The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel (17 page)

I’ve examined my journal entries from that weekend. If I had known that was the last time I would see my parents, I would have recorded everything: the shirt Mom was wearing; her shade of lipstick; the number of hairs on Dad’s head. As it is, I know that Dr. Ketters wore a purple dress with gold buttons when she told me to institutionalize my daughter, but I don’t know what my mother looked like when she got in the car and drove away.

The phone rings again.

Though the window above the sink is open, the house is too quiet. I need the night to seep in. I pull the drain in the sink and watch the suds swirl away. Then I rinse the plates and dry them with a dish towel. The plates are white. The towel is white. I miss color.

The answering machine clicks on after the third ring. I hear Lily’s voice. “Rose. Pick up the phone. I’m sorry. Talk to me.” She is crying, and so am I, but I can’t move.

I miss my sister, but Antoinette deserves to be surrounded by people who love her, not by people who are afraid of her. I failed when I was pregnant by not carrying her long enough. I won’t fail now. No one will hurt her. Even Lily.

The sweet scent of honeysuckle drifts through the window. Suddenly I’m a child again, sitting with Lily under honeysuckle vines blooming at the edge of the creek. Their branches were so heavy with flowers they arched downward. As we watched, a doe crept out of the brush and lifted her nose to the wind.

I held my breath.

“Do you think I could touch her?” Lily whispered.

“Hush,” I said. “You’ll scare her off.” I was the big sister who didn’t have patience for the dark-haired little girl always tagging along behind me. I was the one who was embarrassed when her sister stared at the sky and counted the stars.

Lily was mesmerized by the deer. “I’m going to touch her,” she whispered. She crawled out from under the bush.

When Lily moved, the doe lifted her head and sniffed the wind. She tilted her head to the side and stared right at us.

“Don’t!” I grabbed Lily’s arm, trying to keep her with me, but she was too far ahead.

The doe froze, and Lily stopped. Her lips moved as she counted. She waited for so long I thought she’d give up and come back to me.

Then the doe slowly dropped her head to the creek. My heart raced as Lily crawled closer. I wanted to follow her, but fear held me back. When Lily was an arm’s length away, the deer lifted her head and bounded through the brush.

Lily didn’t touch the doe that day, but between the two of us, she was the one who wasn’t afraid to try.

She’s still trying, I think as I listen to her voice on the answering machine. If I was anything like her, I’d pick up the phone and beg her to come home.

Instead, I wait until she’s finished talking and then click Save. Later tonight, I’ll replay this message along with the dozens of others she’s left since December.

Just then, a knock at the door startles me. I peer through the window. “Seth!” Surprise makes me throw open the door. It’s been years since I’ve seen him.

“Lily’s not here,” I say, without thinking. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I know. I mean, that’s what Teelia told me. I just got back into town. I guess you heard about my mom?”

News travels fast around Redbud. His mother died of a heart attack a few days ago. His father had died a year earlier, so Seth was alone now. I nod, and he looks down at the ground.

“I’m here taking care of things and thought I’d stop by.” He is shy. As if we didn’t spend every summer of our childhood together.

It crosses my mind that I shouldn’t be talking to him after the way he treated Lily. I might be mad at her, but she’s still my sister. Then he says, “I’m sorry about your parents,” and I crumble.

He holds me while I cry into his shirt. “I loved them too,” he says, and I shake harder.

When I finally stop crying, he looks over my shoulder as if Lily will appear and make a liar out of me. I almost wish she would. Antoinette leans into my leg. “My daughter, Antoinette,” I say.

“God, she looks like you.”

I swell with pride.

He kneels and speaks to Antoinette. “I knew your mom when she was a little thing, just like you.”

Antoinette flaps her hands and shrieks.

“She likes you,” I say. “She usually doesn’t react this well to strangers.”

He straightens and stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “It’s been years, but I hope I’m not a stranger.”

