The Miracle Girl

by Andrew Roe

  Having flown the smoggy skies of Los Angeles for over twenty years, Captain Dave has pretty much seen it all: O.J.’s freeway odyssey, the riots after the verdict, earthquakes, floods, fires, car chases and crashes, grisly pile-­ups on the Grapevine, an ele­phant named Misty escaping from Lion Country Safari down in Orange County and causing an epic traffic jam on the 405. He’s an L.A. institution, like Lasorda, like Vin Scully, like Chick Hearn, like Dr. Toni Grant. Known for his good-­natured on-­air barbs, clever quips, and throaty baritone. Reliable as a goddamn dictionary. Never out sick except for the time he had a colonoscopy back in 1982, missing only a day. If he’s not in the cockpit, patrolling the comings and goings of the Southland, reporting on this daily mass migration of souls, something seems off with the universe; it’s where he belongs. His wife is worried what he’ll do when he retires. He is, too.

  Perspective. That’s what you get from up here. The chaos below, the serenity above. He savors the space, the quiet his mind can achieve from the cruising altitude of two thousand feet. There’s nothing like it on the ground. You’re sort of God. Or God-­like. Watching it all from a distance. Which is, he guesses, apropos to the day’s festivities and what all these people are here for: little Anabelle Vincent, the Miracle Girl, eight years old, bed-­ridden, incapable of speech, instant celebrity, possible instrument of God, the talk of his talk radio station, a well-­timed phenomenon, to be sure, what with all the Y2K and millennium craziness. He just hopes that the Almighty calls in a favor and does something about all these damn cars or there’s going to be a lot of disappointed civilians. Counting down to his next live report in five minutes, how he’ll open with his trademark “From high above, from the surf to the mountains and the desert and everywhere in between, this is Captain Dave McGinnis, your KTZ Eagle Eye in the Sky, with the latest traffic, and boy, have we ever got a doozy over in El Portal, folks.”

  First, though, he banks toward the football stadium for a closer look, seeing the bleachers filled to capacity, the activity in one of the end zones, a stage there, chairs, a podium, speakers, some kind of plastic tent, people rushing around like insects, making the final preparations, setting up large white pop-up canopies like they use for outdoor weddings. As Captain Dave circles back over the school again, he spots two police cars, with sirens flashing, entering the school parking lot, and behind them an ambulance, sirens also flashing, breaking news he’ll include in his update: She’s here. The Miracle Girl has arrived. In this outlying area of L.A. The kind of neighborhood where there’s always a devil dog barking, a kid doing something he shouldn’t, a parent about to cross a line.

  He lowers the Cessna a little more, gives thanks for the day’s relatively clear skies. Visibility is decent. Slight northwesterly winds. Feisty heat. That Biblical sun, burning with an Old Testament vengeance. In all his years in the sky and on the air, he’s never seen anything like it.

  * * *

  The Smiling Skeptic, flush with the excitement of a spy who’s successfully ventured behind enemy lines, sharks his way through the bubbling crowd, passing faces and bodies that are demographically diverse, visibly needy, finally finding the end of the viewing line, which is already enormous and twisty, snaking all the way from the football field itself and under and through the stadium bleachers, past a chain-­link fence and gate and empty ticket booth, before then spilling out onto the basketball courts (and yes, the rims have no nets, it’s that kind of school, that kind of sketchy area, he quickly surmised once he pulled up in his rented red Taurus, one of those cars that might as well have RENTAL CAR spray-­painted on its doors).

  So he’ll have some time to kill. He’ll wait in line with the true believers. And that’s fine with him. More opportunity for research. Maybe he’ll even manage to convert some souls. He’s filled with information and data he wants to share. If only they knew the evidence, if only they knew the facts. People were ultimately reasonable, weren’t they? This was the progression of humankind, what we’ve been moving toward over the centuries, was it not?

