Miracle Man

by Hildy Fox

"Our Nanny back in Sydney. Mum and Dad would work at odd times so Mrs McDonald looked after us. Becky was always happy playing with her dolls, but it seems all I ever used to do was watch television, sitting about three feet from the screen. Mrs McDonald used to tell me that if I watched it too much it would ruin my eyes. I should rest them more, she always used to say. I got glasses when I was six and she never stopped saying I told you so. I kept sitting right in front of the TV, of course, and always did. I missed her when we moved out here."

  Lahra opened her eyes suddenly. "It seems we've spent most of tonight talking about me, and hardly at all about you. I think it's time we turned the tables!"

  "Actually," said Marcus, standing, "I think it's time we cleared the table."

  It took a minute for them to do just that. They sat on the couch near the fire, Lahra aware of every centimetre between them. She gathered her knees up and rested an arm on the back of the couch.

  "So what do you do, exactly?"

  "Exactly? Civil engineer. I construct and design buildings, bridges and such."

  "A civil engineer. Well, you weren't so civil this morning, were you? Do you have your own company?"

  Marcus smirked. "Not yet. But I'm working on it. I work for a 'boutique' place, if you want to call it that, called Stone Rowbottom & Partners. We do specialist work. A lot of private sector contracts. I've been with them a year, but I expect to make partner within three years."

  "You sound driven."

  "That's my father coming out. He used to push me pretty hard. We learnt our work ethic from him, I guess."

  "We?"

  "One brother, one sister. Anne got married young and started having babies. Ronald... well... he's a bit of a free spirit. I think Dad singled me out as the big achiever of the family from the day I was born. He always said I made the most noise when I came out. He got me interested in the financial markets by the time I was ten, and I was barely out of university when I started buying houses and renovating them as a business on the side."

  "What about your mother?"

  "She was a fantastic cook. I guess I inherited that from her," Marcus smiled into Lahra's eyes. "But I never got really close to Mum. Dad had a habit of… dominating."

  Again Lahra could sense a sadness within him. What was it? Here was a man who was focussed and strong, highly successful at what he did, with the whole world seemingly at his feet. Yet something wasn't right. Something was missing. And when a chill swept through the empty space inside him it showed so clearly in his eyes that she couldn't help but want to reach out and help. It was crazy. She'd only met Marcus that morning, and here they were with a bottle and a half of wine behind them and she was delving into his past like some amateur psychologist. By an open fire, no less. Perhaps it would be wise to stop prying, before things became too intimate. Perhaps she should put down her wine and call an early end to the evening now. Perhaps she should ignore the welling feelings toward Marcus Dean that threatened to spill from inside her like a river breaking its banks, and not encourage them any more than they already were.

  But instead she asked, "Do you have a girlfriend? Or maybe a wife hidden away somewhere in one of these houses of yours?"

  Marcus laughed. "What would I want one of those for? I've only ever succeeded in making women miserable. They said I loved my work more than I loved them." He stopped and thought for a moment, and Lahra couldn't help but wonder what faces and long lost embraces were filling his head. "I suppose it boils down to not having met the right woman."

  And what type of woman would that be, Lahra thought. Was she a five foot three brunette wearing glasses who was afraid of the water? Was she a lecturer, a film producer, creative and ambitious? Was she a hopeless romantic who lamented the fact that her life never resembled the movie scene where the dashing, dark hero swept her completely off her feet and declared his undying love? Was she?

  Lahra's eyes fell to the empty space between them on the couch. It was absurd to think like that. She smiled in an attempt to lighten her suddenly downturned mood. "Perhaps you should practise your gentlemanly behaviour a little more. I'm sure you'll meet the right girl in no time."

  Marcus looked at her over his wineglass. "Perhaps you're right."

  "I would never have picked you for a dreamer," Lahra said after a short silence. "You come across as being so practical, so confident, so now, now, now. But I suspect there's something much softer beneath. Something very... attractive. You should let it out more. Share those dreams of yours."

