The Miracle Girl

by T. B. Markinson

  She smiled.

  “God I’ve missed you.” She touched my cheek gently. “My Claire,” I whispered before resting my head on her shoulder.

  Chapter Eight

  “Blogs!” hollered Darrell. “You want us to hire bloggers? We’re a newspaper, not WordPress.”

  I sat on the edge of the far table in the conference room, and eased off one of my four-inch heels. I regretted the decision to wear them. I had a meeting later with the governor and needed to look more glamorous than usual. My black pencil skirt hitched up a bit, and Claire smiled. Adjusting my skirt and silk lavender blouse, I tried my best to maintain my cool and intimidate the officious editor. At the other end of the long table, Darrell adjusted his hideous black-framed glasses. With my arms crossed I answered, “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “First it was Twitter. Now blogs. Make up your fucking mind.” Darrell waved an arm in the air.

  Ten pairs of eyes stared at us like they were watching tennis, back and forth, and they were dying to see how I would handle his last potshot. I chose to ignore his f-bomb. That type of language was the norm in the newspaper business. “I haven’t given up on Twitter. And have you ever heard of The Huffington Post? Or the Drudge Report, Darrell?”

  Darrell, shell-shocked, shook his head exasperated. “They publish garbage.”

  “Really?” I sat farther back on the table. “The Huffington Post has won a Pulitzer, and the Drudge Report was the first to break the Monica Lewinsky story.”

  “I don’t think we should lower our standards just because the average citizen craves junk news.”

  “Oh, Darrell, I don’t even know where to start with that statement.” I smiled, knowing I had the upper hand. “Who are we to judge what type of news to report on? What you might consider junk news is what thousands of others crave. But let’s look at this from a different angle. A former media advisor to Bush Jr. has admitted that he used to check the Drudge Report around thirty times a day. Tell me, do you think any media advisors to Obama are checking our paper or website for stories every day or ever for that matter?”

  “But it’s muckraking,” he defended.

  A small smile crept onto Claire’s face. She was the only one in the room who knew my fascination and admiration of the famous muckrakers from the early 1900s. Ida Tarbell, Lincoln Steffens, and Ray Baker were the most famous. Darrell’s insult was actually a compliment. And he’d used the wrong term. He meant to say it was yellow journalism, which was pure sensationalism and not based on facts. Back in the day, muckrakers delved deep for all the facts.

  I decided not to give Darrell a history lesson. “Exactly! Sites like Drudge, Huffington, and even TMZ receive millions of hits a day. A day!” I slammed my hand down on the table.

  “TMZ! Are you going to expect our photographers to chase celebrities now? Stalk Peyton Manning. Track down Amy Adams when she visits?” Darrell turned to the staff, victorious. “Come on, help me name other famous people affiliated with Colorado.”

  “Tim Allen.”

  “David Fincher.”

  “Jessica Biel lived in Boulder.”

  “Don Cheadle attended East High School in Denver.”

  “Lon Chaney.”

  Everyone looked to Claire.

  “What? He was born in Colorado Springs.” Her voice was steady, but a hint of crimson tinted her cheeks.

  “The silent actor has been dead for eighty-something years,” said Darrell in a supercilious tone.

  I came to Claire’s defense. “If one of our photographers can get a photo of his ghost, I’m on board. I can see the headline now, ‘The Ghost with a Thousand Faces.’” I paused to direct my attention back to Darrell. “And I know you are trying to convince me that we’re heading down the wrong path, but all you’re doing is convincing me that we are on the right path. The fact that several of you can spout off names of famous Coloradoans proves that even stuffy newspaper people know about them. What did you call it Darrell, junk news? Actually, I think we should have a blog titled Junk News.”

  Several people around the table smiled, and the rest nodded their heads approvingly. Only Darrell refused to budge one iota.

  “Let me ask you one thing, JJ.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “If we got the scoop on your dirty laundry, would you give us permission to print it? Think about that, before you go down this road. It’s a slippery slope.” He tapped the table with his empty notepad.

