A Valentine’s Day Miracle

by Tammy Falkner

  Miracle goes and hugs her. “Your sister is safe?”

  She nods as tears run down her face.

  “Then my mother would be happy. That’s all she ever wanted, just for people to be safe and happy.”

  People continue to share memories of Joy, and some of them are desperately sad while others make joyful laughter ring around the room.

  Finally, when the man from the local church has said his prayers and offered blessings, Miracle closes the ceremony. “I hope to see you all tonight at the lighting of the Valentine’s Day heart. You all earned wishes this week, and I hope you get everything you wish for.”

  Suddenly, Lady Humbug stands up and walks toward the little table at the front of the room. She scoops the urn holding Joy’s ashes into her arms. Several people jump up to stop her, but Miracle says, “No, let her go.”

  “But she’s taking—” one man says.

  “She’s grieving. Let her have this.” Miracle nods, like she has decided what should and will happen. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out an envelope. She hands it to Pete, since he’s standing closer to her than the rest of us, and says, “Can you give her this before she goes?”

  Pete takes it and runs down the aisle after Lady Humbug. The woman is surprisingly agile for someone her age.

  Pete

  Lady Humbug is quick on her feet as she walks down the aisle and out the door.

  “Mrs. Baumgartner!” I call. She doesn’t look back. “Mrs. Baumgartner!” I call again, then, “Lady Humbug!” Finally, she stops walking.

  “I’m not giving it back,” she says. She sniffles.

  I look at the urn she’s clutching in her arms. “Miracle doesn’t want it back. She wants you to have it.”

  Lady Humbug shifts on her feet, unsure of what to say next.

  I hold out the envelope. “Miracle wanted you to have this.”

  Her hand quivers as she takes it from me. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like for me to walk home with you?” I ask hesitantly.

  “You may accompany me if you so choose.”

  I walk next to her without saying a word. I really thought she would say no.

  “That Henry, with the balding pate and the rakish grin…” she says. “His wife recently passed away, yes?”

  “A few years ago, yes.”

  “I knew Nan…once upon a time,” she says wistfully.

  I say nothing because no words are required.

  I’ve never heard someone refer to Henry’s smile as rakish. He’ll love that.

  “Did Miracle really say she wanted me to keep these ashes?”

  I shrug. “She said not to stop you when you left with them.”

  “She stole Joy’s body from the morgue. The little whippersnapper.”

  “Miracle did that?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she hums. “I had already set up the funeral and everything. Imagine my surprise when there was no body to be claimed.”

  She walks in silence, lost in thought for a few blocks.

  Then I look up and we’re in front of her building. I open the door for her and the doorman comes forward. “Let me take that for you, Mrs. Baumgartner.” He gently takes the urn into his arms and cups her elbow to guide her to the waiting elevator.

  “Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Reed. I have no idea which one you are. There are just so many of you.”

  I chuckle. “No worries. I’m Pete, by the way.”

  She sticks out her tiny hand and I take it, shaking it gently.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Baumgartner.”

  “Thank you,” she says again. “Now be gone with you.” She shoos me toward the door with her fingers, so I leave.

  I find Reagan standing outside the funeral, talking with people who are still lingering. There was a time when a crowd like this would have sent her running away as fast as she could go, but not now. Reagan teaches self-defense classes at the rec center and she knows a lot of these people anyway, but even if she didn’t, she’s not as worried as she used to be.

  She sees me and slides her hand into mine. “Where did you go?”

  “I walked Lady Baumgartner home.”

  She pretends to brush against my suit coat. “All these icicles, my goodness,” she says breezily. Then she laughs.

  “She actually wasn’t that bad. It was strange.” I shrug. “Do you think that old heart of hers is thawing a little?”

  “One can only hope,” she replies.

  Lady Humbug

  I step into my apartment and the doorman waits, holding the urn with Joy’s ashes in it. “Would you put them on the mantel, please?” I ask.

  He sets them gingerly on the large mantel over the fireplace. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he says.

  “Do you have a name?” I suddenly blurt out.

  He bristles. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard yours.”

  He stands up even taller. “I don’t think you’ve ever cared enough to ask.”

  I rock my head from side to side. “True enough.”

  “It’s Jamal, Mrs. Baumgartner. My name is Jamal.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I gesture toward the urn. “For carrying my daughter’s ashes inside.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he replies. Then he leaves. Then I realize I forgot to tip him.

