Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  “Very good. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Would you rub my back when you get here?”

  “Of course. Frau Miracle, you always ask me these things so politely. It isn’t necessary. I’m your employee. You may simply tell me what you want.”

  “Nah, we’re partners.”

  “Partners? Frau Miracle, thank you. I respect you and am glad you’ve come to respect me.” Frau Diebler cleared her throat. “Well, enough chatter. You rest!”

  “Don’t worry. I can’t get off the couch without a tow truck.”

  After she hung up the phone she tossed the script aside and rubbed her tense forehead. Why hadn’t Sebastien called? Maybe he doesn’t want to share his feelings with you. Maybe he doesn’t need to, anymore. “Oh, stop,” she muttered to herself. “Crazy pregnant woman. Hormones running amok.” Chocolate milk would settle her nerves. Chocolate milk over fruit cocktail. It was a nasty craving, but a healthy one. Even Frau Diebler approved. Amy braced her hands on the couch and, huffing, started the rocking motion that she hoped would propel her off the couch’s deep cushions.

  Just as she staggered to her feet she heard running steps on the concrete walk outside. Footsteps resonated loudly on the second-floor breezeway, making a hollow, pinging echo that alerted her anytime a visitor was headed toward her door. The footsteps ended abruptly and their owner ignored the bell, pounding instead on the veneered metal security door. “It’s Elliot. Lemme in, baby.”

  A warning instinct held her still. Even though he was using cocaine lately, he’d remained calm and reasonable, not like before. Tonight’s urgency was new, and she didn’t know what it meant. She moved slowly to the door but didn’t open it. “Are you all right?”

  “I need to talk, baby. It’s only nine o’clock. Gimme a break. It’s sort of important. Please.”

  She relaxed at the please. In the old days Elliot had never been polite when the coke was talking. “Okay. Just a second.” She flipped the door lock and unhooked the chain.

  He shoved the door open with a force that shook the walls. Its edge caught her on the right shoulder and she stumbled back, almost falling, dull pain shooting down her arm. She stared at him in astonishment and then fear as she noted his disheveled hair and furious eyes. He stepped into the apartment and halted, his legs spread, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. Though he stood still, he was so tightly wound that she could see a quiver in the short sleeves of his Raiders football jersey. His snug jeans revealed the faint, rhythmic popping of the muscle of one knee; his weight was balanced on the balls of his custom-made jogging shoes.

  “You bitch,” he said in a low, deadly voice.

  As casually as she could, she stepped backward. Her heart raced. He looked capable of anything. He had never called her that kind of name before, no matter how crazy he’d been. She reached the couch and moved behind it, using it as a barrier. One hand rose protectively to her stomach. Behind him the door remained open, the January night mild and damp outside. She wondered if any of their neighbors were outdoors and would hear her if she screamed for help.

  “Get out,” she told him. “Get out before you say something else that you’ll regret later.”

  He advanced on her with measured steps, crouching a little, stalking her. “You got the lead in that television pilot Hadley Rand is gonna make. That fucking big-deal pilot that everybody has been talking about. Why didn’t you tell me that you were up for the part? Why did I have to hear that you got it from some piss-head flunky of Hadley’s who was stoned and couldn’t keep his mouth shut?”

  She sidled along the couch, gripping the back. Again she glanced at the open door. Her stomach twisted with the almost-forgotten sensation of being trapped and panicky. In her condition she wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to reach the door before Elliot did. She halted, looking at him with as much composure as she could fake. “It’s only a pilot for a sitcom. It may sink like a rock. I didn’t want you to know that I was up for the lead, because you’re vulnerable right now. I didn’t want you to feel competitive toward me again. I only found out this afternoon that I got the part. I was going to tell you tonight when you came in from the clubs.”

  “Liar.” He reached the couch and halted a few feet away from her. He trembled visibly. “All this time I thought you wanted to help me go straight, but you don’t care if I survive or not. You’ve been working on your career, and now that you’ve hit the big time, you won’t give a rat’s ass if I pull myself back up or not.”