  I sucked in some air. “If your team got the scoop on me, I wouldn’t hesitate about going to press. That’s our fucking job.” I felt sick saying this in front of Claire. She knew about my past, the secret I was desperate to keep out of the news. I couldn’t look in her direction. Would I hesitate? Or would I ask Cora to save me again? I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.

  He didn’t storm from the room this time. But during the remainder of the meeting, Darrell kept his arms crossed, looking defiant and huffing to himself whenever an idea was proposed.

  When it came time to hear the update from news, Darrell started to speak about a series his life writers were working on for Easter. Normally in meetings I avoided looking at him for any length of time since I couldn’t stand the sight of him, but this morning, I examined the side of his head and noticed something disturbing. There was hair growing on top of his ears. Surely this was a new development. Wouldn’t I have noticed his Hobbit ears earlier even if I hardly ever looked at the man?

  I held my cell phone eye level and squinted so everyone thought I was checking my e-mail. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for me. Instead, I was squinting at Darrell’s ear hair. Did he have to shave his ears? Did his barber clip them each time he got a haircut? Darrell’s military-style hair probably needed trimming every three weeks. Did his ears?

  Then I remembered Claire had had sex with this man. She had fucked a man who had hair sprouting from his ears. Just thinking of this made me want to puke in my mouth.

  I felt close to heaving, so I cut Darrell off and started to wrap up the meeting. “Any final ideas before we call it a day?”

  Avery raised her hand. No one else at the meeting raised their hand before they spoke, but the young assistant felt like she should. Everyone else in the room was a department head and had proven their salt, mostly. She was the newbie and outsider, and I appreciated the fact that she recognized that. It would make those in the room like her more and hopefully open up to her. I needed intel. Was desperate for it, actually.

  “Avery, please, don’t be shy.” I motioned for her to speak.

  “What if we ran a contest for a citizen blogger?”

  “A citizen blogger?” I was mulling over the idea, and no one in the room knew how to react. “That’s a wonderful idea! And we can leave the vote up to the public. Run the blog entries that are worthwhile and have the readers vote for who they want.”

  Darrell sucked in so much air I wondered if his nostrils burned from oxygen overload. To his credit, he remained quiet, but his face started to turn purple. I worried the poor man was having a coronary. Would it be wrong to pray that was the case?

  “You know we could have more than one citizen blogger. One for sports, local politics, entertainment …” Claire motioned etcetera with her hand, and Darrell stared at her like she had just set herself on fire.

  “I love it. Avery work with Claire’s team to roll out the contest. I want it started by next week.” With that, I dismissed everyone.

  Chapter Nine

  “Why are you here?” Ian’s blue eyes looked at me quizzically. I didn’t sense any malice in his question, only child-like honesty. Children would make great interviewers if only their attention spans held out.

  It had been months since Claire and I settled into our routine of me staying the night when Ian was with his father or grandparents. I rarely stayed over when he was home. The schedule was ideal for both of us. Claire still had her one-on-one time with her son, and I would cram
in as much work as possible on my nights away. Claire didn’t know how to keep Ian from mentioning me to Darrell, but she wanted me to interact with her son. Her solution was to invite me over for dinner.

  “Ian!” Claire’s stern voice didn’t startle the boy. “Don’t be rude to our guest for dinner.”

  “Are you cooking?” asked the curious boy.

  “Yes, of course. Why do you look so surprised?” Claire opened the oven and peeked under the aluminum foil to reveal a massive chunk of meat.

  Ian shook his head, but I suspected if I wasn’t there, he would have said something snarky. I really wanted to know, but didn’t know the boy well enough to push him to reveal.

  Claire smiled at her son. “Why don’t you go upstairs and play until dinner’s ready?”

  Ian shot out of the kitchen like a rabbit being chased by a fox.

  “My mother says someday he’ll be able to carry on a conversation that doesn’t involve his Xbox.” She smiled and let out a long breath. “He reminds me of his father quite a bit, actually.”

  “Does Darrell have an Xbox?” I teased. The thought of the pompous editor playing video games tickled me.