“Of course not.” I stand back and open the door wider. I ignore a twinge of guilt that makes me feel I’m betraying Lily by speaking to him.

When he walks in, he stops in the middle of the kitchen and turns in a slow circle. “It’s the same,” he says. Which is funny, because to me, everything has changed.

AN HOUR LATER,
we walk through the night garden. The air is cool, and the flowers are budding. So are dandelions and chokeweed.

Mom and I spent weeks planning the night garden. I still have our plans in my old sketch pads. White lilies line the path and moonflowers scale the wrought-iron arch at the entrance to the garden. At night, the arch fades and the moonflowers look like they’re floating. Lily used to say it was magic.

I haven’t been here since Mom died, and it shows. Weeds are everywhere. I can’t look at the ground without that bruised feeling rising up in me, so I look up. The sky is a combination of blue-and-gray swirls, like Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
.

Antoinette walks ahead of us, on her tiptoes like a ballerina. Before the doctor told me that toe-walking was a sign of developmental delays, I thought it was cute. Now it’s a reminder of everything that’s different about her.

Halfway across the garden, she stops and kneels under a maple tree. Snowdrops bloom in a semicircle around her. Odd. I don’t remember planting the flowers. It’s too late in the season for them. They bloom in early March.

A page from Lily’s flower language book pops into my mind. Snowdrops represent hope. The passing of sorrow.

The maple trees have dropped their helicopter seeds, and Seth sweeps them from a stone bench in the center of the garden.

I’m about to sit when I see that something has captured Antoinette’s attention. A sparrow lies on its side under the tree. Its wing is outstretched, its head twisted to the side. Its eyes are open. Antoinette reaches for it.

“Don’t touch!” I say as I hurry over. “It’s dirty.”

It’s silly, but I cry when I see the bird. Antoinette kneels and softly strokes its head. She runs her fingers across its wing, and all the while she hums. She is careful, as if aware that death is a solemn thing. I don’t have the heart to pull her away.

When she stops humming, her head twitches slightly, and the left side of her mouth curves upward. She suddenly looks sleepy and closes her eyes and lists to the side.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say.

When I bend down to pick her up, the bird hops to its feet.

I gasp and fall back. “Seth!” I point to the bird as it spreads its wings and jumps into the sky.

“Did you see that?” I ask. “The bird. It was dead.” I am giddy. Death has surrounded me for so long that this small life is absurdly precious. I start laughing and can’t stop.

Antoinette flaps her hands, and I pick her up. She is heavy with sleep.

“Did you see the bird?” I ask Seth as I hurry back to the bench. I shouldn’t be carrying Antoinette. Though she is small, she’s heavy for me. I’m winded by the time I sit next to Seth, Antoinette on my lap.

“It was probably stunned,” he says, “like when they smack into a window but then later fly off.”

I look at the snowdrops. I think of the way my heart eases at Antoinette’s touch. The cut on my finger at Lily’s house, how it healed. Coincidence can’t explain everything. I want to tell Seth, but he’s right. I’ve seen birds hit our kitchen window, fall to the ground, and lie there for several minutes before flying off like nothing happened.

“Mom’s funeral is tomorrow,” Seth says, breaking into my thoughts. “I’d like it if you were there. She didn’t have a lot of friends. And with my father gone—”

“Of course,” I say, forgetting the bird. “I’ll be there.”

Antoinette sinks into me. “How long will you be in town?” I ask. I have other questions: Where have you been? Why didn’t you come back before? And most of all: have you talked to Lily? But I don’t ask them.

Seth picks a piece of long grass and splits it down the middle. Then he ties the thin pieces into a knot. He does the same thing with several other long pieces until he has a grass necklace. “Here, Antoinette.” He slips it over her head. She shrieks and flaps her hands.

“That means she’s happy,” I explain.

“I have to close up the house,” he says. “Get everything sorted out. Should take a month or so.”

“What about work? Don’t you have a church or something?”

He presses his lips together and looks down at his fingers. “Didn’t exactly work out.”

