The Miracle Stealer

by Neil Connelly

  “Annie,” my mother said. “They had to do this. They did it to save your life.”

  Something in the way she said this made me feel like I should be grateful, like not everyone got to live through what happened. My brother. That twisted neck and his still chest. I wondered if Jeff had told her about the hoax or if she thought I’d killed Daniel while trying to steal him from her. How do you apologize to a mother for a thing like that? How could I apologize for all I’d put her through? The tears seeped out now, just a few from both eyes. I wiped my cheeks and tried to find better words, but all I could come up with were the same ones we always use. “I’m so sorry, Mom.” My voice was scratchy and raw. “They should have let me die.”

  “Don’t you worry about being sorry,” my mom said. “You worry about getting well.” She poured some water from a pitcher into a cup, and I sipped it through a bent straw while she watched. She had no reason to offer such quick forgiveness. When I finished, she took the cup back. “Everyone has been praying.”

  I sniffled back the tears, made them stop, and focused on the Bible she’d been reading, still spread on the floor. “Don’t tell me you believe this was all part of God’s plan.”

  “What I think isn’t relevant. Everything is a part of God’s plan.”

  “Dad leaving?” I said. I rubbed the last of the wetness from my eyes. “What happened to Daniel?”

  “All of it,” she said. “The good and the bad. The things we understand and especially the things we don’t.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty I don’t understand,” I said. Why my leg was gone. Why Daniel had to die. But also, I remembered now, the scent of vanilla and that swirling white warmth from the cove. On the TV, the moose and turtle began dancing. The closed captioning read HAPPY MUSIC. “Can you please turn that crap off?” I said.

  “Of course,” my mom said. She lifted the remote from a chair next to the bed and tried to find the right button. “Daniel must have left it on.”

  “Daniel?” I said.

  And at that moment my brother walked into the room, his arm in a cast up past his elbow, the whole thing suspended in a blue sling. “Hey, Andi,” he said. “You’re awake.” A square white bandage covered half his forehead. He crossed to my mother and handed her a Crunch bar. He said, “I told you Andi was gonna be okay.”

  She gave him back the unwrapped chocolate and said, “You sure did.”

  Daniel offered me the candy bar and I hesitated, then took a bite. “Thanks,” I told him, still not believing my eyes.

  He said, “Mom says you’re gonna get a wheelchair till you get a new leg. Can I have a ride?”

  Mom shushed him, but Daniel didn’t care. He waited for an answer to his question with a beaming smile on his face. I was shocked to hear myself laugh. “Yeah, sure thing,” I told him. “You’re first in line.” I gave him back his candy bar and looked at the bandage on his head. I wondered what he remembered about the cove. “Daniel, how do you feel?”

  “I have a compound fracture,” he announced proudly. “I’m glad you’re awake. I couldn’t read them words fast enough.” Now he was looking again at the TV screen, munching his chocolate.

  “We should call the doctors, Annie,” my mom said. “They’ll want to know you’re awake. But first things first.” She turned off the TV. “Let’s pray now, the three of us.”

  Daniel put down the candy bar, folded his hands, and bent his head reverently. My mom looked at me, waiting. I stared down, expecting still to see my right leg just as it had always been. Instead, there was only the clean white sheet covering the stump. But I also remembered that warmth within my chest, the glowing that filled my whole body.

  “How about you guys pray, and I’ll listen?” I said.

  Mom held back her smile, but I could tell she was pleased. She closed her eyes and began. She didn’t ask God to straighten the path before me, and she didn’t ask Him to take away my pain. That day, all she focused on was offering thanks for sparing my life. I let my eyes close, leaned back into the pillow, and listened to the words of my mother’s prayer.

  That first day in the hospital, a doctor came in and explained that during surgery I’d gone into septic shock. Technically I’d been in a coma. He asked how my pain was on a scale of one to ten. I couldn’t pick a number, so I told him four. Another doctor, this one a lady, pulled a chair up close to the bed and explained the lengthy rehab she had planned out for me. Later a counselor stopped by and said we should talk sometime about mourning my missing leg. It all seemed crazy, impossible, wrong. Yet all this time, while the images of crutches and wheelchairs and metal joints strapped to my flesh made me cringe, I’d see my brother in the corner, reading a comic book, or at the window, smiling at a squirrel balancing along the telephone wire. Every time I felt like screaming or crying, I’d remember that strange warmth in my chest and think, Daniel’s alive.

