In this age of alternative facts, whom do you believe?

Once, when talking on the phone with my 104-year old grandmother, Benedetta , she mentioned that had seen her 100-year-old baby sister, Israela at the nursing home that day.

Did Great Aunt Israela still inhabit the land of the living? I’d lost track of her years ago and didn’t think so.

During our next call, Benedetta said that the two of them had gone to a Bingo game, but Israela acted grumpy and refused to play. I live in Virginia and my grandmother was in Connecticut, so I couldn’t establish the accuracy of her sitings. I assumed that, finally, at age 104, Benedetta was experiencing space and time in a more flexible manner.

But then, my cousin drove down from Vermont and discovered Israela, in the flesh, rooming near Benedetta. How did that happen? No clue. Unlike her older sister, Israela was not at all oriented in space and time and couldn’t tell us.

Here’s another story. When traveling last fall, a storm delayed my flight. I wound up landing in Charlottesville about 3:00 a.m. I staggered through the airport, dragging my suitcase. People rushed past me toward door. Clearly, in any survival of the fittest situation, I’d die first.

By the time I arrived at the curb, the last cab was leaving. The driver rolled down his window, “Sorry, I’m full. But there’s a fellow…” He pointed to a figure in the shadows. A stout man emerged, looking at me with red-rimmed, unusually bright blue eyes. “Need a ride?”

I didn’t see a cab. “Where’s your taxi?”

“Yonder.” With his shoulder, he pointed back into the darkness.

I felt bone tired, too tired to figure out an alternative way home. So, I followed the man. Sure enough, I saw a taxi, battered and old, but a taxi nonetheless. As we drove down Earlysville Road, the man told me he’d spent much of his life in a cab. His father before him was a driver and as a toddler he’d ridden along. Now he often slept in his cab. When he slept, he had prophetic dreams. Once, he dreamt about his uncle, whom he hated. When he next visited his mother, she greeted him at the door saying, “Your uncle is dead.”

Right about then, we were cruising over the bridge by the reservoir. Eager to change the subject, I said, “You must meet some interesting people.”

He laughed, “Well, I’m never lonely, that’s for sure.” He paused. “My father rides with me. We have some good conversations.”

“That’s nice. He’s stopped working?”

“Hell yeah. He’s been dead about ten years. But he shows up and rides along now and again.”

The hair stood up on my arms. It was three in the morning and we were driving past that wooded area by Ivy Creek. To my credit, I did not jump out of the moving cab. Instead, a few minutes later, when we pulled into my driveway, I handed the driver some cash, snatched my suitcase then ran into the house, lickety-split, hoping the guy’s dead father would not follow me in.

So, in this age of alternative facts, whom do you doubt? Whom do you believe? The possibly104-year-old woman? The possibly normal cab driver?

As they say, “The truth will out.” And over the years, I’ve come to learn that if you keep your eyes open and your mind alert, the truth usually does emerge, even if it’s not at all what you expect.