  “He does actually. He and Ian play every night. A Tolkien-like adventure game of some sort. Why don’t you ask Darrell about it tomorrow? I’m sure he would be able to bore you to death.” Claire’s look challenged me to say something snide about her son’s father.

  I sipped my water to force down the snotty comment forming in my head. “What’s for dinner? It smells delicious.”

  Her knowing look informed me that she knew I was purposefully changing the subject to safer waters. “Beef tenderloin. I don’t cook often, but when I do, I like to make a lot of it to feed us for a week.”

  We chatted in the kitchen until it was time for dinner. The smells in the kitchen made my mouth water. When she said it was time to eat, I almost did a cartwheel. My house hunting had been put on an indefinite hold. The numbers at the paper weren’t looking that great. Cora moved me out of the five-star hotel and into corporate housing near the office. She thought the location was great so I could run to and from work, which I did when I lived in New York after rehab to combat the urge to hop into a bar after work. It was sweet of Cora to think of that, but I also knew this was part of her plan. To cultivate the image of a young, active publisher at the helm. The place was nice, but not homey. I missed having a place of my own. However, the maid service was a perk.

  Claire placed Ian’s plate in front of him. At first the boy was fidgeting too much to notice anything, but as soon as he glanced down at his food his eyebrows sprang up in alarm. Claire couldn’t see her son’s reaction from her vantage point. After serving my plate and setting hers down, she took her seat. Ian’s agitated state increased by the second, and I sensed a breakdown was on the horizon.

  “Bon appétit.” Claire smiled and raised her knife and fork to cut into the tenderloin.

  “Mom!” Ian shouted. He could barely remain in his seat. How did the boy wiggle so much and not tip over?

  “What, honey?” Her tone was motherly and assuring.

  He frantically pointed to her plate and then to his. “Don’t eat that!”

  Claire scrunched her forehead and poked the meat with her fork. “Why not?” she asked.

  He leaned across the table and whispered behind his hand, “I think Rocky pooped in the sauce.”

  Claire burst into a loud guffaw. This agitated Ian further, and his already pink face resembled an overripe cherry ready to pop.

  I looked to Ian and then to Claire, completely in the dark. Who was Rocky, and why did he mess with the sauce? And how in the world did Ian know?

  “Oh, Ian. Those are peppercorns.”

  Ian eyed his plate suspiciously as he nudged a peppercorn with his fork. I was surprised to see peppercorns in the sauce and wondered if she’d done it for my benefit. She wasn’t a fan of spice.

  Claire turned to me. “Rocky is Ian’s rabbit. He thinks the peppercorns are rabbit turds.” She laughed again, even though she was trying hard to hold it in.

  Ian was obviously embarrassed, and his defiant look made me almost burst into laughter. I did my best to force the merriment down by clamping on my lower lip.

  Ian continued to stir the peppercorns on his plate. “I don’t like them,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

  “How would you know? You’ve never had them.” Claire smiled breezily before taking a bite of her beef.

  “Have to!”

  “When? I know your father doesn’t cook.”

  Ian stabbed a roasted potato like he was murdering it. “At school.” Then he shoved a massive bite of potato into his tiny mouth and did his best to chew without choking.

  “You have a gourmet cafeteria, then. When I was your age, they only served us bread and water.” She flashed me a knowing smile.

  This rankled Ian further.

  “And they made us sit outside to eat, even in a blizzard,” I added, trying to ease the tension.

  It didn’t work. Claire giggled, but Ian shot me a look, informing me to butt out of the situation.

  Claire took another bite of the beef and made a show of how much she enjoyed the flavor for Ian’s benefit.

  Several seconds ticked by.

  I had a bite. Claire was never known for her cooking skills in the past, but I was impressed with this meal. I nodded approvingly.

  “You like it?” She fished for a compliment.

  “I do. These are the most delicious rabbit turds I’ve ever eaten.”

