The Miracle Girl

by Andrew Roe

  THEY ALSO EXPERIENCED moments of great joy, random wonder, ferocious love they never thought possible. The times when baby Anabelle yawned and time stopped, when she clasped her fingers around one of theirs, gripped with such primordial need, and seemed, finally, to be content, not wanting to let go. Or when she burped unexpectedly, surprised herself, and then laughed, they all laughed. The sound, once she was walking, of her pajama’d feet, pattering on the hardwood floor in the hallway while they lingered in bed, listening. When she demanded hugs, saying, “Hug, Mommy. Hug, Daddy.” Those times when they knew they’d walk through fire for her, their child, they’d do this or anything else without hesitation. A fierce, complicated love. A love like no other. And they somehow got through those early years, bags around their eyes, wrinkle lines deploying on their faces, even though the crying never completely stopped. At two, three, four, five—Anabelle cried. She cried when she woke up. She cried when she went to bed. She cried when she was put into the car seat and when she was taken out. She cried because she didn’t like it when her Cheerios got soggy, or when it was mashed potatoes instead of French fries. She cried because she didn’t want her hair combed. She cried at the doctor’s, the dentist’s, the babysitter’s. And so on. And she had nightmares, too, woke in the middle of the night, every night practically, climbing into their bed and settling between them (they’d allowed this once and then it became a regular occurrence, something that John stewed about, regretting that they’d said yes the first time and set a precedent). Anabelle was also a light sleeper, so they didn’t dare go into her room and watch her sleep. That was something that parents did, right? Stand in their child’s room and watch them sleep and be amazed? One of the few times John tried it Anabelle woke up and started crying. “John,” Karen snapped when she came into the room (this was also probably around 3:00 a.m.). “What did you do?” He shrugged like: What? He was trying. He was trying to be a parent. Earlier that day Anabelle had said something that haunted him then and continued to haunt him. She was six now. She said, “I wish we didn’t live in a house with mirrors.” What the hell did that mean? He asked her why. “Because I don’t like to look at myself.” And he found himself thinking what he often thought when his daughter said something like this: How to respond? He wanted to ask more, get at the root of what made his daughter uncomfortable when seeing her own reflection, but, as Karen reminded him, it could make things worse to interrogate, to bring more attention to the issue at hand. But that was just it: with Anabelle he was never sure of the issue at hand in the first place. The psychologist they saw once or twice referred to her intense emotionality, her inability to regulate her emotions, telling them that it was just the way their daughter was wired. Karen agreed, reading books and articles on the subject; John did not read books and articles (well, a few articles), instead clinging to the belief that they could fix the problem, that if they just cracked down and molded and guided her the right way they’d be able to control her personality. Karen was of a different mind completely. Weren’t kids supposed to bring you closer together? But with them it had been the opposite. Throughout the years, among all the good and bad and everything in between, all the discussions, filibusters, and long silences, all the measuring themselves against other seemingly happier, more competent parents (which made them feel even shittier), their abiding fear remained: that their unhappiness had infected Anabelle and caused her unhappiness.

  THEY WERE, ONCE again, at odds—this time over what to do after the accident, that time of doubt and stabbing panic, the world collapsing around them, Karen adamant about keeping Anabelle at home, John wishy-­washing his way through a series of half-­assed counter-­arguments, afraid, genuinely fucking can’t-­sleep-­at-­night afraid about the effect this kind of 24/7 burden would have on their already fragile lives. He knew he wasn’t that strong a person, didn’t have the heroic gene necessary to carry him, carry them, through this. They were dealing with the hospital, lawyers, bills, doctors, social workers, insurance companies, their mechanic who was holding John’s car hostage (Karen’s had been totaled in the accident) until they paid for the new transmission he put in. At some point they were doing what Karen wanted; he was going along, yet not going along; he was saying the words, yet he was not believing them; he was there in the house doing his share, yet he was not there in the house, not doing his share, already leaving, already gone, already living his life of regret and remorse, a marked man. “I want to do this with you,” Karen said, sensing him slipping away, day by day, the frequency of actual eye contact between them now about as rare as a two-­dollar bill, adding, “I can’t do this without you, John.” One of the fluorescent ceiling lights in the kitchen started to flicker. They didn’t say anything about it. Waited for the other to give in and make the first move. The standoff lasted for days until she said, “Are we going to do anything about it?” She meant the flickering light, and he of course knew this, and it was as if the flickering light and their lack of mutual acknowledgment signaled something deeper, was symbolic of some larger failure that neither of them was ready to admit. That time in the waiting room, right after the accident, holding each other until they did not. On the other hand, though, it was just a light. All they had to do was replace it and that would be that. Simple. When he did leave, she watched him go like it was a bad TV movie where you knew what was going to happen before it happened; the sound of his car, the vast silence after, a long time standing there at the window in the living room, noting the dedicated layers of dust on the mini blinds, windows needing to be washed (inside and out), repeating to herself he’s gone, I’m alone, he’s gone, I’m alone; and when she finally roused herself to go check on Anabelle, surprise—Anabelle’s catheter bag had broken and the sheets and her nightgown needed to be changed, the piss a dark, disturbing, seeping yellow, a color that did not seem possible.

