Book Read Free

The Miraculous

Page 16

by Jess Redman


  Everyone was connected. The living to the living, and the living to the dead, and the dead to the dead too. And no one was ever alone. And no one was ever truly gone. And nothing ever ended.

  Because love never ended.

  And no one knew—no one could ever know all that was happening. In this life or after.

  There were truths that couldn’t be measured. There were connections that couldn’t be traced. There were mysteries that couldn’t be unshrouded. There were ways to hold someone’s hand even when that hand was buried far under the ground, even when that someone was lying in a small white box.

  There was sadness, there was never-ending sadness, sadness that left you motionless in your bed, sadness that chased you away from home day after day, sadness that could make your heart feel like a stone.

  But there were miracles too.

  There were miracles.

  At the base of the tree, there was a hole. A hollow place. Wunder found it because instead of being dark, the hole was lit, lit by a soft, pulsing white light.

  He climbed inside.

  There wasn’t much room. He had to pull his knees up to his chest to fit. But it was warm in there. Warm and the wood at his back felt softer than he’d thought it would.

  And waiting for him there was the feeling that he had felt in the DoorWay House. And something else—someone else.

  She was there. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her, but he knew she was there. The one he had been waiting and waiting and waiting for. The one he’d thought was never coming.

  His sister, Milagros, was there.

  And his heart, that stone that had warmed and rocked and shook and cracked, it split wide open.

  Because it hadn’t been a stone.

  It had been an egg.

  And finally, finally, the heart-bird was reborn. It burst free and soared through him, feathers brushing his veins, his heart, the insides of his fingertips and the soles of his feet. It soared and sang, and it was different—it wasn’t all light and bright and lifted, there was loss and loneliness and darkness too—but it was beautiful all the same.

  Wunder felt it. He felt it all, but he was tired. He was so tired and he ached. Not just his hands or his back, but everywhere. He ached everywhere.

  And so, hidden inside the DoorWay Tree, with his cheek pressed against his knees and his arms wrapped around his shins, with the heart-bird flying and the soft light surrounding him and the white flower clutched in his earth-covered hands, Wunder cried.

  He cried and cried and cried.

  Chapter 45

  “Wake up, Wundie! Wake up!”

  Slivers of weak gray light were filtering into the hole in the tree where Wunder was curled. The soft white light was gone, and the wood at his back was rough and hard. His limbs felt tight and heavy as he crawled out, as if he had slept for a long, long time.

  Faye was there, her cloak covering a gray sweater dress. Her bangs were pinned back. She didn’t look serene. She didn’t look expressionless. She looked shocked and confused and a little bit afraid.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “You’re covered in mud. You’re—you’re in a tree. A DoorWay Tree! What happened?”

  Wunder staggered to his feet and turned to stare up at the tree. He could hardly believe it was still there. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t rational.

  But it was there.

  And he knew exactly what to say.

  “We did it,” he told Faye.

  Faye gaped at him. She pulled her cloak around herself tightly. Then she gazed up at the DoorWay Tree’s delicate white blossoms, and down its black wood to the bumps and knobs of roots burrowing into earth.

  “We did it,” she breathed.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you,” Wunder said.

  Faye shook her head slowly, without taking her eyes off the tree. “I didn’t know what would happen,” she said. “I knew something would. But I didn’t know what.”

  “You were right about Milagros,” Wunder told her. “You were right about miracles.”

  He crossed to the lowest branch. Standing on tiptoes, he was able to pluck one of the white flowers. It felt warm in his hands even though the sun wasn’t visible yet.

  “This is for you,” he said, holding it out to his friend.

  “Wundie. Listen,” Faye said. “That’s sweet. But I don’t really see you like that.”

  Wunder laughed. “For you and for your grandfather. What was his name? I’m sorry I never asked.”

  “Daniel,” Faye told him. “Daniel Young-Ho Lee.”

  “For you and Daniel Young-Ho Lee,” Wunder said.

  Faye took the flower. Her fingertips brushed each petal, one by one, then she leaned in and inhaled. When she looked back up, she didn’t seem confused or afraid anymore.

  She seemed, for the first time since he’d known her, serene.

  “What happened in there?” she asked, pointing to the hollow that Wunder had come out of.

  “I’m not sure how to explain it,” Wunder said. “But she was there. She’s not really gone. Well, maybe she is. But she’s—she’s still here too. With me.”

  Faye pressed the flower to her heart, like she was giving it a hug, and she smiled.

  “I knew it,” she said. “I knew he wasn’t gone. But I couldn’t feel it before. I can feel it now.”

  They were silent, watching as the breeze made the white blossoms dance, watching as sunrise light shone through the thin petals, showing the veins that flowed through them, showing the blank spaces between.

  Then they heard footsteps.

  Someone was coming up the hill.

  Chapter 46

  It wasn’t just someone. It was many someones—the women and men and children of Branch Hill. They had letters clutched in their hands. They had wide eyes. And they had questions for Faye and Wunder.

  “The letter told us to come here,” someone said.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Who sent these?”

  “Wunder! Wunder!”

