The Miracle Girl

by T. B. Markinson

  “I don’t think you can get a contact high from cigarettes.” Claire peeked at me out of the corner of her eyes, but it was so fleeting I didn’t think anyone else noticed. Was I the only druggie she knew?

  “Nail polish. I love the smell of nail polish,” stated John.

  Everyone, myself included, turned to stare at the director of classifieds. George asked, “Do you wear nail polish?” Without trying to look like he was being judgmental, George glanced at John’s fingernails.

  “N-no,” stuttered John. “My wife changes her nail polish every night once she decides what outfit to wear at work the following day. She likes to coordinate the colors.” He was cherry-red.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “Now that we have that settled, Brenda”‌—‌I snapped my fingers to get her to look at me and not at John’s fingernails‌—‌“can we chat about circulation? How to drum up more online subscriptions?”

  Brenda wiped the look of shock off her face and got down to business.

  As the meeting winded down, Claire smiled at me triumphantly. I wasn’t sure what the smile meant. The meeting was semi-productive at best, but I sensed it had to do with something else.

  She was the last to leave the room, giving me the opportunity to ask, “What are you so happy about?”

  “During the meeting I tweeted to ask followers what terrible smells they actually liked. Hundreds of people responded, and a few mentioned Bengay.”

  “What?”

  Claire showed me her iPad confirming everything. “Wow.” Avery wandered back into the room, realizing the meeting wasn’t officially done. She tried to look professional about it, but I suspected she was snooping. Was she trying to figure out my relationship with Claire? I imagined her with an earpiece and mic like secret service agents have, reporting to Cora every second of the day.

  I showed my assistant the iPad. “I think Claire’s on to something. Get someone in Life to follow up with a story. And a list of advertisers who would want to sponsor the section, for online, not print,” I instructed Avery before turning back to Claire. “Nice work. At least something came out of that meeting.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I waltzed into Claire’s office without any fanfare. She yelped and dropped a book into her lap. Her department was almost deserted, and she probably wasn’t expecting any visitors.

  “It’s only me, and I don’t care if you’re reading on the job,” I said, sitting down in one of the chairs across from her desk. “What are you reading?” I massaged my stiff neck.

  All traces of color slipped off her face, and for a moment I wondered if there was a pool of pink on the floor. This piqued my curiosity. “Don’t tell me you’re reading smut. Claire and smut‌—‌never would I have put those two together.” I slapped my thigh.

  She remained motionless.

  “Are you okay? Do you need water or something?” I looked helplessly around the windowless room. Was she having a stroke?

  “Y-yeah … I’m fine. You just startled me. That’s all.” She cleared her throat and went to drastic lengths to avoid eye contact.

  Curious I stood and walked around her desk. Perching on the front of her desk I peered into her lap. When I saw the reason for her discomfort I had to smile. “Ah, this is a good book.” I reached down and retrieved her copy of Junkie by William S. Burroughs.

  “I’m so sorry,” she confessed, nearly on the verge of tears.

  “For what? Reading a book?” I knew why she felt guilty.

  “No. Don’t play with me. You know the reason.”

  “I do, and it’s perfectly natural. If you thought I’d be mad or insulted, you’re wrong. I can give you a list of books if you would like to read more.”

  Slowly, the color made its way back into her cheeks. “I just didn’t want you to think I was judging you,” she whispered.

  “You’re the last person I would think that of. Besides, the title really grabs your attention when looking for books on the subject.” She looked away. I placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going for coffee. That swill in the break room won’t cut it today. You want something from Starbucks?”

  She nodded, and I decided to leave immediately to give her some time to recover.

  I returned with my caramel macchiato and a cinnamon dolce latte for Claire. She still seemed distracted or hesitant to talk. “You can ask me questions, if you want.”

  She smiled guiltily. “It’s just that I have no experience … with … this.”

  “With what? Drugs or addicts?”

  “Both, really.”

  I nodded, unsure how to proceed. Was she having second thoughts about being in a relationship with me?

  “Why’d you become an addict?”

  I was in mid-swallow when she blurted the question, and I choked on the hot liquid. “What?” I attempted to clear my throat and then pounded on my chest. “No one, at least no one I know, sets out to be an addict.” As I spoke, my voice got stronger and the burning tickle subsided. “At first it was fun. It made me feel good. And it helped me deal with life, stress, disappointments.” I made a circular motion with my hand implying on and on. “It wasn’t like I woke up one morning and said, ‘You know, I want to be hooked on coke.’ It was gradual. Snort a few lines here and there. The addiction didn’t happen overnight‌—‌I know a lot of people think that. It was months in the making. And then, it took me months to recognize I had a problem. However, I wasn’t ready to admit that really. Denial is powerful.”

  She tapped a pen on the cover of the book. “Have you ever done heroin?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a needle?” Her face paled, and I wasn’t sure if the reason was the image of a needle or the image of me shooting up heroin.

  I nodded. I tried maintaining eye contact, but I broke it off. “Heroin wasn’t my drug of choice. Coke was, but I dabbled with many drugs.” I brushed a piece of lint off my pant leg. “I never did meth, though.”

  This relieved her some.