  I reach into my pocket to pull out a few dollars I know are in there, but I only find the envelope one of the Reed boys gave me. Pete? I can never tell them all apart. And now they’re multiplying. It’s ridiculous. Whatever happened to the joy of small families?

  I sit down at my desk and slice open the envelope.

  * * *

  Dear Grandmother,

  The lighting of the Valentine’s Day heart will occur tonight after sunset. I’d like to see you there. If you didn’t earn a wish on your own, do not worry. I’m giving you mine.

  Love,

  Miracle

  * * *

  I shake the envelope and a small plastic light bulb, like the kind you might find on a Christmas tree, falls out. I know the lights are merely symbolic, that the Valentine’s Day heart is pre-lit. It just needs for someone to turn it on. But these lights that you can hold in your hand were a nice touch.

  I am exhausted from the strain of the day, so I take a nap. Then I get dressed to go to the lighting of the Valentine’s Day heart. I was invited, and I get a wish, thanks to Miracle. I’ll show up and see what happens.

  I take the elevator downstairs and find Jamal standing with his children, as they prepare to walk out the door together. “Good evening, Jamal,” I say.

  He startles, but quickly recovers. I know how he feels. I felt the same way, like swishing sand in my mouth. But now that the words are out there, my heart feels a little warmer. I rub at my chest.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Baumgartner?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I reply. “Where are you off to?”

  “To the lighting of the heart,” he says. “All my boys did good deeds so they get a wish each.”

  “What will you wish for?” I ask of them.

  The oldest one says, “My teacher has cancer, so I’m going to wish for her good health.”

  “And you?” I ask the smaller one.

  “My nanna died, and I wish I could remember her.”

  I nod. “My daughter just died.”

  “I’m very sorry,” the little boy says, and then he slides his hand into mine. “Do you want to walk with us?”

  “Son—” Jamal starts to chastise.

  But I hold up my hand. “I’d love to walk with you and your family, Jamal, if you don’t mind.”

  He smiles at me and stands taller. “No, ma’am, we don’t mind at all,” he says quickly. “That would be fine.”

  “Lead the way, young man,” I say.

  When we arrive at the square, Jamal finds his wife, who just got off work at a nearby hospital. I stop and speak with them for a moment, and then I go towar
d the front of the event, where I know I will find Miracle. She’s too much like her mother not to be involved in this.

  Paul Reed steps up to the podium and begins his speech about why his family sponsored the heart.

  “When we were younger, our mother taught us to believe in wishes. We never stopped believing. I still believe in wishes. Wishes are breaths our hearts make when our lungs don’t want to work anymore. Wishes are what keep us going on dark days. So when my brothers came to me with the idea for the Valentine’s Day heart, and we figured out how we could set it up so good deeds earned wishes, we knew we had to see it through. The support was immediate and immense. This city really came through.” He holds up one of the small plastic lights. “If you have one of these, you are entitled to a wish. You can come up to the microphone and speak your wish out loud, or you can hold it close to your heart. It’s completely up to you.”

  The words leave my lips before I even recognize they’re in my head. “May I go first?”

  Silence falls around the square.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the tiny plastic bulb, holding it aloft.

  “Of course,” Paul Reed says.

  Someone grips my elbow and helps me up the steps leading to the podium. What is it with all these young people going for the elbows? “I didn’t earn this,” I say loudly, as I hold up my tiny light between the pads of my index finger and my thumb.

  “That’s okay!” a voice calls out. “I did!”

  Miracle climbs up the stairs. “I gave it to you of my own free will,” she says with a smile in my direction. “Make your wish, Grandmother.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “Go ahead.”

  I say into the microphone, “I wish my Joy were here.” My voice cracks and my throat thickens, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

  “She is here!” someone calls from the crowd.

  “She lives in all of us!” someone else shouts.

  People I have never known and will never know walk forward, and they begin to pile their tiny light bulbs at my feet.

  “What are you all doing?” I ask.

  “Most of us wouldn’t be here if not for Joy, Mrs. Baumgartner,” someone says. “She lives in each of us. We are the product of her love, her devotion, and her truth. We are her legacy.”

  “We are what she left behind, along with this beautiful daughter,” one man says.