  At the bottom of the hill was the Minister of Consolation. He wore his white robe, and in the new sunlight, it looked bright white, as white as a DoorWay Tree flower.

  “Wunder,” he cried, “this tree! Where did this tree come from? Did you do this?”

  The questions stopped. Everyone looked at Wunder, silent, waiting.

  And again, Wunder knew exactly what to say.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t me. It was a miracle.”

  The word rippled through the crowd. Miracle … miracle … miracle. Here was the miracle that they had been told to come experience.

  And now there were more questions.

  “What do you mean miracle?”

  “Why is it in a graveyard?”

  “What does it mean?”

  Wunder glanced across the cemetery to the DoorWay House. He wondered where the witch was. This was her moment. Everyone was here because of her. The awed peacefulness he had felt when he climbed out of the tree was fading in the face of his neighbors’ bewilderment. He hadn’t expected to do this on his own.

  But he wasn’t on his own.

  “Everyone! Listen!” Faye stood in front of the tree, in front of the crowd. Her bangs were back, and her wind-blown cloak made her look, Wunder thought, like a black bird about to soar. “We’re here to see the miracle of the DoorWay Tree. We’re here to be with one another. We’re here to be with the dead. Et cetera!”

  Wunder nodded, Faye’s presence and words making him braver. “All of us here,” he said, “have experienced miracles in our lives, miracles that we sometimes forget. This tree is here to remind us. And it’s here to show us the miracles of memory and love. It’s here to connect us to one another and to the ones we’ve lost.”

  “How?” cried the minister.

  “Come and take a flower,” Faye told him. “You’ll feel it.”

  He didn’t move. No one did. Wunder thought of the witch’s words as he picked one of the
blossoms: It is easy to reach for one another in the brightness. There was a miracle right in front of them, so bright and clear and real. And there were friends and neighbors and loved ones standing right next to them, each their own point of light. But Wunder knew how sadness and loneliness could block out even the brightest light.

  Then Mariah Lazar stepped forward. She was holding Jayla on her hip, as big as she was, gripping her tightly with one hand. Her other hand, she held out, empty.

  Wunder filled it with the flower.

  “This is for Avery,” he said.

  “Thank you, Wunder,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

  Then she and her husband and her children headed toward the grave topped with the white in-flight bird. They went together to the grave of the one they had loved, the one they still loved, the one they had lost, the one who was waiting to be found. They went to be with her for a while.

  And then everyone came forward.

  All that morning, they came, the people of Branch Hill, more and more and more of them. Eugenia Simone. Margot Arvid. Mateo Ramos and his wife. Susan Holt and her stepdaughters. Mason Nash with his uncle. Charlotte Atkins with her brother and sisters and parents and dog. All the people that Wunder and Faye had connected to, all the people that the witch had called to the hill.

  At first, the newcomers would stand and gaze up at the tree, awed by its size and its beauty. Then Wunder and Faye would tell them about the DoorWay Tree and give them a flower, and they would feel it—the miracle feeling, their own heart-bird—as they realized they weren’t alone, as they realized their loved ones, alive and dead, were with them.

  Some who came left and returned with urns or with heirlooms or with framed pictures. Their loved ones were not buried at the Branch Hill cemetery, but somehow they could feel them there just the same.

  And some left and returned with elements of their own celebrations and rituals and rites, with marigolds, with lilies, with bowls of fruit and bowls of rice, with incense and candles, with brooms for sweeping and guitars for strumming and seeds for planting. There were many, many ways to think about death. There were many, many ways to connect with the dead.

  Davy came, with Mrs. Baum. When he saw the tree, he couldn’t speak for a long time.

  “That’s our branch?” he finally asked.

  “That’s our branch,” Wunder said, smiling at his friend. “We did it.”

  Davy smiled back at him, smiled so big and wide, bigger and wider than Wunder had ever seen. Then he went to the tree himself and plucked two flowers.

  “My great-grandparents are buried here,” he told Wunder. “I never knew that. My mom told me this morning. These are for them.” He shrugged. “And for me too, I guess.”

  The witch had given Faye a letter for her mother after all. Faye was sure she wouldn’t come to the cemetery, but Mrs. Lee appeared while it was still early morning, and so did Grace. Faye met them with three flowers in her hands. They each took one, and then they went to Faye’s grandfather’s grave. Wunder watched from the top of the hill as they stood together with their arms around one another.

  He was happy for Faye. He was happy for Davy. He was happy for Branch Hill. He was happy for himself.

  But he was still waiting.

  He was waiting for his mother. He was waiting for his father.

  And they didn’t come.

  Another hour passed, and Faye returned to the top of the hill. There were dozens of people there now. Ladders leaned against the DoorWay Tree. Flowers fell.

  “Can you believe this?” Wunder smiled at Faye. Then he caught himself. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I know you don’t like my excessive smiling.”

  Faye shrugged. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “I think I’ve decided that the world needs people like you, Wunder. Zippy people. People who smile and mean it.”

  “The world needs people like us, Faye,” Wunder told her. “The world needs people who believe in miracles.”

