Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  She laughed shakily. “There’s hope for your sense of humor. Keep working on it.” When he hugged her fiercely she made a tragic sound. “Dr. Atwater’s here,” she whispered. “He’s hanging around in the kitchen. He said he’d take me to breakfast after … after, you know.”

  “I’ll speak to him on my way out.”

  A convulsive little shiver ran through her at those words. “I don’t want breakfast. But I’ll go. I’ll be all right. I’m as strong as you are, okay? And I’m gonna make you proud.”

  Sebastien laid his face against the top of her head and shut his eyes. He never prayed; he wasn’t certain that he was praying to anyone or anything in particular now, but he found himself asking silently, Please let my decision be the right one.

  “You can make anything you want of your life,” he told her. “Do that for me. You’re very special. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise again.”

  “I’ll try not to. And you … Doc … Sebastien … please don’t look at the dark side of things so much. I’m afraid for you.” She wiped her eyes roughly. “I sound like a kid who’s seen Star Wars too many times. But you’ve gotta fight the dark side of the force, okay?”

  “Yes. I’ll try.” He kissed her, trying to savor the last, vivid contact as long as he could. Then she raised her lips to his eyes and forehead, kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally the scar on his chin. “A matched pair,” she told him, drawing one fingertip from his old scar to her new one. “I’m glad.”

  He struggled for a moment. “I’m glad, also.” Sebastien took a deep breath and tried to let it wash the regrets out of his chest. “It’s time, Amy.”

  She caught a sob in her throat and kissed him again. He bent her back on the bed, his hands shaking a little as he stroked her face. When he gently pulled her arms from around him she turned over quickly, her head bowed against a pillow, her hands knotting in the silk casing. “I can’t look. Good-bye. Good-bye. I love you so much. I always will—”

  “Amy, don’t,” he said gruffly, then bent forward and pressed a hard kiss to the crown of her head. “You give so much happiness to others. Now go and find some for yourself.”

  He left the room, closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment with his eyes shut. Walking away from her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Compared to that, admitting that he loved her was easy.

  Seated on the floor of her tiny dorm room, Amy bent over a book and gnawed the end of her pencil, trying to concentrate. For Sebastien’s sake she would even suffer through algebra.

  She had learned a lot about survival during the past seventeen months, a different kind of survival from the cringing, don’t-notice-me-please behavior of the past. She had become more confident. She had amazed herself by her ability to make good grades, to talk to strangers, to manage her life without anyone’s supervision. She had learned that a person could get up every morning and carry through every day despite grief.

  She called Jeff Atwater anytime she needed the advice of an experienced person, and he was always eager to help. He phoned often just to chat with her, and she loved their easy camaraderie. He regularly drove up from Atlanta to visit, and they held long discussions about her past, and Pop.

  Jeff had helped her see how she’d let Pop’s problem ruin her own self-image. With Jeff’s guidance she had even grown secure enough to endure holiday dinners with Pop and Maisie. But those were the only times she could bear to see them.

  Good old Jeff. She had come to like him a lot. She glanced eagerly at her watch. A few minutes later she was surprised to hear footsteps stop at her door. Someone banged on it lustily. “You can’t keep her prisoner in there! I know you’ve got the princess! Now let down this draw bridge!”

  Laughing, she bounded to the door and flung it open. Jeff stood there, a bright-red poinsettia tilting toward her from the cradle of his arm. “You’re here an hour early!”

  “It’s Christmas season, m’lady. You shouldn’t be studying.’ He glared at her. Over snug jeans and a colorful sweater he wore a jacket that seemed to have been fashioned from a Navaho blanket. “Grab your coat and let’s go eat. I’m starving. Oh! A flower for you.” He thrust the poinsettia at her with mock shyness.

  Amy set it on her tiny dresser, stroked the brilliant leaves, then smiled at him. “Thanks. You made my day.”

  He peered inside the room, studying the half that had been cleared of her roommate’s possessions. “Did you lose another one?”

  “Yeah. She was flunkin’ out, so she went home early for Christmas.” Amy pulled a heavy raincoat over her jeans and sweatshirt, then jammed her door key and wallet into the coat’s pockets. “Is it something about me? Am I bad luck? Why am I always alone?”

