The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel (28 page)

“Cora wanted to add the petals to a field green salad she was making. I told her she could pick as many as she wanted. Antoinette followed us. On the way down the drive, every forsythia was green.

“When Cora finished cutting the lilies, we turned around as Antoinette touched a bush, and it burst into bloom. Every other plant along the drive was already blooming. Yellow flowers were everywhere.

“Cora saw everything. Just like Eli, she thought it was a miracle. I told her she was imagining things. That the bushes had been blooming on our way down the drive. When that didn’t work, I faked a heart episode.”

“You didn’t,” Lily said.

Rose grinned. “You play the cards you’re dealt. Cora forgot all about the forsythia bushes after that. It’ll be the same with Eli.”

Across the hall, Antoinette shrieked again. “Come on,” Rose said. “Let’s go get our little miracle worker.”

“Wait.” Lily grabbed Rose’s hand. She didn’t want to leave anything unsaid between them. “I need you to know I won’t let you down. I’m not running away. I was scared before, but I’m not now. It’s hard being different, and I thought that being around Antoinette would make my . . . my quirks more pronounced.”

“But don’t you see?” Rose asked. “That’s why you’re perfect for her. You know what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. You know that ‘different’ doesn’t mean broken. Antoinette needs someone who will tell her that.”

She squeezed Lily’s hand, then walked across the hall to Antoinette’s room. When she opened the door, Antoinette shifted, and her eyes opened.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Rose said. Antoinette reached for her, but Rose stepped aside. “Lily’s helping us today.”

Rose glanced over her shoulder at Lily. “I know I’m asking a lot, and I wanted to thank you. Having you home makes me feel young again.”

Lily had been so long without a sister that she had forgotten the pleasure of being with someone who held your history in her heart. “Tell me what to do,” she said. She was nervous, but she knew she could do this.

“Stand over here and let her see you,” Rose said.

Lily crossed the room, but her stride was too big. One more step and she’d be at Rose’s side, ending on five. She quickly halved her stride and stopped on six. “I heard you singing this morning,” she said to Antoinette. “It was pretty.”

Antoinette ignored Lily and stretched toward Rose.

“Sit on the bed and let her get used to you,” Rose said.

Lily sat tentatively on the far edge of the bed.

“Tell her it’s time to get up,” Rose said.

“Okay. Hi Antoinette. I’m going to help you get ready this morning.”

Antoinette bounced on the bed, and Lily’s stomach dropped with the motion. “Let’s try this again,” Lily said, with a glance at Rose. “Are you ready to get up? We could go down and get some breakfast. What do you like to eat? I don’t normally eat breakfast, but I will this morning.”

Antoinette hummed.

“Did I do something wrong?” Lily asked.

“She’s singing. It means she’s happy. You’re doing great. Keep going.”

“Can you get up?” Lily stood. Antoinette flopped down and rolled to face the wall.

“You have to say it like you expect her to do it,” Rose said.

With confidence that was ninety percent fake, Lily said, “Come on Antoinette, it’s time to get up.” She stood back and waited.

“Get up,” she said again, feeling Rose’s eyes on her back. Without warning, and much to her surprise, Antoinette sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. Lily grinned. “Does she need help?”

Rose shook her head. “She knows what to do. You just need to keep her on track or she’ll wander off.”

Slowly, Lily moved toward the door. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.” When Antoinette took first one step and then another, Lily felt her world shift, and she wondered how she could have ever thought of abandoning her niece.

Chapter Twenty-Two

After eating breakfast with Lily, Antoinette stumbled down the back porch stairs, her body hurting everywhere. The happiness she had felt upon waking was gone, replaced by a constant low-level anxiety.

She wagged her head from side to side to loosen her neck muscles. When she stopped, she noticed a sparrow lying on the ground. The bird was on its side, its gray chest quivering. Antoinette hadn’t known it was possible for something to breathe so fast.

She crouched down so that she was inches from the bird, so close she could ruffle its feathers with her fingers. The sparrow tried to turn its head toward her but couldn’t. Its wing, the one it was lying on, was bent backward. Antoinette mirrored its position, twisting her right arm behind her back and turning her head the other direction.

It hurt.

“Antoinette,” Lily called from the porch. “We have to go. Seth’s waiting for you in the drying barn. Don’t you want to help him get it ready for the show?”

Of course she did. But the bird distracted her. It kicked its legs, but it didn’t go anywhere.

Antoinette leaned closer. The bird breathed faster.

Since healing Lily’s fingers, Antoinette’s arms rarely stayed at her side. She couldn’t walk from the porch to the house garden without stopping to rest, and she was tired all the time.

Lily’s feet made soft swishing sounds as she walked through the grass. “Come on, Antoinette. Let’s go. I have to drop you off with Seth before Will takes me to the doctor.”

Over and over Antoinette saw herself reaching for Lily’s hand. The tiny bones rearranging themselves. The skin stretching. The muscles lengthening. Everything was almost locked in place. Then the seizure came.

Lily’s hand looked normal, but things weren’t always what they seemed. The bones weren’t properly fused, and it wouldn’t be long before they slid out of place again. Lily’s hand would be just as broken as it was before.

The bird opened its beak; a tiny squeak escaped. Antoinette leaned forward until she was right over it. Slowly, she dropped her hand to its chest.

I’m not going to hurt you
, she thought. The bird’s heart skittered beneath her fingers. Antoinette closed her eyes, listening.

At first, she didn’t hear anything, and her heart raced. The bird opened and closed its beak, but nothing came out.

Antoinette concentrated until a faint song emerged. It was the sound of a piccolo, high and fast, the notes bright.

She followed the melody until she found the spot where the notes were off-key, deep, pain-filled things. The wing was broken. She absorbed the wrong notes and hummed, welcoming the pain into her body, knitting the bird’s bones back together.