  When he hugged her, she didn’t even protest. She hugged him back, there on Branch Hill, under the DoorWay Tree, where they had become friends.

  Chapter 47

  Wunder left after that. He couldn’t wait any longer. He wondered, as he hurried home with his arms full of flowers, if anything would be changed there.

  But at home, the house was cold and heavy and dark, the same as it had been. Wunder’s heart sank as he saw the door to his parents’ room, closed.

  But his mother wasn’t in there.

  She was in his room.

  She was sitting on the floor, a screwdriver in her hand. Her face was blotchy and shiny with tears. And the crib was in pieces all around her.

  “Mom, are you okay?” Wunder asked, alarmed. He sank down next to her. “What happened?”

  When she saw him, Wunder’s mother pressed her hand to her mouth and let out a long shaking sob. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time in a long time, like she had missed him. Like she had desperately, desperately missed him.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I thought it was time we took this down,” she said, gesturing around with the screwdriver. “I’m so sorry we left it in here for so long. I’m so sorry I left you for so long. I was—I was in such a dark place. I’ve never been anywhere that dark.” Then she started to cry. “But, Wunder, where have you been?”

  Everything was so unexpected—his mother’s look and her words and her presence in his room—that it took Wunder a moment to realize what she was asking. It took him a moment to realize that he had been gone for an entire night.

  But even when he did, it seemed like there was more to the question. There was so much she had missed, so much she didn’t know.

  “The witch—” he started to say. “The tree—Milagros.”

  He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her everything.

  But after not saying anything for so long, it was hard to find the words right away.

  So he tried to show her.

  “I have flowers,” he said. “Flowers for you.” He held them out to her. Even in his room, away from the sun, they were stunningly white.

  His mother took the flowers, and for a long time, she held them, cradled them. Then she brought them to her face and inhaled deeply. The petals brushed her cheeks. Wunder could see their light reflected in her eyes.

  “These are beautiful, Wunder,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like them. Where did you get them?”

  Here was another question that he knew would take a long time to answer.

  “I was in the dark too,” he finally replied. “But I found the brightness.”

  His mother started to cry again. “My miracle,” she said. “My Wunder.”

  Then she opened her flower-filled arms, and Wunder fell into them. She ran her hands over his hair and his back, like she used to, and Wunder didn’t try to stop her.

  Until they heard a noise that made both of them turn.

  Wunder’s father was in the doorway.

  “I’ve been out all night with the police,” he said. “We were just at the cemetery. The people there—all those people—they told me Wunder was here. And I saw—I brought this.” He held up a white flower. He looked very confused and very alone.

  Wunder’s mother didn’t answer. But she pulled Wunder to her again with one arm and held out the other arm. Wunder’s father stumbled over and sank to his knees.

  And then Wunder felt both of his parents there, both of his parents with their arms around him. He felt how much they loved him with a great, imperfect love, a love that connected them, a love that would never end. And he didn’t have to say anything at all.

  The heart-bird circled slowly and softly inside him. The white flowers shone with their own light. And Wunder and his mother and his father sat on the floor with the pieces of the crib scattered around them.

  They sat on the floor and they held one another and they cried.

  Chapter 48

  The
sun had begun to set when he left the house. The roads were dry, as if the rainfall of the last night hadn’t happened. The path in the woods was littered with leaves and vines, but everything was quiet, peaceful. The live oak seemed unchanged, green and alive and wrapped in the embrace of the resurrection fern.

  He had been talking with his parents for hours, telling them what he was ready to tell and listening to what they were ready to say. His father had promised to come home on time from now on and had suggested they go on a road trip to visit family during Christmas vacation. Wunder’s mother had brought up her transition back to work and had agreed to go to Mariah Lazar’s grief group with Wunder’s father.

  Then they had decided that it was time to go, as a family, to the cemetery.

  “But there’s someone I have to see first,” Wunder had said. “Alone.”

  His father had started to shake his head, but his mother had said, “Go ahead. We’ll meet you there.”

  At the DoorWay House, Wunder knocked on the door. He knocked for a long time. No one answered. No bird cawed. Finally, he let himself inside.

  In the long hallway, every door was open. Wunder walked past one after another and saw that they were all the same—small, empty, dust-coated rooms. Nothing more.

  The parlor was unchanged, with its piano and empty bookshelves, and so was the dining room, its chandelier still swinging in that unfelt draft.

  In the kitchen, the only difference was that the newspapers were gone. The table was laid bare for the first time. It was spiraled after all.

  And sitting atop the spirals was The Miraculous.

  Wunder sat on his usual rusty stool. The witch, it seemed, was gone. She had said she didn’t have much time, but he hadn’t really thought about that. He hadn’t thought past the miracle.

  At first, he felt angry. He had believed her, had trusted her at last. And she had left him.

  Then he felt like crying because he didn’t want her to be gone too. He had so much more to ask her, so many more questions.

  He stared down at the table, tears filling his eyes, and that was when he saw it. On top of The Miraculous was a pen. It was an old-fashioned black fountain pen, and Wunder could picture the wrinkled hands that had held it and the sprawling script that had flowed from its tip.

 

‹ Prev