  Even though the flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles is short, he feels jet-­lagged, a little soul-­lagged, like he left behind some piece of himself on the plane. Or maybe it’s the weather, or the whole Northern California versus Southern California thing. Whatever the reason, he shrugs his backpack off, unzips it, and digs out the article he’d been reading on the flight. He has to keep up. Now more than ever. Since his appearance on The Big Ben Hour, there have been more requests for interviews, more traffic to his website, more all-­nighters spent online and writing and chugging Mountain Dew. He’s called in sick to work twice. And his mother is asking questions that go beyond his bachelorhood.

  The woman in front of him, he now realizes, is on the verge of crying. Head bent forward, hand covering her eyes, shoulders twitching. She has long dark hair, pale white arms, a husky build—the overall girth and sturdiness of a waitress, Nathaniel concludes. Someone who’s spent too much of her life serving others. She’s actually half facing him and half facing the person who’s in front of her in line, a man, also on the husky side, who has his back turned and is wearing an Iron Maiden T-­shirt.

  “Sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. But I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe it.”

  She is, it turns out, talking to him.

  “I can’t believe it either,” Nathaniel says, which is true.

  “When I first heard about it,” she tells him, fully facing him now, revealing heavy eyeliner, smoker’s teeth, “I knew I had to come. It’s the last time—the last time people can come and see her. I knew I had to be here, in California, when it happened.”

  The woman fortyish, perhaps a bit younger. The hair obviously dyed. Puffy in the face. There’s some kind of accent, too, but since Nathaniel has never been outside of California, he can’t make any kind of a geographical connection.

  “Where did you come from?” he asks.

  “Maryland. Baltimore area. I drove. Straight through mostly. Stopped in Albuquerque to see my sister but that was about it. I kept driving to make sure I’d make it in time. What’re you reading?”

  The article is about visitors to the girl’s home trying to steal locks of her hair, grass from the front yard of the house, bits of straw from the welcome mat, anything that can be fit into a pocket or purse or closed fist. Anything to get closer to the girl, closer to God. Nothing new there, Nathaniel thinks. It’s always been so, this veneration of holy objects purported—and he heavily emphasizes the purported part, italicizing the word in his mind—to belong to holy people. One of his recent late-­night online excursions took him to a site devoted to religious relics. Some crazy voodoo there. Apparently, during the Middle Ages, and especially during the Crusades, relic hunting and collecting was a booming business. Among other sought-­after collectibles, the bones, hair, teeth, and fingers of saints and martyrs were highly coveted, said to be capable of miraculous feats. (Poor Thomas Aquinas: when he died, in 1274, some monks who just couldn’t wait to have at his valuable bones quickly got to boiling his flesh away before his body was even cold.) Predictably there’s much, much more from the relic files. As for Jesus memorabilia, there’s plenty to choose from: splinters from the cross used in the crucifixion (enough reputed specimens to build a ship with, or so goes the old joke); thorns from his impromptu crown; plus Jesus’s swaddling clothes, baby teeth, umbilical cord, even his foreskin (the latter claimed by at least six different churches). Several heads of John the Baptist found their way onto the market. And Mary: her hair, clothing, vials of her breast milk as well as pieces of the rock upon which the milk had supposedly fallen, which turned the rock white and blessed it with curative powers. And really, it hasn’t changed all that much today, is Nathaniel’s take. The objects are a little different, sure, and now you can track down just about everything under the sun on eBay (you’d probably find a saintly relic or two listed for sale there, too, along with the occasional human kidney or soul), but it’s still a matter of the
possession possessing us. A celebrity’s autograph. A famous home-­run ball. A pen once used by John F. Kennedy. We are transformed.

  “It’s an article about the girl,” he says. “How people are taking stuff from the house, anything to remind them of her.”

  “Well,” sighs the woman, who is officially crying now, tears making steady, streaming progress down her cheeks. “I don’t condone. But I do understand.”