  He pulled her into the hall and shut the door. “Because no one should have you but me,” he said with glorious lechery, and swung her around in a circle until she was breathless and laughing.

  She hugged him. “That’s right. I’m all yours.” Arm in arm, they marched down the hall.

  After dinner at a restaurant in town, they walked the block back to campus. In a park near the administration building they sat under the stately, leafless oaks and watched twilight ignite the street lamps.

  “Elves are responsible for that,” Jeff announced.

  “Yeah, and Santa Claus is complaining to their union about the overtime.” She clenched her hands against the calves of her legs and tried to sound casual. “I guess Sebastian didn’t send you a Christmas card or anything, huh?”

  Immediately Jeff’s mood changed. It happened every time she mentioned Sebastien. “Has he ever sent me a card or note, Amy?

  “No, but—”

  “In almost a year and a half has he ever written or called to ask how you’re doing?”

  “No, but I keep thinkin’ that—”

  “Amy. Sweet Amy.” His voice became cajoling. He put one hand on the back of her neck and rubbed circles with his fingertips. He always did this to her when she mentioned Sebastien. “He’s not interested in you, Amy,” he murmured.

  “For now.”

  “For good.”

  Jeff’s gaze locked with hers, and he moved so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek when he spoke. “You’re going to forget about Sebastien. He’s not coming back. Accept that. Say it, Amy. Say, ‘There’s no future for him and me together. I have a life to lead without him. He’s forgotten me. I won’t hold onto unrealistic ideas about him.’ Say it.”

  His tone hypnotized her. He sounded so sad. But she shook her head. “He belongs to me in a special way. I’ll never forget him.”

  “Amy. Don’t hurt yourself with fantasy.”

  Each time Jeff got into one of these soft-spoken moods it made her burn with confusion and fear. What if he were right? But she never agreed with him. Jeff, rather than get mad at her, would only rub her back or her neck a while longer and continue speaking, his voice always low, sometimes almost a whisper. Like now.

  “You deserve to be happy,” he told her. “I understand your loneliness. I understand what it means to have needs, normal, guilt-free needs. You miss Sebastien because you want to be touched, to be held.”

  “I know you understand. I can talk to you about anything. But having ‘needs’ isn’t the same as needing just one person.”

  His fingertips soothed the back of her neck. They felt marvelous there, keeping her hypnotized, keeping her eyes riveted to his. “Trust someone who’s been lonely, sweets. Some needs are too important to ignore.”

  His gaze trailed down to her mouth. A jolt of surprise hit her, and then deep wariness. “You want me to kiss you?”

  He smiled, reassuring her. “Just to prove that you can kiss someone besides Sebastien. If you love him so much, you won’t feel anything for another man.”

  “Even as green as I am, I know that it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Are you afraid? Adults aren’t afraid to push their limits.”

  His teasing tone provoked her. After
all, he wasn’t serious. He was just good old Jeff, Sebastien’s friend. Her friend. Her heart thudding against her rib cage, she leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. “Did it.”

  “Like it?”

  “I wouldn’t trade ice cream for it. Comeon, let’s go. I told you I’d buy you a Frosted Orange at the Varsity.”

  “You didn’t give me a fair chance.”

  His fingers clutched gently at the nape of her neck. He pulled her to him and twisted his mouth on hers. Memories of Sebastien’s kisses came alive with exquisite detail. Shutting her eyes tightly, she kissed Jeff back. It was so easy to pretend … and so easy to bring back all the pain.

  “Stop,” she begged against his mouth. She jerked away from him, trembling.

  He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “See?” he said gruffly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a normal human need. You have to let someone show you how easily it can be satisfied. Then you’ll stop hoping for the impossible.”

  She scooted away from him, miserable with herself for feeling anything at all. “Fake sugar is worse than no sugar at all.”

  Jeff’s ragged breath made puffs in the chilled air. He seemed a little unnerved, himself. “Fake sugar?” His hand dropped to his knees. “You’ve crushed my lumps, Amy.” He shook his head and laughed. The disturbing mood faded. “Okay. Lesson ended.”