  "Oh, I've had experience with dreams. The trouble with dreams is that the harder you chase them the more it hurts when someone sticks their foot out beneath you and trips you up. Which isn't to say that you shouldn't chase your dreams. I mean, if you want to win those Oscars, then great, go for it. Just understand that things can go wrong. Things can get in the way. Sometimes insurmountable things."

  "That's a depressing way of dreaming," Lahra decided aloud. "It kind of defeats the purpose. Isn't the nature of dreams an acceptance of the fact that they are just that—dreams? You can't catch dreams, because then they're not dreams anymore. They're real."

  "When I was in high school," Marcus said seriously, "I was a champion swimmer. By the time I was seventeen I was swimming the fastest 1500 metres in my age group in the country. I always dreamed of winning the Nationals, and that's just what I did. I broke the national record. It all happened so suddenly, and before I knew it the coach of the National Swimming Team was banging down my door asking me to get involved at a more serious level. There was talk of the Olympics, just eighteen months away. Finally, after much wooing by the powers that be, I decided to go for it. I mean, the national championship was an incredible dream come true, but the Olympics. That was something else again. And everyone got behind me, believing I was good enough to do it. Everyone except my father."

  Lahra watched and waited as the light flickered on Marcus’s face. "My father realised that if I was going to train seriously for the Olympics it would leave little time for anything else. I'd graduated from high school with great marks and had been accepted at the best civil engineering course in the state. All he understood was work. Hard work. To him, my swimming was just something that got in the way of more important things. I argued, but the end result was that he banned me from training for the Olympic Games. He took what had become not just my dream, but the dream of all those people who believed in me, and ended it just like that."

  "But surely if you wanted it badly enough, you could have gone through with it."

  "You don't know my father. In a strange way he was right, and in the end I had to acknowledge that. A career is a lifelong commitment, and it takes hard work. The Olympics would have impaired my progress."

  "You sound like you're convincing yourself."

  "Maybe because even now I feel bad for all the people I let down. Especially myself. Plus the fact that the Olympic Gold went for just eight seconds less than my best time. I could have been in with a real shot. As it is, I stopped competitive swimming altogether. So the moral of this sad tale, Lahra Brook, is to be sure of what you want and then make sure you don't let anything get in the way. Here endeth the lesson."

  "Your parents sound so different to mine," Lahra mused. "My parents were the most romantic couple in the world. At least that's how it always seemed to me."

  "That would explain that look in your eyes," Marcus said softly. Lahra looked at him, and the space between them seemed to shrink.

  "What look?"

  "That look of belief. Of passion. Your parents obviously inspired you. What happened to them?"

  Lahra breathed deeply. It was now her turn to release the spirits of the past. Normally she would have changed the direction of the conversation quickly, especially with a person she'd only known for a day. But it hadn't been any ordinary day. And the wine was like a truth serum, its soporific effect dismantling the barriers of her mind.

  "When I was seventeen, in my final year of high school, they went on holiday
to Europe. They hadn't been back there since their honeymoon in Paris. Becky and I were staying with my Aunt and Uncle at Bristol Bay. The weather is so nice there, we spent most of our time in the pool, or walking along the beach. Then one day I emerged from being underwater to see Auntie Joy standing there, crying. She ushered me out of the pool and held me. Becky joined us. I remember feeling very scared, and I asked what was wrong." Lahra stared off into the dim corners of the room as she recounted the moment. "She said mum and dad had been killed in a ferry disaster in the North Sea. I was so shocked I didn't even cry. I couldn't. Becky burst into tears, and I watched her. It just didn't seem real. I didn't cry until two weeks later, when I was eventually back here at the house. I was sorting through things here in the living room, remembering, and I came across the soundtrack album from Dr Zhivago that they had loved so much. One of the tracks from it was the music they had danced to at their wedding. It's called Lara's Theme. I sat here and listened to it, and suddenly… I cried for three days solid." The silence in the room grew heavy as they sat there, motionless. Finally, Lahra spoke. "And just as a footnote, I've been afraid of the water ever since. Which explains my embarrassing episode in the river this morning."