  Still holding the article, printed out from the Internet, he wants to launch into an impassioned, spiritually devastating speech. He wants to tell her about the hoaxes, how they use oil for tears, how it can all be rationally explained, how people believe what they want to believe, and he wants to clinically deconstruct it all for her so she understands, so she knows the truth. He would be doing her a favor, actually. And eventually, if need be, he’ll stump her with the ultimate stumper: If little Anabelle Vincent is capable of performing miracles, then why can’t she heal herself?

  “It is real, isn’t it? Don’t you think?”

  There are families here, clusters of adults and children. Babies wail. Men and women talking on cell phones. Talking to each other. Sweat and suntan lotion. Beach chairs and Igloo coolers. The sun baking all below it, casting a burning yellow glow. Cops patrolling. Young, burly neckless men with yellow shirts that say SECURITY on the back. People wearing shorts who should not be wearing shorts. Excitement in the air. Like waiting for a concert. He doesn’t know what to say.

  “I’m going to die,” the woman confesses.

  And now he really doesn’t know what to say.

  “Wow, I’ve never said it out loud like that before. I’m going to die. Wasn’t so hard, saying it. It’s one of those six-­month deals. ‘You’ve got six months, Amy.’ What the hell do you say after you’ve been told something like that? More importantly, what do you do?”

  With his grandfather, they said there was nothing to do except pray. This from medical doctors, people with framed degrees and prolific beards. So you knew it was bad. And so he prayed. He prayed like no one had ever prayed before, blazed a trail in the history of prayer. Every waking thought a plea to God. Pleasegodlethimlive. Pleasegodmakewhat’shappeningtohisbodystop. On his knees, standing, walking, waiting for the bread to pop out of the toaster. He never missed an opportunity to argue his case. The prayers came fast, a rush of words and syllables, a new language that had the power to transform. Pleasegodifhe­­livesIwon’t evertakehimoranythingelse for granted. Iwonteverwishanything badonhimoranyoneelseinthisworld. Pleasegodplease. He prayed at school, in the car, in his dreams, while watching cartoons. His mother told him good. It was helping. It was working. So he prayed more. The frequent visits to the hospital, on weekends, before and after school—he prayed there, too. Not only for his grandfather but for the doctors and nurses, the machines and medicine. Everything. He prayed. Still, his grandfather died. To his twelve-­year-­old mind, this was an act of the highest betrayal. He had done what was required, he had prayed, he had said the right words, many words. PleasegodifIdidsomething wrongtocausethispleaseforgivemeitwasn’thisfaultsodon’ttakeitoutonhimplease. Still, his grandfather died. Many people told him it was part of God’s plan. But if this was part of God’s plan, then he didn’t want any part of it. He wanted another plan.

  Did people from Baltimore have accents?

  “What did you do?”

  “I don’t know,” says Amy. “I was alone. I was sitting in an exam room. Wearing one of those papery gown things. The doctor was real cold about it. They do that kind of stuff every day, I guess. Tell people they’re going to die. Still, like ‘here’s a Kleenex’ or something would have been nice. Every time I moved that white tissue paper you sit on made this super loud noise. I was fixated on that. The white tissue paper. It seemed so loud. Later, after, when it finally sunk in, was when I first started hearing about the girl. I knew that was it, that I had to come.”

  He can’t do it, no, not to this weeping, dying woman. He’s thought of this moment so many times, of making a believer not believe, of undoing the years of slavish thought in a single, well-­reasoned, secular humanist instant. But the Smiling Skeptic can’t do it. He can’t do what he’s thought so long of doing. Bringing someone into the light of reason right before his eyes. Watching the belief and certainty drain from their face. Replaced by the doubt and uncertainty that is our true state. He can hear the sound of that white tissue paper.

  “Look,” the woman says.

  And then they turn to see the ambulance, lights flashing, siren blaring, driving toward the football field, people starting to clap, to cheer, a collective euphoria rising, and he has to catch himself because he was about to join in, too.

  * * *

  The boys had hugged Linda like they hadn’t hugged her in ages. Big, boyish, bear hugs. Trying-­to-­hold-­you-­as-­close-­as-­humanly-­possible hugs. I’m-­so-­happy-­there-­are-­no-­words hugs. Life-­affirming hugs. Validation hugs. They were happy, the way boys should be happy, not how they usually were these days: moping, frowning, afraid. They felt fantastic, the hugs, giving her the courage she’d need in the coming days and weeks. Hugs that would have to last.