  She scrambled to her feet. Tears stung her eyes. “Maybe you’re not the kind of friend I thought you were.”

  Jeff got up quickly. “I’m your pal, and don’t you forget it.” When she pivoted and started to walk off he grabbed her by one arm. Before she knew what was happening he had his arm around her shoulders and was hugging her against his side. “I apologize, sweets.” His voice became absurdly pitiful. “I’m an old man of thirty-one, just trying to have a little fun before all my teeth fall out.”

  “Or some woman punches ’em out.” Amy frowned up at him.

  He clasped his chest with his free hand. “Forgive me, fair lady, forgive! Thou dost read too much into this old man’s gallant attempt to make you happy.”

  She felt a little foolish. Maybe she had overreacted. “Okay, okay.” She slipped away from him and shrugged. “But no more lessons.”

  “No more,” he promised solemnly.

  Amy grabbed at ner newspaper and her book bag as the lurching bus threw her against her seatmate. She grumbled under her breath. She had a ton of homework to do, she’d been sick to her stomach all day in anticipation of a book report she’d had to give in her English literature class, and her latest roommate had just been expelled for setting a fire in one of the men’s dorms. That made four roommates in six quarters. Two juvenile delinquents kicked out and two pledged to sororities. Her loneliness had a sharper sting than usual.

  She stared out the window. She and the girl next to her swayed with all the other damp, bedraggled students as the bus chugged up a street ascending one of the university’s interminable hills. It was impossible to drive the Ferrari around campus. Parking was difficult, and she always worried that the car would be vandalized or stolen. She stored it in a garage in town.

  Poor little thing. Can’t drive the expensive sports car to class. Amy chastised herself. She had it good. She had plenty of money. She had everything she could possibly want. Sure. Amy watched cold rain drizzle down the bus window. Tugging her gloves off, she shoved them into the pockets of a quilted jacket. Then she folded the student newspaper, The Red and Black, to the classified section. The ad leapt out at her like a rescue beacon:

  ROOMMATE NEEDED, LOVELY OLD HOUSE ONE BLOCK FROM CAMPUS. ARE YOU A SERIOUS STUDENT? CONSERVATIVE? EASY TO GET ALONG WITH? INTO HEALTH FOOD, PHYSICAL FITNESS, HOME, MOM, AND APPLE PIE? THAT’S DISGUSTING. STAY AWAY FROM ME. BUT IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR AN ADVENTURE IN (CHEAP) LIVING, CALL MARY BETH.

  Startled, Amy laughed. This person had a way with words, a sense of humor—and an attitude problem. She made a note of the phone number and called the intriguing Mary Beth as soon as she returned to her dorm room. A masculine voice that engendered images of thick, red necks and steroid abuse told her that Mary Beth would be back from choir practice at the synagogue at any minute; then it politely gave her directions to the house and volunteered that the room rent was only a hundred dollars a month.

  The house had seen better years. In fact, it had seen better decades, probably before World War II. Amy parked the Ferrari next to a cracked sidewalk under a walnut tree that leaned sideways like a drunk trying to whisper a secret. Parked nearby was a bright red Honda Civic with a lot of dents. The license tag said BIGTYM. The bumper sticker said Born to be Bad.

  Her palms sweaty, Amy crossed a balding yard and climbed concrete steps to a veranda that had recently suffered somebody’s idea of a paint job. She pulled back a warped screen door and knocked on a scratched wooden door.

  Within a few seconds it was slung open by a small blonde in jeans and a kimono, a cigarette dangling from her lips, sock-clad feet planted wide apart on yellowed linoleum. Her hair was a perfect Farrah Fawcett mane; her face was serious enough to be beautiful despite its cheerleader cuteness; and when she lifted one hand to scratch under one arm with all the aplomb of a truck driver, she flashed magnificent nails lacquered a peach color.

  Amy’s dread increased. She had nothing in common with this person. “I, uhmmm, I called about the ad … the housemate ad.”

  “You must have talked to Harlan. He was just passing through on his way to football practice.” Out of the little blonde came a voice of disc-jockey depth and blue-blooded debutante vowels. “Well, come on in, honey. Wait—you’re not a freshman, are you? I’ll take ax murderers and dope dealers before I’ll waste time with any more dumb-fart freshmen.”

