

  “I’m doing fine,” I say, my jaw clenching.

  “Wonderful.” Sam generates a smile. “If you’re doing fine, go ahead and tell her that. Encourage Juliette to go on an international tour—or at minimum, a national one. Juliette knows how to talk to crowds; when she’s looking people in the eye they believe her. I know you’ve seen it. In fact, you probably know better than anyone that no one cares more about these people than she does. She genuinely cares about their families, their futures—and right now, the world needs a reminder. They need reassurance. Which means you have to let her do her job.”

  I feel my heart rate spike. “I would never keep her from doing her job. I just want her to be safe.”

  “Yes—you prioritize her safety above all else, to the detriment of the world. You’re making decisions from a place of fear, Warner. You can’t help heal the planet if you’re only thinking about what’s best for one person—”

  “I never got into this to heal the planet,” I say sharply. “I have never pretended to care about the future of our pathetic civilization, and if you ever took me for a revolutionary, that was your mistake. I see now that I have to make something clear, so remember this: I would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her, and if that’s not enough for you, you can go to hell.”

  Sam shoves back her chair so fast it makes a piercing, skin-crawling screech that echoes around the near-empty dining tent. She’s on her feet now, boring a hole in the floor with the heat of her anger. The few faces still dotting the room turn to look at us; I feel their surprise, their mounting curiosity. Sam is diminutive in stature, but fierce when she chooses to be, and right now she looks as if she’s considering killing me with her bare hands.

  “You are not special,” she says. “You are not the only one of us who’s ever suffered. You’re not the only one who lies awake at night worrying for the safety of their loved ones. I have no sympathy for your pain, or your problems.”

  “Good,” I say, more than matching her anger. “As long as we understand each other.”

  Sam shakes her head and throws up her hands, looking for a moment like she might laugh. Or cry. “What on earth does she see in you? You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your presence. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her. I sure as hell wouldn’t vouch for you.”

  I lower my eyes, absorbing these blows with studied indiffere
nce. My body is not unlike the moon, cratered so thoroughly by brutality it’s hard to imagine it untouched by violence.

  “Good night,” I say quietly, and turn to leave.

  I hear Sam sigh, her regret building as I walk away. “Warner, wait,” she says, calling after me. “I’m sorry—that was over the line— It’s been a long day, I didn’t mean—”

  I don’t look back.

  SEVEN

  I’m sandwiched between two thin blankets on the frozen floor of this hospital room, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, when I hear the soft whine of the door, Ella’s familiar presence entering the room.

  It’s hours past midnight.

  She brings with her the faint smell of something slightly chemical, which confuses me, but more important: I feel her fear as she tiptoes into the space, all displaced by a sudden relief when she catches sight, no doubt, of my prone body.

  Relief.

  I don’t understand.

  She is relieved to discover me asleep. She is relieved she doesn’t have to speak with me.

  The pressure in my chest intensifies.

  I listen to the sounds of her shedding her shoes and clothes in the dark, wondering how best I might shatter the silence, bracing myself for her surprise—then disappointment—to discover I am awake. I give her a moment, hearing the familiar sounds of sheets rustling. I’m imagining her climbing into the narrow hospital bed, tucking herself under the covers, when her emotions pivot without warning: she experiences a sharp, stunning wave of happiness.

  Somehow, this only scares me more.

  Ella is not merely relieved, then, but happy to have evaded me. She’s happy to be going to sleep without being disturbed.

  My heart races faster, dread multiplying. I’m almost afraid to say anything now, knowing that the sound of my voice would only prompt the demolition of her joy. Still, I have to speak with her. I need to know what’s happening between us—and I’m preparing to say as much when I hear her breathing change.

  She is already asleep.

  I have been lying awake fully clothed, sinking into darkness for hours. Ella has fallen asleep in moments.

  I feel frozen. Fastened to this cold floor by fear, familiar pins and needles sparking to life in my limbs.

  My eyes fly open; I can’t seem to breathe.

  I hadn’t known what to do with the jewelry box in my pocket. I was afraid to leave it somewhere, worried it might be misplaced, or discovered. It remains with me instead, branding my leg with its presence, reminding me of all that feels suddenly and terrifyingly lost.

  Unconsciously, I reach for an altogether different piece of jewelry, my fingers finding the smooth stone of the jade ring in the dark, the piece so much a part of me now that I can’t remember what my hand looks like without it. I spin the cold band around my pinkie finger in a familiar, repetitive motion, wondering whether it has been a mistake, all these years, to keep this token of grief so close to my skin.

  The ring had been a gift from my mother; it was the only present I’d ever received as a child. And yet, the memories associated with this object are so dark and painful— reminders in every moment of my father’s tyranny, my mother’s suffering, my grandfather’s betrayal—

  I have often wanted to lock away this memento of my tortured childhood. Touching it even now reminds me of versions of myself—six years old, then seven, eight, nine, and on and on—that once clutched it desperately even as I screamed, explosive pain branching across my back, over and over.

  For a long time, I hadn’t wanted to forget. The ring reminded me always of my father’s brutality, of the hatred that motivated me to stay alive if only to spite him.

  More than that, it is all I have left of my mother.

  And yet, perhaps this ring has tethered me to my own darkness, this symbol of infinite repetition fated to conjure, forever, the agonies of my past.