  “And you’ve read this book?” She timidly held up the copy.

  I wanted to laugh since I already insinuated I had, but I knew it was an uncomfortable situation for her. And I think she wanted to ask if I read it before or after I became hooked. I read it and many other books after I kicked my addiction. For the first few years, I read a lot of books to try to understand. And to cope.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to answer her question, so I veered toward a safer topic: a travel story.

  “Many years ago, I was in New Orleans for work, but I managed to squeeze in some sightseeing. I love visiting authors’ homes and landmarks. New Orleans is a wonderful place for book lovers. The Hotel Monteleone had many famous writers stay there, including William Faulkner, Anne Rice, Ernest Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Stephen Ambrose, and John Grisham.”

  Realizing I was getting off track completely, I continued with the initial story. “One afternoon I decided to visit William S. Burroughs’s home”‌—‌I pointed to the book on her desk‌—‌“in Algiers, which is the town across the Mississippi River. It started off as a grand adventure, taking the ferry over. As soon as I stepped off the ferry, I found this delightful restaurant and had rice and beans and a couple of gin and tonics.” I paused, feeling awkward. “It was before rehab of course, but at the time I wasn’t using‌—‌well, not daily.” I shrugged, knowing she wouldn’t find that funny.

  “The plan was to walk to Burroughs’s home, which was on the outskirts. The sun was shining, albeit it was a chilly December day.” I laughed. “All the locals kept apologizing that it was cold during my visit. Being from New York I thought they were crazy. I only had to wear long sleeves, but for them it was a travesty.”

  Claire smiled. Colorado winters had toughened her up as well.

  “Then something awful happened. I was walking along this road and I saw a beat-up silver Ford Taurus cruising down the street, well over the speed limit for a reside
ntial area. I didn’t think anything of it, until I heard the sound. The driver hit a dog, and I tell you, Claire, it was the most god-awful sound I ever heard. The dog’s wailing.” I rubbed the back of my neck, again. “Several people were on the sidewalk near the accident, and for some reason many of them turned to me. I had a camera strapped around my chest, and I thought for sure it screamed ‘Tourist!’ But in their helplessness they kept asking me to do something. Did I know the nearest vet? Was I a veterinarian? Everyone wanted to help the dog without going anywhere near the scene to see the poor creature.”

  “Did you?” Claire leaned forward in her chair, her eyes filled with anticipation.

  I shook my head in shame and felt my throat close up. “No,” I whispered. “I could never handle seeing animals suffer.” I studied the top of the lid to my drink, focusing on the words to pull me out of my head so I wouldn’t hear the dog. “Luckily, the dog’s family was home and took the dog to the vet.”

  “Did the dog die?”

  “I imagine so. It was three days before Christmas. Poor family.”

  We both remained quiet for a few moments. “Now when I think of Burroughs, I remember that day and it always puts me in a foul mood.”

  “I’m sorry, JJ.”

  I waved her concern away. “Don’t worry about it. How could you have known? And his books are excellent.”

  “Did you see the house?”

  “I did. It was a depressing, dilapidated home in this abandoned field. The whole day was a bust really. If you ever go to New Orleans, I suggest seeing Anne Rice’s home. It’s creepy, but it’s a fun creepy. And it’s in the Garden District‌—‌a much prettier part of Louisiana.” I laughed.

  She smiled, relieved that I’d returned to my jovial self.

  “You know, I never told anyone about the dog before.”

  “I remember the time when you ran over a squirrel. God, you were so hard on yourself, even though there was nothing you could have done.”

  My eyes welled up. “I remember you telling me that the squirrel must have been suicidal and wanted to die because it darted right in front of me.”

  “I couldn’t stand seeing you so upset.” She smiled wanly. “You did use it to your advantage, though,” Claire said.

  I cocked my head, unsure where she was heading.

  “Don’t you remember that night? You asked me to stay with you since you were so distraught.”

  I burst into laughter. “That’s right! Can you blame me? I was always looking for ways to get you in my bed.”

  “If I remember correctly, I held you all night.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I wonder what the people here would think if they knew that deep down you’re a softy.”

  “Ha! Hopefully they don’t find out, or I’ll have people calling out every day claiming their hamster is on life support.”

  We both laughed, easing some of the tension from earlier. However, I did notice Claire watching my every move. I wondered if she thought I moved my hands in a certain way, indicating that I was an addict. Like flamboyant gay men with limp wrists. Or maybe I batted my eyes too much like I was in need of a fix.

  She noticed that I was watching the way she was observing me, and she colored. Claire tapped the cover of Junkie and said, “What other books do you recommend?”

  “Have you seen or read Running with Scissors?” She nodded. “He wrote another book called Dry and it’s about his alcoholism. He did some drugs, but alcohol was his addiction.”

  She jotted down the title on her notepad. “What’s the author’s name?”

  “Augusten Burroughs. I know it’s slightly confusing considering you’re reading William S. Burroughs. Maybe I should change my last name.” I was hoping she’d laugh some, but her eyes looked sad. “I think you’ll like Dry. It’s a brutally honest book, and I should warn you, it can be a difficult read.”

  “Why difficult?”