  Ian burst into a fit of giggles before he could cover his mouth so he wouldn’t betray that he was no longer cranky. He was able to control his facial expression, but failed dimming the sparkle of amusement in his eyes. He had his mother’s long lashes and his father’s stubbornness.

  “Have you eaten a lot of rabbit turds?” Claire asked.

  “Yes. At school,” I said.

  This time Ian laughed and made no attempt to hide his enjoyment. I had won him over, with Claire’s assistance. His stony reserve transformed into a genuine smile that only a child could flash. Then he sampled some of the beef. In between chewing he said, “Best rabbit turds ever!” Bits of food dribbled out of his overstuffed mouth, and to my surprise, he dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

  * * *

  The following Monday I was back in the conference room with the team. I really hated starting my work week off this way. Not just because of Darrell, but it was nearly impossible to get the team to focus on the issue at hand. After the first few fruitful meetings, their concentration fell into a black abyss. I was amazed that Henry, the previous corporate guy, was able to stick it out for seven months. I’d been here three and, at times, wanted to wave the white flag and go back home. It was like everyone, but Claire and Avery, were completely oblivious that I was doing my best to save this paper.

  “What’s that smell?” Brenda’s hair was crazier than normal and looked like she had styled it by putting her finger in a light socket. Not once, but several times for volume. Her wrinkled shirt and oversized cardigan along with her wire-framed glasses added to her mad scientist look.

  Several in the conference room sniffed loudly.

  “I don’t know, but it seems familiar,” replied Darrell. “Reminds me of college.”

  Claire looked at me sympathetically. She was the only one who knew about my neck issue, and she’d seen me slather Bengay on it earlier that morning. I had hoped extra perfume would counteract the fumes. Obviously not.

  “So, Brenda, where are you on the campaign to increase online circulation?” I tried to refocus everyone’s attention back to the matter at hand‌—‌saving the paper and their jobs.

  She sniffed again in my direction. “It’s you.” The crazy-haired woman crinkled her nose in disgust. “Is that a perfume they sell back East?” There was a hint of sarcasm hidden in her nasally tone, even though her eyes didn’t betray her true feelings.
It was hard to see her eyes behind her thick lenses.

  “I think they sell it everywhere. Not just back East,” I answered, before collapsing back into my seat at the head of the table. Each week the director’s meeting deteriorated before we accomplished anything. This one was falling apart much sooner than normal.

  Darrell snapped his fingers. “Bengay. That’s the smell.”

  “I hurt my neck. Is that a problem for any of you?” I asked with as much dignity as I could muster. Not even Claire’s massage or other activities could fix it this time. I hated knowing it would be several days before I could turn my head to the left again. Claire had taken my car keys away from me earlier that morning and driven me to work since running was out of the question.

  “I’ve always liked the smell of Bengay,” announced Claire.

  “No you don’t,” said Darrell. “No one likes that smell. Old people. It smells like old people.”

  Claire stiffened in her seat. “Don’t tell me what I like and what I don’t like, Darrell.”

  Darrell’s look of triumph faded from his face, and I briefly pondered putting Claire in charge of these meetings from now on. She obviously knew how to deal with obstinate men. How dare he call me old? He was ten years older than me. Asshole.

  “It doesn’t remind me of old people,” offered George, who was in charge of local news. “Reminds me of my football days. I think that’s why you,” he pointed at Darrell, “said it reminded you of your college days. I’m sure both of us were slathered in it from time to time during football season.”

  Claire smiled at George and returned a nasty look in Darrell’s direction. “I’m pretty sure Darrell still uses it, George. He’s always whining about his old football injuries from his glory days. Must have been hard to be a backup quarterback.”

  I admired her skill. Earlier she had put him in his place. Now she was stomping what remaining ego he had left to pieces.

  As much as I enjoyed it, I needed to refocus the group. “Now, Brenda, let’s continue—”

  “I’ve always loved the smell of cigarette smoke. I’ve never smoked in my life, but when I walk by a smoker outside, I inhale deeply. Does that count as a contact high?” Brenda directed her question to Claire, her best friend at the paper.