  “Listen to yourself, Elliot! How much coke did you do tonight? You know that I care about you. You know that you don’t mean what you say when you’re messed up.”

  Veins stood out in his neck. “I know that you love me!” he shrieked, and leapt forward. He grabbed her by one wrist, twisting so hard and fast that she felt a muscle tear before the pain exploded into fragments of light before her vision. Her knees buckled, but she balled her free hand into a fist and hit him in the center of his stomach as she sank to the floor.

  He doubled over, coughing. Then he slapped her. Her teeth snapped together and she bit her tongue. “I know that you love me,” he repeated, yelling, spit flecking her face because he was so close. “Goddamn, I want you to prove it.”

  She drew back her first again, but even in her terror she realized that hitting him was the most dangerous thing she could do. The babies. Don’t make him hit you back. Do whatever you have to do to protect the babies. She tried to curl forward over her stomach, but he grabbed her under both arms and hauled her to her feet. “Show me. Show me that you care, you self-serving bitch.” He wound a hand around the nape of her neck and, bracing himself behind her, pushed her to the hallway that went to the bedrooms. “Don’t scream. Don’t make a noise, or goddamm it, I swear I’ll knock you down.”

  Her mind raced with horror. She dug her bare feet into the carpet, but he shoved her step by step down the hall and into her bedroom. “You’re not going to do this, you don’t want to do this, Elliot. Elliot, this isn’t you, this isn’t something you’re capable of doing, Elliot—”

  “Shut up!” he pushed her to the foot of the bed and shoved her hard. She twisted and fell on her back, groaning as her weight and awkward size trapped her on the mattress, trying to turn over and crawl off the bed.

  But as she managed to roll over Elliot threw himself down behind her and pinned her with a forearm on the side of her neck. “Show me that you care!” He slid his free arm around her and mauled one of her heavy, sensitive breasts through the nightgown, while she choked and struggled. Amy clawed at his hand wildly as it left her breast and skimmed over the huge mound of her stomach. He was sweating, shaking, making guttural noises that became sobs.

  “Stop, Elliot, please stop,” she begged between gasps.

  “Do it! Show me! Love me!”

  He grabbed her between the legs and tried to shove his fingers inside her, but the barrier of the gown and her furious kicking delayed him. When he jerked the gown up she knew that he wasn’t going to stop until he raped her or hurt her badly in the attempt. She slammed her head back as hard as she could and caught him in the nose. He jerked in pain, and it loosened his grip for a second. Amy elbowed him and in the same move dragged herself off the edge of the bed.

  She landed on her hands and knees as he flung himself toward her, snatching at the back of her gown. She lunged toward the short dresser several feet away and caught the handle of the top drawer. It slid out of its berth and crashed to the floor, spilling scarves, hosiery, and her handgun.

  Elliot was crying hysterically, now. “I’ll fuck you on the floor if that’s the way you want it!” She heard the bed creak as he careened off of it.

  Oh, God, I don’t have any choices. Half-kneeling, half-braced against the dresser, she twisted with the gun in her hand, cocking it, her thumb jabbing at the safety catch, an objective part of her mind praying. “Don’t! Don’t!” she screamed as Elliot grabbed for her again.

  “Love me!”

>   He had a look of disbelief when she pulled the trigger.

  She was dimly aware, through the sorrow, humiliation, and physical pain, that Frau Diebler had arrived at the police station. Amy heard the brusque German accent coming down a hall outside the detective’s office, ordering officers aside as if they were her lackeys. Amy looked up at her with a grim smile as she marched into the office, where Amy waited, alone. The nurse’s face lost its sternness. She threw herself into the chair beside Amy’s and clucked like a distraught hen. Amy was glad to see her. “The neighbors gave you my message?”

  “Ja. And they said that Elliot will recover. It’s just his shoulder?”

  “Yes. When the paramedics came they told me it was serious, but not life threatening.”

  Frau Diebler pulled back and muttered darkly at Amy’s swollen wrist. “I’m taking you straight to the hospital. Right now!”