  That night, after the parade of doctors finally stopped, after my mom and Daniel left for the hotel they were staying in, I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamt, but not about fire or Samson or the fairy fort. I dreamt I was running. On strong and powerful legs, I jogged across a never-ending green field with the open sky overhead. The wind flowed through my hair and I could run forever, it seemed, but then I was distracted by the sound of gentle weeping.

  I opened my eyes in darkness and clicked on the little light on the nightstand. Leo was kneeling next to my bed. He had his head down, and he gripped the metal rail with both his hands, like he was holding on to keep from collapsing. When he raised his head, the sight of tears on that ravaged face was more than I wanted to see. He said, “Oh, Anderson, I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what’s happened.”

  “You got nothing to apologize for,” I said.

  “I’m not convinced of that. It was I who called Daniel to the fairy fort.”

  “Nobody made me do anything,” I told him. “I wanted to come. And so did Daniel.”

  With the back of his damaged hand, he wiped the tears from his face. “I came here tonight to receive your judgment. I came to ask you to forgive me.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Poof. You’re forgiven.”

  He seemed shocked. His stare turned to the bottom of the bed. “But your leg,” he said.

  Given what Leo knew, it made no sense that I’d be so willing to offer absolution. What happened to my leg was a shitty deal, one I still cope with to this day. But losing it to save Daniel was a bargain I would’ve gladly accepted on those rocks. With as honest and good as Leo had been to me, and as terrible as he was clearly feeling, I thought he had a right to know. I started the story without even thinking. “That bear would’ve killed me for sure,” I said. “But Daniel came back.”

  I explained how I’d gotten my brother to safety and how he returned from the lake. I told him about the pain and the blood and Bundower’s sniper shots. And then, after I gathered myself, I told him how I found Daniel like I did, dying or dead already, with neither breath nor beating heart. I looked into Leo’s ruined face and described what happened next as best as I could, how I broke my vow and asked for God’s help. I finished my story and shrugged. “I’m not even sure what I did qualifies as a prayer,” I said.

  Leo was silent for a time. Then he said, “That’s probably the best prayer I ever heard.”

  “It was so strange, though,” I said. “There was this glowing inside me. It felt so warm, like it was almost alive.”

  “It was,” Leo said. He smiled and nodded. “It most definitely was.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t be sure God brought Daniel back from the dead. For all I know, Daniel’s heart could’ve kicked back on all by itself. How can I be positive?”

  “And where is it written God wants you to be certain?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Faith isn’t about absolute proof. Belief isn’t a math problem. You prayed for your brother, Anderson. That’s the truly miraculous act here, not what happened before or after. In your hour of need, w
hen you had every reason to despair, you chose to reach out to God.”

  “But if He really heard me, why am I still alive at all? I offered my life for Daniel’s.”

  Leo patted my arm. “I don’t think God bargains like that. Besides, God may have needed you alive for a reason. He may have work He wants you to do.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about doing God’s work and gave Leo a look that demanded an explanation.

  He smiled at me strangely. “You have seen astounding things, Anderson, but seeing alone merely makes you an observer. To be a witness, you must tell others what you saw. When the time is right, you must offer testimony. Make others feel what it felt like to be where you were. Tell your truth, Anderson Grant.”

  That last notion appealed to me, but I knew I wasn’t ready, not that night for sure. So we talked for a while about Daniel and what a great kid he was. It’s funny, but I have no memory of Leo leaving. He slipped out after I fell asleep, and I never heard from him again.

  The year since then has been anything but easy. I went from the trauma center to Good Shepherd Rehab in Allentown for the hardest six weeks of my life. I got fitted with a temporary leg, and they worked me out of the wheelchair, up into a walker like old folks use, then onto wobbly crutches. I practiced falling and getting up. I had to learn how to walk again, how to deal with stairs, get in and out of tubs, a dozen daily habits you just take for granted. Then Mom drove me back home, where I found Bundower and Jeff had moved all my stuff from my cabin to my old bedroom, given the walls a fresh coat of blue paint.