  As of yesterday, he was officially gone, out of her life. Linda had expected more resistance, having put off this decision for so long partly because of the fear of what he’d do. She’d witnessed his temper firsthand before. One shit little thing that could transform him from David Banner to the Hulk, Jekyll to Hyde, Regular Joe to Supreme Asshole. She was afraid. His track record of hearing bad/unwelcome news not exactly stellar. She did not leave a note, it was face-­to-­face. He called her a cunt-­bitch, but left it at that, then stormed out, leaving behind all his things (there wasn’t much).

  Just yesterday, thinks Linda. It’s only been since yesterday and yet it already seems like she’s been free longer. This morning: that first intoxicating breath of air, savoring it. Noting the empty space in bed. Where he’d be, but was not. Amazing how much larger the apartment seemed with just one less body in it, how much room he took up both physically and emotionally. Reliving all this, those revealing opening moments of the day, as she now rides in the back of the ambulance with Karen and John, the newly arrived husband, looking over at Anabelle, who’s strapped in a gurney but perpetually jiggling, as if her body is capable of movement, but it’s only the movement of the vehicle, driving to the high school where she will be on display one last time and then it will be over.

  Or will it?

  People will still come. They will still show up at the house. They will still believe. When Linda brought this up, Karen said she hasn’t gotten that far. She’s dealing with today. She’s dealing with the return of her husband. Linda not sure what to make of John yet. He’s quiet. He seems stunned, a little like a shell-­shocked soldier who’s returned home and is having trouble adjusting to taking out the trash when he’s been used to shooting at people. Pretty regularly he reaches out to touch Karen, as if to confirm something with her, to bring her closer to him, and sometimes you can see her jump, physically jump, the surprise at his fingers being there.

  Besides the three of them, there’s also Anabelle’s main doctor, Dr. Patel, who’s busy monitoring the machines and making sure Anabelle is comfortable and breathing without distress. Periodically, he readjusts her oxygen mask, which keeps slipping off. Others will be there to help, too—a small army of volunteers organized by Bryce. For the occasion, they had bought a special tent for her, as well as a portable generator and air conditioner, to keep Anabelle cool and shaded and regulated. Dr. Patel would be there at all times, the ambulance standing by if something went wrong and they needed to get Anabelle to a hospital. Karen had asked Linda to come, said “I’d really like you to be there,” and so here she is, the ambulance moving slowly, navigating through the high school now, getting closer to the field, and at some point they hear cheering and clapping, and it’s like they’re rock stars.

  Yes: Linda had finally broken down and prayed to Anabelle. A li
ttle quickie while Karen was out of the room. Prayed for the strength to do what she needed to do. And now she had done it. And it did not seem like a miracle. It seemed like a simple transaction. You asked for something and you got it. That’s how the world worked sometimes, if you were lucky.

  The boys had come home and hugged her and asked “Where’s Victor?” and she told them. There they were in her arms, her beautiful sons, David and Danny, and she didn’t want to let go.

  The ambulance comes to a stop, and Karen says, “We’re here.”

  * * *

  Inmates at California’s Avenal State Prison are allowed one hour of television during the day, from 11-­12, right before lunch. This happens communally, in a large, gray concrete room with rows of folding chairs, and the TV gets rolled in every day, like it’s some kind of daily blessing. It’s also kind of cutthroat with regard to who chooses the station, the program. Usually it’s the guard, Marty, who typically goes for ESPN. Marty hardly ever talks because he has a lisp. A prison guard with a lisp. Imagine that.

  Today Matthew Ronald Kimbrough makes a point of being the first one in the room so that he can convince Marty to let them watch coverage of the girl at the football stadium. He pleads his case once Marty arrives, and the guard just shrugs, clicks the remote over to Channel 11.