  Lahra's memories settled back down onto the bed of her mind. And then she felt Marcus’s hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, well," Lahra shrugged, then placed her unfinished wine on the coffee table and stood. She moved over in front of the fireplace and stared down into the fire's dance. "They were together at the very end. I'm sure they would have seen the romance in that and wanted us to remember it."

  Then Lahra felt a hand lightly grasp each of her arms. "Lahra..." Marcus’s voice was soft and close. She responded to his touch and turned to face him. She looked up into his beautiful eyes and could see her reflection. And around her was the fire, burning there in his eyes like some primal instinct come to life. His hand moved up and stroked her cheek so gently that she couldn't even be sure that he'd touched her. Her insides were like some wild amusement park, whirring and flashing and turning and spinning, and she parted her lips as if to invite him inside. There were so many things she wanted to say—that she felt she should say—but the bells and sirens of the amusement park drowned them all out before they could reach her mouth. He slid her glasses off, and she momentarily closed her eyes as if preparing to reopen them to a whole new view of the world. When she did open them, the flames in Marcus’s eyes were growing larger, closer, and she felt her body surrender to his arms as they encircled her. She shut her eyes again, the disbelief in her heart evicted by a thousand chemical reactions as she felt his soft breath against her waiting lips. And then he was kissing her, tender caresses across her mouth like whispered promises in her ear. It still wasn't too late to revoke the invitation her lips had made to him. She could still pull away and listen to all the reasons why it was wrong for her to let herself be kissed by this man. But she didn't stop. She pressed forward. His arms held her tighter and her lips yielded to the subtle message in his kiss. Everything that she was seemed to gather at some imaginary gate, the key to which he had somehow found. It was only a matter of time before the tumblers fell and the gate swung wide, before her heart, mind and soul enveloped him like bright light bouncing off a silver screen. Alarms seemed to sound, like distant sirens in the night. If only the bells would stop ringing. If only this insulated world they had created was free from the bells... the ringing... the-

  The phone!

  Lahra broke the kiss and pulled away. She had a momentary vision of Marcus forlornly standing there holding a key, but by the time she grabbed for her glasses it was gone. The phone in the kitchen was ringing. She slipped past Marcus’s enquiring gaze and went to answer it.

  "Hello?"

  "Doc, it's me." Wally's voice sounded excited on the other end of the line. Lahra looked across at Marcus by the fireplace. His stance, the look on his face, everything about him was asking her to be quick and return to him.

  "Hi. What is it?"

  "I've just spent the last twenty minutes talking to Perkins. Well, talking isn't quite the word for it. I haven't yelled at somebody like that since I can't remember when. I got so hot under the collar I almost missed a reel change. Anyway, I found out a little about the Miracle sellout, so I thought I'd call you straight away. Hope I wasn't interrupting anything."

  Lahra had twirled the phone cord so tightly around one of her fingers that it began to hurt. She undid it, watching Marcus sit in the big chair in front of the fire, finishing his wine. "No, of course not. What did you find out?"

  "Well, Perkins sold it alright. Got a pretty good price, too, from what I understand. He said a young fella from some city development firm approached him about a month back. Had some big plans to knock the old place down and put up some brand new entertainment complex or something. Anyway, I got the guy's name. Apparently he owns a property up here somewhere, though I'm not sure where."

  Lahra felt her heart press up into her throat.

  "Guy by the name of Marcus Dean."

  The amusement park lights all went out at once. Lahra stared at the man on her couch smiling up at her, and she had to consciously think to breathe properly.

  "Lahra? You still there?"

  "Yes. Who did you say it was?"

  "Marcus Dean. Sounds kinda sleazy. I don't like him already." Lahra could hear Wally speaking, but there was no longer a need to listen. "He's supposed to be running the whole show. They start demolition next week. And Perkins, the slime, couldn't wipe the smile off his face. He can't wait to get out of here. Lahra, are you okay?"

  "Yes Wally, I'm fine," she answered quietly. "All of this has just been so shocking, that's all. I think I'm tired. Why don't I call you in the morning?"

  "Okay. Are you sure you're alright?"

