The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin
Page 27
“You look like a snow princess,” Lily said.
A snow princess—Antoinette liked the sound of that. She flapped her hands because she was happy, not because she had to.
“Come on. Let’s go see your mom.” Lily led Antoinette over a small hill, toward the back corner of the cemetery where Antoinette’s grandparents were buried. Antoinette didn’t remember them, but she could feel them here.
MaryBeth was also buried in this cemetery. After her death eight months ago, Eli sold the bakery and moved away. Antoinette hadn’t seen him since.
A new marker stood next to her grandparents’ graves. It was gray granite, the name carved in black: william grayson. There was one word under the dates that bracketed his life: friend.
Grass didn’t grow over his grave. Instead, there were forget-me-nots and blue violas. Lily looked at the flowers covering Will’s grave. “Don’t worry,” she said as she ran her hand over the marker, “we won’t forget.”
Antoinette’s mother knelt in front of the stone. Seeing them approach, she stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees. “You’re a little late,” she said.
Antoinette grabbed her mother’s hand. Her skin was soft and warm. Sometimes her mother pressed her cheek against Antoinette’s just because she could. Those were the times Antoinette put her palms flat against her mother’s face and hummed. Not because she needed to fix anything but just for the joy of it.
“Do you need help?” Lily asked.
Her mother shook her head and bent to pick up the shovel she had dropped when she stood to greet them. “The lilies were easy.” On either side of Will’s marker, she had planted six lilies-of-the-valley. “It’s the only way I know to say thank you.”
The sisters hugged. Lily’s dark hair mixed with Rose’s blonde hair, and despite their coloring they looked more alike than different.
Seth took the snowdrops from Lily. “Do you also want these on either side of the marker?”
“No,” Lily said. She placed the plants in the middle of the marker so that the white flowers stood below FRIEND.
Rose handed him the shovel, and he dug a hole. Lily gently settled the plants into the ground. Antoinette knelt in the dirt and pushed her hands into the soil until she heard the plants sing. The song was perfect, each note in the right place. She hummed along, and when she stopped the buds opened. They would bloom all year.
Her eyelids fluttered. She grew tired suddenly and closed her eyes for a minute. When the fatigue passed, she rocked back on her heels. Thank you, she thought.
She couldn’t push the words past her lips, but it didn’t matter. She looked at the snowdrops, bright white, blooming out of season. There were many ways to communicate; words were only one of them.
“Beautiful, Antoinette,” her mother said, lifting her easily. Her mother’s cheeks blushed pink, and her skin was firm and smooth.
Antoinette rested her ear against her mother’s chest. Her mother’s heart beat a steady thump-thump, and to her the sound was more beautiful than any music she knew. The doctors said the heart disease would come back but not for a long time. And when it did, Antoinette wouldn’t have to deal with it alone. Lily would be there.
Thank you, she thought again.
Lily touched Will’s marker and whispered, “You were wrong, Will. Death doesn’t always win. Sometimes love does.” Then she stood and wiped the dirt from her hands.
“Let’s go home,” Seth said. He took Lily’s hand and walked toward the truck.
Antoinette closed her eyes and settled her head against her mother’s shoulder, humming as they started down the hill toward home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK WOULD not have been possible without help from several people.
First of all, my agent, Dan Lazar. When I started researching agents, you were at the top of the list—my dream agent if you will. I couldn’t believe my luck when you offered to represent me. After working with you, I realize I’m even luckier. Your guidance and advice has made this a better book and me a better writer.
My editor, Chuck Adams. Your kindness and generous insight helped bring Antoinette to life. It’s wonderful working with someone who “gets” what you’re trying to do and who pushes you to be even better.
My copy editor, Jude Grant. You work fast and have a great eye. Thanks for catching my embarrassing mistakes!
The entire Algonquin team—you all are the best. Most publishing people are passionate about the books they sell, but I think you all got an extra dose of book love!
To my critique partners, Amber Whitley, Ann Keller, and Doug Clifton, thank you for your patience and comments on early drafts. I’m lucky to count you as friends. (Doug, you can finally find out how the book ends!)
To everyone at Northern Kentucky University Master of Arts in English program, but especially Andy Miller, Stephen Leigh, Donelle Dreese, and Kelly Moffett. You are the heart of NKU’s creative writing program. Your love and dedication to the craft of writing and to NKU’s students shows in everything you do.
To the family and friends who put up with me during this long, crazy process: yes, the book really does exist!
To my husband, Steve, and my children Sarah, Zach, Grace, Caleb, Jonathan, and Gabrielle, thank you for understanding my crazy need to put words on paper and for the never-ending supply of coffee, dark chocolate, and hugs. You all are the best part of my life. None of this means anything without you.
Finally, to Marjorie Braman, thank you for taking a chance on me. I wish you were here to share this with us.
STEPHANIE KNIPPER based much of the story of The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin on her own experience raising a daughter with severe disabilities. She lives with her family in Kentucky. This is her first novel. (Author photo by Karen E. Minzner.)
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Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2016 by Stephanie Knipper.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 978-1-61620-647-5