  “I have to answer a few more questions for the detective. It’s routine, and I have to do it.”

  “That Elliot, he didn’t say that you—”

  “No. He told the officers who came to the apartment exactly what happened. The truth.” She bent her head into her hand. “The truth. He apologized to me.” She hugged herself and shut her eyes.

  The detective, a portly, pragmatic veteran with kind eyes, came back into his office. “I need to talk to Ms. Miracle,” he said pointedly to Frau Diebler.

  Amy patted her hand. “This is Detective Rodriguez. Wait outside.”

  When Amy and Rodriguez were alone behind his closed door he sat on the edge of his desk, facing her, and studied her closely. “It will work the way you and I discussed it.”

  “Meaning that a judge will probably reduce the criminal charges if Elliot agrees to be hospitalized for drug rehab?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. But what happens to him right now?”

  “He stays under guard at the hospital for a couple of days. When he’s discharged, either his lawyer gets him set free on bond or we transfer him to jail.” Rodriguez touched her shoulder. “Go home. The worst is over.” But it wasn’t, not when she left the detective’s office and found Frau Diebler hanging up the phone on a clerk’s desk. “Thank you,” she told the man. “I charged the overseas call to my employer’s phone, just as I promised.”

  Amy pulled her into a quiet corner. She hurt all over and felt sick at her stomach. Wavering in place, she stared at Frau Diebler with dread. “Did you call Dr. de Savin?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. But yes.” Frau Diebler looked distraught. “I can’t keep this from him. I told him everything. He’s leaving to come here immediately. I’m sorry to do this to you, but he is, after all, the one I must answer to, the one who pays my salary. I am ashamed for deceiving him. If I had told him about Elliot Thornton a long time ago, maybe tonight wouldn’t have happened.”

  Amy leaned against a wall and cursed. “What else did you tell him in your little frenzy of guilt?”

  “That you are carrying twins, and that one time you had a problem with bleeding, and … that you’ve been trying to help Elliot Thornton. That he has been our neighbor for almost three months.”

  Amy went to a chair and sank down. What did Sebastien think of her for concealing her medical problem, hiding the fact that there were two babies instead of only one for him to accept, and letting Elliot back into her life, making it possible for tonight’s confrontation to jeopardize her own safety as well as the babies’?

  The chance of him softening toward the babies was now ruined. She even wondered if he still wanted her. Not that it would matter as long as he rejected their children. Would he understand that she had been trying to keep him from worrying, that she had wanted to present a perfect facade, the perfect pregnancy, so that he’d approve? Not now. He wasn’t coming here to tell her that he’d had a change of heart, of that she felt certain.

  “There’s no point in your staying with me anymore,” she told Frau Diebler. “What happens next will be between me and the doctor. I doubt that he believes that I’ve kept my word about anything, so it doesn’t matter if I send you away.”

  “But Frau Miracle—”

  “You called him. I respect your reasons. But I don’t have to bargain with you, anymore. Go back to the apartment and pack your things. I want you gone by tomorrow. That’s all I have to say to you. I won’t be going back there with you tonight. Good-bye.”

  “But—but Frau Miracle, you can’t … where are you going tonight?”

  “A hotel. I don’t want to stay where Elliot almost … I just don’t want to stay in the apartment. And I don’t want to see you again. You’ve done your duty, but you’ve hurt me and the doctor more than you know.”

  “Frau Miracle … I apologize, but I don’t understand.”

  “Good-bye.” Amy lumbered into Detective Rodriguez’s office. He looked up from his desk. “I need a ride to a good hotel. Can someone take me, or should I call a taxi?”

  “You need a sympathetic listener, from the look on your face.”

  “I’ll settle for a lift to a hotel.”

  “I think I can provide both.” He stood up and grabbed his car keys from the desk, while smiling at her in a fatherly way that made her want to cry.

  She hardly slept that night. Rodriguez called the next morning. “I checked your apartment. The nurse is gone. But I have to warn you about something. A half-dozen reporters and photographers are camped on your doorstep, waiting for you. Word got out about last night.”