  “Throughout much of the book I hated him. His selfishness …”

  “And?” Her voice was soft.

  “And it really hit home and how selfish I had been. That’s one of the hardest parts to live with. Realizing how horrible I acted and all the things I did. I’m not even sure how to explain it, really. I think one has to live through an addiction to truly understand it. Not that I advocate that.” I lowered my eyes, knowing Claire wouldn’t find any irony in my statement.

  “What’s the plan tonight?” I changed the subject. The work day was almost over, and Ian was spending the whole weekend with his grandparents at their cabin outside of Fort Collins near Horsetooth Reservoir.

  Chapter Ten

  “Morning, sunshine.” Claire’s perky voice was too animated for me at seven in the morning on a Saturday, especially since we’d been up most of the night.

  “Pffft,” was my not-so-clever reply.

  “My, someone is grumpy this morning. Didn’t sleep well?” She winked before pouring some coffee into a mug for me. “It’s extra strong.”

  I took a tug. “Jesus! What is that? Jet fuel?” I sipped it again and felt life oozing back into my zombie form.

  She smirked. Claire had a certain glow, and her messy bedhead was alluring.

  “You look beautiful,” I said over the rim of my cup, and then I swallowed as much as possible before I couldn’t handle the taste any longer.

  Claire leaned over the island countertop and mussed my hair. “You, on the other hand, have quite the bedhead today.”

  I patted the top of my hair, trying to tame the madness. I had unfortunate limp hair, making most hairdos impossible to maintain for longer than an hour. Years ago I opted to chop most of it off and to sport the short “messy” do. In the mornings though, the messy look was au naturel and out of control. And the amount of product I had to use to control the messy look complicated the next day look for sleepovers since it glued the chaos in unbecoming ways.

  “And you are always commenting about Brenda’s hair.” She tsked. “If only she could see you now.”

  “Hey, at least I do something with it before I go to the office.” My tone was defensive.

  “She gets into the office hours before you.” Claire was clearly enjoying this ribbing. It was turning me on.

  I strutted over to the other side of the island. “Listen, don’t push my buttons first thing in the morning.” I playfully poked her shoulder with my finger.

  “Or what?” She crossed her arms mischievously, which caused her robe to billow at the top and expose her breasts. I peeked down and saw she was completely naked.

  “Or I’ll have to do this.” I kissed her forehead. “Or this.” I worked down to her lips.

  “Who are you punishing exactly?” she asked in a breathy voice.

  “You.” I undid her robe. Even with all the fucking we did the previous night, both of us were ready to pick up right where we left off. She started to walk off, presumably to the bedroom, but I pulled her back. I wanted to go down on her right there in the kitchen. I got down on my knees and peppered her thighs with soft kisses. I ran a finger along her pulsating, wet lips smiling that she was ready for me. I teased her with my tongue, and she let out a small gasp like she felt exposed in her kitchen but still wanted to continue no matter what.

  I was more than happy to oblige. Rubbing my head between her legs, Claire laughed. “That should help your bedhead.”

  “My thinking exactly,” I said, before inserting a finger and lapping her clit with my tongue.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” It was a male’s voice.

  Claire shrieked, “Darrell, what in the fuck are you doing here?”

  She quickly wrapped her robe around her tightly like it was a suit of armor.

  I heard something slam down on the countertop. “I’ve been trying to call you all night, but your phone is off. And I don’t think your doorbell is working.”

  “So you barge into my home unannounced at this tim
e of day.”

  “Oh, I knew you’d be up.” I could picture him waving a hand in his condescending way. “I used the key in the fake rock.” That must have been what he’d tossed onto the countertop.

  I couldn’t do anything since I was still between her legs. I had stopped what I was doing but had an impulse to keep going. I would love to get Claire off in front of Darrell without him knowing I was there. He’d probably always dreamed of having a threesome, and the idea that he wouldn’t even know he was quasi-involved in one was almost too tempting.

  “Why don’t you have a seat and stop yelling at me?” I saw Claire motion to one of the barstools on the other side of the island. I think she wanted him to sit so he wouldn’t be able to see me at all, hiding behind the island. I sat on the floor quietly and leaned against the cupboard. She grabbed an empty cup from the counter behind her and poured Darrell some of her jet fuel.

  “Ballet, Claire. Ballet!”

  This confused me. He’d barged into her house to discuss ballet. Darrell was off his rocker more than I suspected.

  “Yes, Darrell. Ballet.”

  I looked up at Claire, completely baffled.

  Was this their code word for fucking? Oral sex? Did he know someone was on the other side with Claire’s juices all over her hair and face?

  “You signed Ian up for ballet classes?” There was a loud thud, and I assumed he slammed his cup down on the granite top.

  “Hey, don’t break my cup or my counter, please.”

  He harrumphed.

  “Ian wanted to take ballet classes, so I signed him up. You have a problem with that?” Her body tensed. “We both discussed Ian should partake in different types of activities. I didn’t put up a fight when you signed him up for peewee football even though I wasn’t happy about it.” She stood over me in an attempt to hide me completely. Was she worried he would storm over to this side? Was he ever violent?

  “You should have asked me first.”