It took longer than usual, but gradually the song corrected itself. When everything was right, the bird shuddered. It twisted upright, hopped once, and leapt into the sky.

Then Lily was there. “No!” She grabbed Antoinette, but she was too late.

Antoinette tracked the bird, even as she started to shake. She fell sideways but kept the sparrow in sight as it flew higher and higher.

Then, just before the seizure claimed her, the bird stuttered in midair. Its wing folded backward, and it tumbled to the ground.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER,
Antoinette sat by her mother’s knees, listening to Dvorak’s
New World Symphony
on headphones Lily bought for her. Her mother was at the kitchen table, going over her notes for the garden show. “Thirty-two vendors,” she said under her breath. “That’s up from last year.”

Antoinette couldn’t forget the bird. After seizing, she slept for a while and woke to the image of the sparrow falling from the sky. She shivered at the thought and pressed her cheek against her mother’s knee. The day was hot for April, but she felt cold. She looked around the room, expecting to see icicles edging the table, but everything was normal.

Gold light shimmered through the window on the kitchen door. She wanted to be outside where the sun would warm her.

She stretched her arm up. It was heavy. Dvorak’s symphony rolled through her headphones, helping her focus. When her arm was high enough, she let it fall against her mother’s elbow. Tap. Tap. Then she pointed.
Outside.

“Not now. I have to finish,” her mother said, without looking up.

Sometimes Antoinette spoke in her dreams. Often she woke sure a word had made it past her lips, but she was always a second too late. The room was silent every time.

If she could speak, her mother wouldn’t ignore her. Antoinette would say, “Outside,” and they would go. She opened her mouth and tried to push the word out, but not even a whisper escaped.

She scooted across the floor on her rear. At the door, she stood and pressed her nose against the glass. Through the window, she saw Lily and Seth digging weeds in the kitchen garden. Lily worked a triangle of basil. Her back was to Seth so she didn’t see him reach for her, as if wanting to stroke her skin.

Will was also outside. He sat on the porch swing, staring at Lily, but she didn’t notice him either.

Lily had spent the morning in the emergency room, and she returned home with her hand bandaged. Looking at it made Antoinette’s stomach feel hollow, so she shifted her gaze to the plants.

Dill, basil, and oregano grew in wedges bordered by lavender and salvia. Later, marigolds would poke from the soil in a neat circle around the bed. Cora was the only one who used the herbs now that Antoinette’s mother no longer cooked. Their names ran through Antoinette’s head like a song.
Dill, basil, oregano. Dill, basil, oregano.
She flapped her hands and hummed.

Over the headphones, a flutist began a solo. Antoinette swayed in time to the music. The notes were smooth and round, each one perfect, the sound of loneliness.

Sometimes Antoinette didn’t mind being different. When she stood outside and felt the sun on her face—not only its heat, but its essence—when that slipped under her skin, she felt special. But she didn’t feel anything now, so what was she? A weird kid who couldn’t control her body. She couldn’t completely heal her mother or Lily. She couldn’t hear the flowers sing. And now she couldn’t even save the life of a sparrow.

She looked back at her mother, curled over her notebook, entering numbers in her neat, even handwriting. She made one last notation, then stood and removed Antoinette’s headphones. “Will you come outside with me?” she asked.

Moving was difficult. Antoinette’s legs popped most of the time, and when she tried to sit still her arms flew over her head. With her mother’s help, she made it outside, but her legs telescoped as soon as her feet touched the porch. She fell, banging her knees on the wood floor.

Will helped her up. “You’re going to have a bruise,” he said as he brushed off her knees.

She could already feel the bruise forming as she walked to the edge of the porch.

Will stood beside her. “She’s fascinating,” he said.

The swing sighed as her mother sat down. “Do you mean Antoinette or Lily?”

What a silly question, Antoinette thought. Didn’t her mother see the way Will looked at Lily?

“Antoinette, of course,” Will said.

“If you say so,” her mother said. “But I don’t think Antoinette’s the reason you drove all the way down here.”

Will looked out over the fields. “The reason I came doesn’t matter anymore.” He looked like he wanted to say more but broke off, coughing.

Antoinette flapped her hands and walked to the edge of the porch. The mountain ash had bloomed. Its branches were a cotton-candy canopy of blooms. Anemones grew around its base, their foliage like thousands of little fingers.

She eased down the stairs and walked to the tree. She sat down and listened to the bees as they darted in and out of the tiny white blossoms.

Sit
, she thought.
Stay still.

For a moment, her body was quiet. Then a twitch started at the tips of her toes. She tried to pin her arms down, but the twitch burst out of her body, and her hands flapped over her head.

Disappointment filled her.

Everything was changing.

She looked at the anemones. One plant had leaves that were yellow, but the veins were neon green. That was not normal. The leaves should be a nice even green.

Antoinette wiggled her toes deep into the ground and listened, straining to hear. The flowers were silent.

She pushed her hands wrist-deep into the dirt and closed her eyes.

Nothing.

No, no, no!
She whipped her head back and forth and slumped over, her face on the ground. Mulch scratched her cheeks and her forehead. She still couldn’t hear the plants, couldn’t
feel
them. The despair that had been building in her since she had failed to heal Lily’s hand finally erupted, and she screamed.

Then Will was there. He slid his hands under Antoinette’s arms and picked her up. “I’m taking you to your mother.”

Antoinette stiffened until she was board flat, but Will was strong. He carried her to the swing and settled her into her mother’s arms. Then he stared into her eyes. “Her pupils aren’t fixed,” he said. “It isn’t a seizure.”

Antoinette could have told him that. A seizure didn’t fill her with emptiness. A seizure would mean there was still hope, a chance she could heal her mother.