  No, she wanted to answer. She was not in the slightest alright. Invisible fists were squeezing her oesophagus, but she answered, "Yeah, I'm sure. I just need a good sleep."

  "Okay, sleep tight. We'll work it all out in the morning. Bye."

  "Goodnight, Wally."

  Lahra very slowly hung up. Her eyes were fixed on Marcus, who sat staring into the fire. She wanted to feel something—anything—but her body had gone numb. There was no anger. No pain. No shame. She carried her empty form back into the living area, and stopped over Marcus’s shoulder. There were no words in her head, but she heard herself speak. At least she thought it was her. The voice that came out was flat and cold.

  "Why are you here?"

  Marcus turned to her, smiling. "I don't like to question good things. It's bad luck."

  "Why are you in Riverbank?"

  Marcus saw the change in Lahra's demeanour. He sat more upright in the chair and his brow furrowed. "Well, seeing as you're asking, I'm combining pleasure with business. I'm working on a new development in town."

  There was something deep inside Lahra that wanted to get out. It was as if all of her emotion had been sucked down into a funnel, and now it wanted release, all at once. "Does it have anything to do with the Miracle Cinema?"

  Marcus’s eyebrows converged even more in a show of confusion. "How did you know about that? It's meant to be confidential."

  Lahra felt like she was standing in the middle of an expressway, and her emotions were bearing down on her at a million miles an hour. But she couldn't move. She couldn't get out of the way.

  "Who told you about the cinema?" Marcus quizzed her, standing up. "Who was that on the phone?"

  And then it came. The full force of her feelings erupted, sending shocks of sensation through her entire body. Something pushed its way up from her stomach and out through her throat and she screamed. "Get out of my house!"

  "Lahra, what is it?"

  "Just get out of my house! How dare you come here? How could you? How could you?" But even as she was screaming at him, another voice inside was screaming the same thing at her. How could you? How could you? She slapped Marcus on the chest and pushed him towards the door.
She didn't cry easily, but something inside wanted to make it happen. "Get out, right now!"

  "Lahra, what are you doing? What is it?" But the scared look on Marcus’s face knew that there was no reason to be had in Lahra's outburst. She pushed him forcibly, and he retreated. She was far too small in stature and he was far too big for her to actually move him. But the force in her voice was power enough.

  "Leave me alone!" Lahra yelled as she pushed him through the open door. "I can't bear to look at you! Get out!" And with that, she slammed the door hard in his face.

  She crumpled against the door, sinking to her knees. Her face contorted as if the tears inside her that refused to come were acid. "How could you do this?" she muttered through her laboured breath, clutching her head in her hands.

  In the space of two minutes her reality had been severely tested and had failed. But she wasn't going to cry. Her insides churned and her head felt like it might crack apart, but there would be no tears.

  She stayed hunched on the floor like that for a long time. And the same phrase played through her mind over and over and over again: Damn you, Marcus Dean. Damn you!

  FOUR

  Everything seemed so dark and cold, Lahra couldn't quite figure out where she was or what was happening. She felt weightless, and as she looked down she could see no ground beneath her feet. Only the same strange murkiness that seemed to surround her. She became aware of some sort of light from above, and she turned her head slowly upwards to look. It was a shimmering, rippling light, slowly expanding above her. And in the middle of the light was a figure. A man, looking down at her. She reached up to him but he just stood there. The image became sharper, and she suddenly realised that she was under water. Panic gripped her, and she desperately tried to reach the shimmering surface, but no matter how hard she kicked or flailed her arms she grew no closer to it. If only the man would reach down into the water and pull her out. Surely he could see her struggling. Her wide eyes searched for his, but the water seemed too thick, too dark to penetrate. But then she saw them. Green-gold lights that pierced through the water and stared directly into hers. The eyes of Marcus Dean. She tried to call to him, but when she opened her mouth the murk invaded her. It filled her mouth, her throat, her lungs. And all he did was stand there, watching. The cold was now inside her, weighing her down, and she could feel herself receding. The surface seemed to shrink before her, the light in his eyes was fading rapidly, and the darkness all around her squeezed as if it had a life of its own.