  By the time they are done, I have a large pile of lights in front of my feet and thousands of people waiting in front of me. And I feel as though my heart splits open. I fall to my knees and run my fingers in the pile. “My daughter is not gone from this earth,” I say. “She lives on.”

  “In all of us,” someone replies. “And in you.”

  I point to my chest. “In me?”

  Someone laughs. “In you.”

  “In me,” I say on a sigh. And my soul feels lighter. “I should have done things differently with my daughter.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Jamal’s youngest son as he sets his light at my feet.

  “You should keep that,” I say. “It’s worth a wish.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t need it.”

  Jamal beams down at his son. I can’t remember the last time I looked at Joy with that kind of pride. But I am proud of her in this moment, so proud that I am nearly bursting with it.

  I get back to my feet. “I think this city needs a Joy Baumgartner memorial homeless shelter, a soup kitchen, and a mobile library. Would any of you like a job?”

  The crowd begins to cheer.

  “I think that’s a yes,” Miracle says as she wipes tears from her cheeks.

  “Would you help me set it all up?” I ask her.

  “I will,” she says. “On one condition.” She holds up a single finger.

  “Anything,” I whisper, and my heart nearly leaps from my chest as I wait for her request.

  “Will you let me visit with you so you can tell me stories about my mother when she was a little girl?”

  Tears sting my eyes. “I will,” I say, trying to speak around the lump in my throat. “If you’ll come home with me and tell me stories about my daughter after she became a mother.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  “Mrs. Baumgartner,” Paul Reed says. “Would you like to light the heart for us all?”

  I point to my chest. “You want me to do it?”

  He nods and he’s blinking back tears too. I look at Miracle. “Will you help me?”

  She doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course I will.”

  With her hand guiding mine, we flip the switch together.

  I look down at the children sitting around my feet. “And every year since, we have had a heart in the square on Valentine’s Day, and Miracle and I have lit it together. Miracle starts college this year, and she wants to be a social worker.”

  “And your heart, it’s not fwozen anymore?” one little boy asks.

  “My heart is not frozen. It’s open and full and ready to accept love. Because isn’t that what Valentine’s Day is all about?”

  The boy jumps from his seat and rushes toward me. He nearly bowls me over, but I don’t say a word. I just hug him. “I love your stories,” he says quietly.

  “Me too,” Miracle says from where she now stands behind me.

  Joy surrounds us. In us. Around us. On us. And I am grateful.

  Miracle and I walk home side by side. It’s cold, but at least it’s not snowing this year.

  We stop to look at the mural that Logan Reed painted on the side of the building near where we live. It’s a mural of Joy and Miracle and it’s beautiful. Logan also refreshed the mural of his family, so you can see it when you’re standing on the street corner, and every now and then random murals show up that say things like “be kind” or “stay strong.” Every so often, I send the Reed brothers paint, just to keep them going.

  “So,” Miracle says slowly. It’s a prompt. I know that much. “Tomorrow, I’ll be helping the volunteers at the thrift store sort clothing.”

  “Do you want me to come and help?” I ask.

  She smiles and nods. “I was hoping you’d offer.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  We go into the apartment, and I see Joy’s urn still sitting in its place on the mantel. But what’s important is what’s next to it. For in a clear, simple glass jar, I have all the tiny plastic lights that were laid at my feet that night. They are my most prized possessions.

  “Oh,” Miracle says, turning to face me. “Next week, there’s a special dinner for the homeless. Do you want to go?”

  “Only if I can serve the mashed potatoes,” I reply.

  She smiles and nods at me, and my heart is so full and warm that I can barely breathe.

  Also by Tammy Falkner

  The Reed Brothers Series:

  Tall, Tatted, and Tempting

  Smart, Sexy, and Secretive

  Calmly, Carefully, Completely

  Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

  Finally Finding Faith

  Reagan’s Revenge and Ending Emily’s Engagement

  Maybe Matt’s Miracle

  Proving Paul’s Promise

  Only One

  Beautiful Bride

  Zip, Zero, Zilch

  Christmas with the Reeds

  Good Girl Gone

  While We Waited

  Holding Her Hand

  Yes, You

  Always, April

  I’m In It

  * * *

  Stand-alone Romance

  Feels Like Summertime

  What She Didn’t Know

 

 

 
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