  Sometimes I fear I will be trapped forever in this cycle: incapable of happiness, inseparable from my demons.

  I close my eyes, scenes from the day replaying as if on an automatic loop. I seem doomed to relive the events in perpetuity, combing them for answers, for evidence of anything that might explain what’s happening to my life. And despite my best efforts to shut them out, I recall Sam’s voice, then Kenji’s—

  You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist.

  I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your presence.

  I’m sick of your attitude.

  I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior.

  I just don’t know what she sees in you.

  What on earth does she see in you?

  EIGHT

  When I open my eyes, the light is filtering through the half-closed curtains, blinding me. I can tell just by its position in the room that the sun is new; the morning is young.

  I don’t know when I fell asleep; I don’t even know how I managed to accomplish this feat except through sheer exhaustion. My body succumbed to the need even as my mind refused, protesting this decision with a series of nightmares that begin to replay as I sit up, closing my eyes against the glare.

  I spent the night outrunning an indecipherable natural disaster. It was that vintage of vague dream-element that makes sense only in the dream and none at all upon waking.

  I couldn’t stop running.

  I had no choice but to keep moving for fear of being decimated by the impending calamity, searching all the while for Ella, from whom I had been separated. When I finally heard her voice it was from high above: Ella was sitting in a tree, far from danger, staring happily at the clouds as I ran for my life. The disaster—something like a tornado or tsunami or both—increased in intensity, and I picked up speed, unable to slow down long enough to speak with her, or even to climb the tree, whose trunk was so impossibly tall I couldn’t understand how she’d scaled it.

  In a desperate effort I called her name, but she didn’t hear me; she was turned away, laughing, and I realized then that Kenji was sitting in the tree with her. So was Nazeera, who’d no doubt flew them both to safety.

  I screamed Ella’s name once more, and this time she turned at the sound of my voice, meeting my eyes with a kind smile. I finally stopped then, falling to my knees from overexertion.

  Ella waved at me just as I was pulled under.

  A sharp knock at the hospital door has me upright in a moment, my mind on a delay even as my instincts sharpen. I notice only then that Ella is not here. Her rumpled hospital sheets are the only evidence she ever was.

  I drag a hand down my face as I head for the door, faintly aware that I’m still in the clothes I was wearing yesterday. My eyes are dry, my stomach empty, my body exhausted.

  I am wrung out.

  I open the door, so surprised to see Winston’s face that I take a step back. I seldom—if ever—speak with Winston. I’ve never had any specific reason to dislike him, but then, he and I are ill-acquainted. I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen his face from so close a distance.

  “Wow,” he says, blinking at me. “You look like shit.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Right. Yeah. Good morning.” He takes a deep breath and attempts a smile, adjusting his black glasses for no reason but nerves.

  Winston, I’m baffled to discover, is very nervous to be near me.

  “Sorry, I was just surprised,” he says, rushing his words. “You’re usually really—you know, like, put together. Anyway you might want to take a shower before we get going.”

  I’m so unable to process the absurdity—or the audacity— of this request, that I close the door in his face. Turn the lock.

  The pounding begins immediately after. “Hey,” he says, shouting to be heard. “I’m serious— I’m supposed to take you to breakfast this morning, but I really th—”

  “I don’t need a chaperone,” I say, pulling off my sweater. This hospital room is one of the larger ones, with an en suite, industrial bathroom/shower combination. “And I don’t ne
ed you to remind me to bathe.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult! Damn.” A nervous laugh. “Literally everyone tried to warn me that you were hard to deal with, but I thought maybe they were exaggerating, at least a little. That was my mistake. Listen, you look fine. You don’t smell or anything. I just think you’ll want to take a shower—”

  “Again, I don’t need your advice on this matter.” I’m stepping out of my pants, folding them carefully to contain the small box still trapped in the pocket. “Leave.”

  I turn on the shower, the sound of which distorts Winston’s voice. “Come on, man, don’t make this difficult. I was the only one willing to come get you this morning. Everyone else was too afraid. Even Kenji said he was too tired today to deal with your shit.”

  I hesitate then.

  I abandon the bathroom, returning to the closed door in only my boxer briefs. “Come get me for what?”

  I feel Winston startle at the sound of my voice, so close. He equivocates, saying only: “Um, yeah, I can’t actually tell you.”

  A terrifying unease moves through me at that. Winston’s guilt and fear is palpable, his anxiety growing.

  Something is wrong.

  I glance one last time at Ella’s empty bed before unlatching the lock. I’m only dimly aware of my appearance, that I’m opening the door in my underwear. I’m reminded swiftly of this fact when Winston does an exaggerated double take upon seeing me.

  He quickly averts his eyes.

  “Fucking hell—why did you have to take off your clothes?”

  “What is going on?” I ask coldly. “Where is Juliette?”

  “What? I don’t know.” Winston is turned away entirely now, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “And I’m not allowed to tell you what’s going on.”

  “Why not?”

  He looks up at that, meeting my eyes for only a nanosecond before turning sharply away; a mottled heat rushes up his neck, burns his ears. “Please, for the love of God,” he says, yanking off his glasses to rub at his face. “Put on some clothes. I can’t talk to you like this.”