The Question of Miracles (18 page)

They would never have those answers. So Iris did what had to be done—she scooped a shovelful of dirt atop the egg. She patted the earth down hard and flat. She turned away.

But before she left the garden, she saw something nearby, something so small she nearly missed it, something she might have expected to see, but hadn't—sprouts, tiny and green, like blades of grass, but aligned in a neat row just where she and her parents had planted seeds.

“Dad,” she said. “Look!”

He did, and then he looked back at Iris. A wide bright grin split his beard. “Will you look at that, Pigeon!”

Iris knelt down and ran her finger across the fine green tips. They bent gently beneath her touch, then sprang back up.

“What'd we plant here, do you remember?”

“Broccoli, I think.”

“Well, it looks like we're going to need a lot of cheese sauce,” said her dad.

They walked together carefully through the garden, eyes on the ground. And they saw more sprouts—radish greens, the twining start of pea shoots. With each discovery they pointed and laughed, calling to each other. Pushing up all around them—beautiful green beginnings.

It wasn't until they started to head back toward the house that Iris realized she had forgotten to put on her raincoat. Her sweatshirt was damp, and she was sort of cold, but she wasn't frozen through and miserable.

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “It's raining.”

“What's new?” He laughed.

“It's raining, and I didn't even notice,” Iris said. “
That's
new.” She stopped and spread out her arms, turned her face up to the sky. Down came the rain, drop after drop, splattering her cheeks and running down her neck, under the collar of her sweatshirt.

She began to turn, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until she was spinning, until she was dizzy, until up and down lost meaning, until all she could think about was the motion that carried her into her turn, and the way her feet slip-slid in the mud.

She caught sight of her dad. He'd dropped the shovel and was spinning too, his face turned up to catch the rain.

Bad things happen,
Iris thought.
People die. Eggs sometimes do not hatch. But miracles . . . they happen too.

There were miracles all around her, right in this very moment. There was a miracle in spinning with her dad, under the heavy sky. In the sun that peeked through the gilt-edged clouds. There was a miracle in their crops that bravely emerged from the soil into the big wide world. In the chicks, peeping in the kitchen.

And, Iris thought, if she could actually teach Boris to play a decent game of tennis, that would be miraculous.

She stumbled to a stop and fell into her dad. He picked her up and hugged her close. Then he spun once more, this time with her in his arms. She felt the now-familiar scratch of his beard against her cheek; she smelled the memory of the fire he built each day in the flannel of his shirt.

Clean, fresh rain showered down on them.

There was a miracle, too, in that.

The Question of Miracles
would not exist if not for Rubin Pfeffer, who challenged me to write a middle grade novel. It is such a pleasure, Rubin Pfeffer, to be your client and your friend.

Adah Nuchi, I feel like a racehorse who has been ridden by the finest jockey. You knew where to push further and when to pull back, and you softened my instinct to race full speed and full force to help me create something much finer. You really, truly are a wonderful editor. I'm so glad to have found a home with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

My wonderful family of readers—Nana, Dad, Sasha, Mischa, and Zak—as before, your support is incalculable. Keith, I am grateful as always that you value my writing time above silly things like laundry and a clean house. And Max, Davis, and Kaycee, my middle grade editors . . . your willing ears and wonderful advice helped shape Iris's story. Thank you.

David King, source of all things Magic, I so appreciate your expert insight. I can't wait to see my name in the list of acknowledgments in
your
novel!

Huge thanks to Kate, for all of your help with the medical and religious backstory. And, of course, a special acknowledgment to Declan, the Boy Who Lived.

E
LANA
K. A
RNOLD
, the author of several young adult novels, earned her master's in creative writing at the University of California, Davis. She lives in Huntington Beach, California, with her husband, two children, and a menagerie of animals.
The Question of Miracles
is her debut for younger readers.

 

www.elanakarnold.com