  “You’re in luck. I’m a sophomore. I’ve been living in Brumby for the past six quarters. My last roommate was a first-quarter freshman. She threw up on my bed one night. I never did that to anybody when I was a freshman.”

  “You obviously have style. Six quarters in Brumby?”

  “I lived there over the summer, too.”

  “Jeez, and you don’t have any inclination to nibble cheese and twitch your whiskers? What a rat hole. Okay, so haul it in and sit it down, so we can talk. By the way, I’m a sophomore, too.”

  “Listen, I’m uh, I’m not Jewish. Is that okay? The person on the phone said you were at the synagogue, and I thought maybe you wanted a Jewish—”

  “You afraid I’ll make you eat matzo balls or something?”

  “I’ll give ’em a try. Sure.”

  The blonde peered at her closely. “I’m Jewish on my mother’s side of the family. The other half of the family are whacked-out Christian fundamentalists. The combination keeps me totally confused. So I try to eat a lot of kosher food, and I don’t dance or gamble during Jimmy Swaggart sermons. My grandmother Rose calls me a shiksa and my grandmother Melanie calls me a JAP. My parents don’t care what I am as long as I’m perfect. It’s a bitch.”

  Amy began to smile. “I’m not anything. So whatever you are is okay by me.”

  “Be something, sugar! Be a rebellious shiksa JAP like me! But be proud of it, no matter what!” The blonde waved a hand. Amy followed her into a living room strewn with battered furniture. “Salvation Army brand. Great, huh? Wait till I get it all arranged. I just moved in a week ago.”

  They sat down on a plaid couch. “Okay, so here’s the sob story. I got kicked out of my sorority for being too liberal. That’s what happens to you when you join NOW, the NAACP, and the ACLU all in the same quarter. My parents cut off my allowance for being kicked out of the sorority. See, sugar, I broke a three-generation legacy. So now I’m a rebel debutante. But I’m going to be the next Barbara Walters, so I don’t give a shit. Except I have to pay my own bills until the network calls. I got a four-oh average and I study as hard as I party. I rent this place and you’ll rent from me. Still interested? You gotta pay utilities, too.”

  Amy nodded blankly, hypnotized. It all made sense. Somehow,
it all made sense. Not much else had in all the months since Sebastien’s departure. “Okay. Good,” she told the girl. “I’m on my own, like you. And I’m ambitious, too. I’m majoring in international business. I’m planning to work in France after I graduate. Oh, and I’ll pay utilities.”

  “We’ll be ambitious bitches together, then.” The blonde stuck out her hand. “Mary Beth Vandergard. Welcome to the big time, sugar.”

  Amy moved in that weekend. Mary Beth came outside to gawk at the Ferrari. “Shit, why don’t you just buy yourself a house?”

  “I’m not rich.” Amy carefully lifted a box from the passenger seat. It contained the herbs Sebastien had given her. She held the box close to protect it from the February chill and started inside. Mary Beth marched along beside her.

  “Sugar, those better not be dope plants.”

  “They’re herbs. I don’t … I don’t use drugs.” Amy looked at her anxiously. “Do you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been known to smoke a joint at a party now and then. But I don’t want the shit in my house.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “So how’d you get the Ferrari?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “From who? Your parents?”

  “No.” They entered the house.

  “Sugar, you need to loosen up. Talk. Comeon. I’m a journalism major, okay? You can’t escape my probing, incisive questions.” Mary Beth chortled. “Also, I may be little, but I can beat the shit out of you if you don’t cooperate.”

  “Do you know that you’ve said ‘shit’ three times in the last five minutes? A record?”

  “Not even close.”

  Amy frowned as she carried the box of plants down a long hall to the back, where she had a big, musty-smelling bedroom across from the kitchen. She loved the room; it was hers alone. She didn’t want to share it any more than she wanted to share her memories. She had spent months thinking that she was going to wither and die from missing Sebastien, and she was only now beginning to feel better. This summer she was going to France. She only had a few more months to wait.