  HE’S STILL IN line, waiting his turn, all this time, three people ahead of him, roughly four hours having elapsed so far. When asked by others why he’s here, he keeps it simple, keeps it vague. After a while people stopped talking to him. Fine. He can now make out the inside of the living room. Bodies moving through. He can’t tell who. The first words will be the hardest. And when he does see her, in that initial blooming instant, he’ll know right away whether he can ever be forgiven and if there’s a future for them. Her eyes will tell him everything he needs to know. Someone behind him says the Lord works in mysterious ways indeed but there’s no place she’d rather be than here. Someone else mentions the weather, says Fritz said it would be like this—quoting the famous L.A. TV weatherman, known for his large glasses and ability to remain on the air for decades despite turning gray and looking like a used car salesman. John hears a helicopter circling above, peers up; he watches it cross the sky, tilting into the low clouds and then disappearing. A person (female, in tears, consoled by Karen’s niece Dom) exits the house and everyone moves up a little, including him.

  SHE HASN’T SAT down all day, answering the phone, returning calls, reading mail and e-mails, writing a response to yet another delay in the lawsuit against the hospital and doctors, reviewing the itinerary for December 30, talking to visitors, fielding questions, listening to stories, taking pictures, trying to clean the bathrooms, organizing all the Christmas presents she and Anabelle had received, skimming through the movie script FedExed from a Hollywood agent named Christine Benfer. Bryce was around earlier (though he didn’t stay long) and now Dom is helping out, earlier apologizing for not having been around much lately, currently cutting lemons and making iced tea for everyone. She’s also giving Karen updates on the line outside, which is dwindling as nighttime nears. Dom passes out the iced tea and then checks the window again as she takes a sip of her drink. Karen puts a stack of magazines next to the sofa, creating another toddler-­sized column of reading material. Then, from the window, she hears Dom say: “Oh shit. It’s him. It’s John. John’s out there in line. That’s him. Look.” Karen looks, confirms. Of course. Of course John’
s there. Dom asks, “Should I go get him?” “No,” answers Karen. “No, let him wait. It’s been this long. Let’s just wait a little longer. I need a minute.”

  And when he sees her for the first time he doesn’t automatically know if they have a future together, her eyes don’t tell him that story. It’s not like he thought it would be, but they, her eyes, which are just as richly, intensely brown as he remembered, do tell him another story: yes, it’s still possible, there is hope despite everything, you still have a chance.

  AND WHEN SHE sees him for the first time it’s not like she imagined it would be, there isn’t this roller-coaster rush of emotions, it isn’t anger, it isn’t relief, it isn’t gratitude, it isn’t certain, and it isn’t final—it’s more like: this is the way it should be, this is what I expected, this is what everything has been moving toward, and now we’re here, it’s right in front of us, the moment, this moment, and I can’t wait to find out what happens next.

  THEY ARE ALMOST touching, only inches apart, aware of a shared electrical current between them, sparking to life now that they were so physically close again, the years, the history undeniable, like a large, invisible shawl wrapped around them both. He’s in the house; she’s in the house; their daughter is in her room, where he’d just been, the first time, and he’s still crying, hunched and buckled and disbelieving. The house otherwise empty. Just the three of them. Like it was before. She’d asked everyone to leave. Instinctively, they find their way to the kitchen, the most neutral room in the house. A plate of enchiladas—brought by a visitor—remains untouched on the kitchen table. They sit there and stare at the enchiladas. Like really contemplating them in a deep way. But food does not seem like an option yet.

  “It’s going to take time.”

  Somebody had to start, and it was her.

  “I know. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ve got a lot to prove. But I will. And I know how it might look, me coming back like this. You know how everyone’s saying what’s happening is a sign? Well maybe it’s a sign for me, too. When I saw it on TV, I thought . . . I thought that I still had a chance. That I could come back and do good. I’m not asking to stay or anything. Or for anything permanent or for anything to be decided. I’m just asking for a chance. To be here sometimes. To be a family. As best we can.”

  “And even then . . . I don’t know.”

  “Day by day, week by week, month by month. You’ll see. It’ll take time. But you’ll see.”

  Much does not seem like an option yet. But they are getting there. Along the way there will be long pauses, there will be overlapping words, repeated stops and starts, a general awkwardness and distance that will gradually decrease. They will have to get through it, now, later. And the more words now, the more back and forth there is, the more likely they will eat the food, edge their way to this communal consumption, sitting, eating together, talking.

  “John?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even then, I don’t know.”

  Christmas presents are stacked on top of the refrigerator, on top of the stove, underneath the table. He notices this. And she notices his noticing. They are getting there. Arriving at something. They will have to get through it. And this is progress. This is words and proximity, mutual sitting and trying, contemplating enchiladas and Christmas presents and the future.

  “We’ll start slow. Day by day. It won’t happen again. That’s the same question I’d be asking myself right now. I don’t want to be in the place where I was ever again.”

