Free The Book of Why by Nicholas Montemarano Page B

it should be no surprise when the worst does happen. They read the paper and begin their day looking for tragedy. They watch the evening news and end their day thinking the world is a dangerous place. Their dreams are dark, filled with anxiety. I don’t judge such people, but I really do feel sorry for them. Because they don’t have to live in such fear. Please hear me: I don’t deny that tragic things happen in the world. But by focusing on tragedy, we attract more of the same.
    Each of you has to answer the following question, the most important question you’ll ever answer: Do you believe the universe is friendly or unfriendly? If you believe the universe is unfriendly, then that’s precisely the kind of universe you’ll live in. There’s plenty of evidence if you’d like to make that case. On the other hand, if you believe that the universe is friendly, then that’s precisely the kind of universe you’ll live in. A universe in which like attracts like, in which thoughts become things, in which you are not powerless, in which you deserve to feel as good as you’d like to feel, in which there’s no doubt or fear or competition or worry or jealousy or hatred or blame or desperation. A universe in which there’s always enough, in which there’s no such thing as exclusion. A universe in which one happy thought leads to another leads to another. A universe in which there are no limits. A universe in which miracles aren’t miraculous because they happen all the time.

 
    W aking doesn’t feel like waking, more like being reborn: the world is still here, waiting for me.
    My body aches everywhere, but I don’t care. A bag drips clear liquid into my arm. Inhale and the room swells; exhale and I see tiny white horses ride a wave of steam from my mouth. I try to breathe them back into my lungs, but they gallop across the room, disappear into the air.
    Hanging from the ceiling above me is a cord. It’s so clear to me: if I pull, the world will turn off. I try to will my hand to move.
    A tall woman with red hair stands at the window, her back to me. She’s breathing on the window, using her finger to write words on the fogged glass. I try to speak to her, to ask who she is, where I am, what happened, but I can make no sound.
    Dawn or dusk, I can’t tell. I look through the window to see if the world will become lighter or darker.
    With my thoughts—old habit—I try to communicate with her. Turn around, I think, and she does.
    â€œGloria,” she says.
    I look past her and see that this is the word she’s been writing in her breath on the window.
    She must have been telling me her name. But I don’t know anyone named Gloria, not that I can remember.
    The arm she wasn’t writing with is in a sling. The bandage on her nose wraps around her head. She has a black eye.
    â€œGloria,” she says, her voice an echo.
    I blink twice, deliberately, trying to start a code she might learn to recognize: one blink for yes, two for no.
    I want to ask her if I’m critical, if I have information she needs before I die. Perhaps someone tried to murder me, tried to murder both of us. I wonder, for the first time, if she’s my wife, and then I remember that I have a wife, and I begin to cry I’m so happy, and my ribs ache with my shaking, the most wonderful hurt I’ve ever experienced, until I realize the error of my verb tense, not have, had , and now the hurt is just hurt. My fear has changed: I’m no longer afraid to die, but to live.
    Memory returns: I live alone on Martha’s Vineyard, this woman came to find me, there was an accident, I couldn’t breathe, and then—
    Gloria. She wants to know who Gloria is.
    I don’t know, I think. Isn’t that your name?
    I blink twice, but she doesn’t notice. I blink twice again.
    â€œWhen you came back, you said Gloria. You told me to write it down. It was the