  Amy’s sense of isolation and despair increased. With it came the anger that had been growing steadily. “I’m sitting here with nothing but my purse, my coat, and the maternity dress I put on last night when I called the police. And those vultures are waiting to eat me alive when I go home.”

  “I can send someone with you to plow a path to your door.”

  “I’m not going back there. I won’t be treated like some kind of ripe fruit they can peel to check for rotten spots.”

  “Look, you might as well get used to it. They’re not going away. And sooner or later they’re going to find you.”

  “I’ll go up to San Francisco. I’m not supposed to fly, so I’ll hire a car and driver.”

  “Good. When you get to a hotel there, call me. Let me know where you are, in case I have any more questions.” She thanked him and hung up, then called Mary Beth, who had been waiting for more news all morning. “I need your help,” Amy told her. “At eight months, with twins, I shouldn’t be traipsing around by myself.”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport in San Francisco. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back with my flight number.”

  While she waited by the phone, Amy held her stomach and rocked slowly, trying to soothe herself as well as the babies. The hotel room made her shiver with its impersonal charm. She wondered when Sebastien would arrive in Los Angeles. More than ever she felt desperate for peace, rest, dignity. Sebastien would be too angry to give her that. The media’s greed for scandal wouldn’t give her that. And she had to deal with her own shame for getting herself into such an ugly situation with Elliot.

  She had to take care of herself and the babies. She knew more than ever that she, and they, were survivors.

  She bought a change of clothes and a few toiletries, then climbed into a small gray limousine for the all-day trip to San Francisco. The driver, a balding, stocky man as dapper as his car, gave her curious looks but said little. Amy napped fitfully during the hours that followed, between frequent pit stops for her overburdened bladder. Her stomach became queasy and she couldn’t eat. But the driver was patient and helpful, stopping to buy sodas for her and coaxing her to nibble crackers. By the time they arrived at the airport in San Francisco she was exhausted but felt strong enough to carry on alone.

  Lugging a new tote bag filled with her meager possessions, she found a ticket agent and checked on Mary Beth’s flight. “Mechanical trouble,” the agent told her. “The flight made a stop in Dallas and just got back in the air thirty minutes
ago. You’ve got a long wait.”

  Amy dragged herself to a coffeeshop. Her ears buzzed with fatigue. She drank a glass of milk and, feeling restless, decided to make rental car arrangements, then find a place to lie down.

  As she entered the queue at a car-rental booth, she staggered and clutched her stomach, prompting an airport customer service manager to rush over and radio for a wheelchair. Though she protested, he hustled about, loudly calling to the car-rental people to hurry her paperwork through. She cringed at the curious stares from other travelers.

  And then a strobe flash went off right beside her. She pivoted clumsily, throwing up one hand to cover her blinded eyes.

  “What are you doing in San Francisco, Ms. Miracle?” The photographer was a small, fast-moving ferret with an abundance of gold chains and cameras around his neck. He continued to snap her picture, his shutter clicking repeatedly, an automatic weapon loaded with film.

  “Who are you?” She turned her head and covered her face, feeling defenseless and trapped.

  “Ron Falcone. Free-lance.”

  She gritted her teeth. He was one of the paparazzi who hung out at the airport, hoping to catch celebrities on their way in or out. She’d watched Elliot preen for this brand of photojournalist often, when she was traveling with him. “I don’t have anything to say, Ron. Please—”

  “How is Elliot Thornton?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “Leave her alone,” the customer service manager ordered, planting himself between them. To the car-rental clerk he yelled, “Get Ms. Miracle’s car ready! Now!”

  “Did Elliot try to rape you?” the photographer asked loudly.

  “No. No.” She snatched at the forms that were pressed toward her by a clerk, signed them shakily, and took her keys.

  “Who’s the father of your baby? Is it Elliot? Why did you shoot him?”

  “Get this lady to her car!” the airport man ordered. A security guard arrived and took her arm. “Need some help, ma’am?”