  “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “What were you thinking when you first saw me?”

  “The very first thing? At the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “That . . . she’s drinking beer. That she’s different. That she stands out. Not just the drinking beer part, I mean. It was more than that. That if I don’t talk to her it’s going to be something I regret for the rest of my life. But you know all this. I’ve told you all of this before.”

  “I know. I just wanted to hear it again. It’s been a while.”

  THE ROOM

  PEOPLE SAY: THE room breathes. The room is life. They pass on this whispered wisdom as they leave the house and as others inquire how was it, what was she like, how do you feel now, after.

  The line moves slowly, but that’s OK, that’s part of it, too—the waiting, the anticipation, the interpreting of the facial expressions and words and body language of those who have just seen her and those who are about to see her. And next up: a young couple, holding hands, nervous, the husband significantly taller than the wife, every now and then leaning down to kiss the top of her head, her hair, as she presses farther into him—that is, as close as she can get given the fact that she is very, very pregnant—and when they enter the room, see the girl there in her enchanted state, they immediately know it’s true. The room breathes. The room is life. Despite the pale skin, despite the absence of movement and the faraway gaze in her eyes, the girl glows, actually glows, as if lit from within. She is holy. She is touched. This is so eff-­ing obvious.

  The couple stands at the foot of little Anabelle Vincent’s bed and pauses. Do they continue standing or do they kneel? Because neither the husband nor the wife is particularly religious. The husband speaks up first, says softly, “Let’s kneel just in case, to make sure we do it right,” and then he helps his wife down to the floor, guiding her, one arm wrapped around her lower back and stomach (gentle, gentle), the other supporting her legs. She is eight months along, slow and pained, and moving around is difficult, as is sleeping, as is waiting out these last few weeks, knowing what they know. They kneel. They hold hands. They close their eyes. The machines sigh, hum. They begin. They tell their story in the room where so many other stories have now been told.

  Their doctor had news. Something was found, the way the spinal fluid looked in the ultrasound. Then the AFP test, which confirmed further. “News that isn’t good, I’m afraid,” the doctor continuing, a man who habitually wore his eyeglasses perched atop his forehead. “In all likelihood, from what the numbers and statistics tell us, knowing what we know, our best approximation, the baby will likely, very likely, be born with Down syndrome.” The doctor told them this and didn’t know what else to say. His glasses perched there, like they were sunglasses but they were not sunglasses. The baby was a boy. They hadn’t settled on a name yet, though they were thinking of naming him after the husband’s grandfather, who’d died not long after the couple found out they were pregnant, a family name, an old, solid, nineteenth-­century-­style name, not one of the newfangled flashy ones. Finally the doctor said, “Well, there are options, even at this point, though we’d need to make a decision very soon.” But they said no, it wasn’t their way, no, we can’t. This, then, was several months ago, in the doctor’s office, a much different room. And now, they are here, in the girl’s room. This is it. This is the final thing. Nothing else left for them to do.

  So they ask for her assistance, for Anabelle’s intervention in this matter. They pray. They cry. They hope they are saying the right words. They don’t want to leave. How long they’d been trying. Years.

  The room breathes. The room is life.

  This is what the husband and wife repeat, repeat to themselves now, and then later, in the days and weeks that follow, like a chant that imparts more meaning, further clarity, with each utterance.

  And a month after their visit, in the middle of the night, the wife gives birth to their son, Joseph Matthew. He is fine. He is beautiful. He is perfectly, wonderfully fine. The doctors and nurses marvel. The husband says how they knew. From when they first saw the girl: they knew. How the room existed elsewhere, another realm entirely. He’d never been in such a physical space, never felt such golden warmth and electricity within a confined area, be it another room, house, church, football stadium, whatever. Driving home that day, after asking the girl for her help, he remembers reaching out to touch his wife’s stomach, to reassure her, as well as
himself and his son, too, and thinking: There is no doubt, there is no way it cannot be true.

  PART THREE

  DECEMBER 30, 1999

  20

  THE POLICE ESTIMATE is six thousand, but Captain Dave McGinnis, aka KTZ-­AM radio’s venerable Eagle Eye in the Sky traffic reporter, who’s just now circling El Dorado High School in his trusty white-­and-­yellow Cessna 177B, predicts it will be more like ten thousand, possibly even higher, based on what he’s surveying below: the event is supposed to start at noon and here it is only ten thirty and the surrounding side streets are already jammed with cars and people on foot, the backup now reaching all the way to the 605, while the freeway itself resembles not the sleepy (relatively speaking) mid-­day intermittent stop-­and-­go but the full-­on morning/evening rush-­hour, hand-­wringing, shoulder-­tensed crawl. Yep, it’s going to be a doozy, Captain Dave further predicts, as he swoops over the parking lot (full) and notices at least a dozen news vans as well as several large passenger buses chartered for the occasion (doozy being one of the Captain’s frequent euphemisms for a huge fucking vehicular mess that you want to avoid at all costs). At the last minute it was announced that the event would be broadcast live on Channel 11. Rumors are that CNN might cut in, too.