I don’t press for details; he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to share, and I’m not surprised. Seth always had a philosophical bent, but he wasn’t a conformist. I never could picture him among men who spent more time making sure women stayed out of the clergy than feeding the hungry.

“If you need a hand while I’m around . . .” He gestures toward the night garden.

“Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.” The words hurt as they come out. A few years ago I would have given anything to leave the farm. Now it’s the only place I want to be. “I can’t run it by myself.” The season’s only beginning and already I’m behind. Several rows of daffodils died because I didn’t harvest them in time.

“You’re thinking of selling?”

“I don’t have much choice. I’ve got a kid. I’m sick.”

Seth looked at me in surprise.

“I developed a heart problem when Antoinette was born. I can’t handle the farm by myself.” I gesture to the weeds growing at our feet. Pride keeps me from mentioning Lily’s phone calls.

“What about Lily?” he asks, as if he’s reading my mind.

“We had a falling out. She sold me her share of the farm.”

He doesn’t ask what happened, and I don’t offer details. We both have sore spots when it comes to Lily.

I hate the thought of giving up the farm. Antoinette loves it here, but I lose my breath walking from my bedroom to the kitchen. I can’t manage a fifty-acre farm alone.

“What if I stick around a little longer?” he asks. “Help you get things under control.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” I say, but in my heart I’m screaming for help.

“You’re not asking,” he says. “I’m offering. Growing up, this place was more of a home to me than my own house. Let me help.”

It’s late, and I’m sitting in the middle of a weed patch. But I look at the snowdrops. I think of the bird flying. And for the first time in a long time, I feel almost weightless with relief.

Chapter Eleven

The next afternoon Antoinette followed Seth to the drying barn. The flagstone path radiated heat. She stepped from the stones to the Elfin thyme ground cover. Her feet brushed the tiny leaves, releasing the strong scent into the air. The plants held her footprints for a second, and then sprang back as if she hadn’t been there at all.

Her mother was at the house, sitting next to Lily on the porch swing. They sat on opposite ends of the swing, not close to each other like sisters should. Antoinette growled, but the drying barn was too far away for them to hear. A hard knot sat between her shoulders. She rolled her head from side to side, but it didn’t help.

Other than the thick trees lining the creek bank, this was the only spot of deep shade on the farm. Birch and oak trees, their branches interlaced and their roots tangled, encircled the barn. Hostas, ferns, and pink bleeding hearts poked through the soil. A semicircle of dead pansies stood to one side of the barn. Antoinette stretched up on her toes and walked toward them.

“Oh no you don’t,” Seth said as he pulled her away from the flowers and guided her into the drying barn. “You stick with me.”

It was at least ten degrees cooler in the barn. Sawdust covered the floor and drying lavender hung from the rafters. Steel buckets hung from metal hooks along one wall and wheelbarrows were stacked up against another. Seth upended one of the wheelbarrows and placed several steel buckets into it.

Antoinette tapped the wheelbarrow and raised her hands.

“You want a ride?” Seth asked.

Antoinette flapped her hands.
Yes!

He laughed and picked her up. “You’re getting big.” He gave her a tight squeeze then settled her into the wheelbarrow.

“Hold this for me.” Seth pressed his iPod into her hands. It was hooked to a wireless docking station. “Are you up for a music lesson?”

Antoinette flapped her hands. She didn’t need paper to communicate with Seth. She held the iPod while he scrolled through the songs on his playlist. “John Hiatt on the way to the fields? Classical while we work?”

She bobbed her head. Seth loved music almost as much as he loved the farm. He taught her the names of the instruments and how to tell if a piece was written in four-four time or three-four time.

He pressed Play on his iPod, and Hiatt’s “Thirty Years of Tears” started. Then Seth grabbed the wheelbarrow’s handles and pushed Antoinette out of the barn. “Hiatt has a great southern folk sound,” he said. “This song is in three-four time. Like a waltz.”