  All winter, I was desperate to run, and I spent plenty of afternoons feeling sorry for myself. But when the snow wasn’t bad, Daniel and I took longer and longer walks, and Gayle got in the habit of giving me rides in to the office even when she didn’t need help. By spring, I had fixed up that bike in the shed and, with some practice, rode it along Roosevelt Road, pretending I was jogging. A couple times a week, Jeff called from Penn State to check in and razz me about how when I get to campus in the fall, he’ll be a senior and I’ll only be a freshman. Little by little, my new life started taking shape.

  At nine months, my stump had matured and I got fitted for a permanent prosthetic, which was more comfortable but still no good for real running. A bunch of folks around town—Gayle and Bundower, Mayor Wheeler and even the Abernathys—they all pitched in and sent me to see a specialist in New York. My running leg’s lighter and got more flexibility; there’s a bowed metal blade where you’d expect a stiff rod. Sticking to the roads, I’ve worked my way up to looping the lake, though my time still sucks. This summer, when Jeff runs with me, he’s got to hold back. For now.

  Some days my leg still hurts, or I get an itch on the bottom of that long-gone foot. And I still have nights when I wake up sweating in the cove, or when I reach for that knee, screaming in my sleep. But out on the road with the wind whipping through my hair, I get that old sensation of freedom and lightness that comes with speed, the thrill that accompanies motion. I just like feeling like I’m going somewhere.

  As for the Pilgrims and the true believers, they kind of faded away after the accident. Gayle told me Leo stepped in right away, urging the believers to let my family heal and look elsewhere for their miracles. My mom stopped bringing Daniel to the UCP, and everybody around town, even Volpe and the Abernathys, refused to talk to the few reporters who called. Scarecrow, who kept ranting about God’s voice and “testing” Daniel, went straight from the fairy fort to Bundower’s jail and then got shipped to Bonneville, a place with walled gardens and bars on the windows. Gayle put that story on the front page. Bundower, from what I hear, made it clear to the citizens of Paradise that Daniel was to be left alone. Everybody could see how close he and my mom were getting, and folks weren’t eager to cross him.

  These days, nobody comes right out and asks Daniel to pray. Being Daniel, I know he wouldn’t mind, but I don’t think he misses the pressure of being the Miracle Boy. I’ve never asked him what he remembers about the cove, if he recalls saving me by taming Samson or a white tunnel of light. But sometimes when he thinks I’m not watching, I catch Daniel staring at me. In these moments, I turn to my brother, and he smiles like he knows a pretty good secret.

  It took me a good long while to come to terms and feel ready, but I’ve tried here to be faithful to Leo’s calling, to be a witness to what happened to Daniel and me. And you’re probably wondering after all this, what do I believe? That’s a fair question. Is there a benevolent divine being watching over us all with a plan for our lives, waiting to intervene with miraculous acts? Of course, my mom would certainly answer, and once this would’ve been a no-brainer for me too. But after Daniel fell in that hole, after my father left us and the town seemed to die and everything went crazy, I would’ve told you, Not a chance. I can’t deny, though, the things I saw later eroded my bitterness—that Abernathy baby, the faces of those people lined up in the fairy fort, the way Daniel came back for me. In the end, I guess, out on the jagged rocks of McGinley’s Cove, I gave up my anger for something better. To this day, it’s not something I’d call faith exactly, but something closer to hope. I’ll never be a Holy Roller nutjob. I’m just more open to things I don’t understand, the mysterious possibilities around us all. So here’s my grand answer: Maybe. This might come across as some lame cop-out, but for me—a daddy’s girl abandoned by her father, a big sister who nearly killed her kid brother, a born runner who lost a leg—it seems honest, sincere, even hopeful. Maybe feels like a prayer all its own.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While there is indeed an actual Paradise, Pennsylvania, it has no bearing on the fictional place of the same name in this book. I created this Paradise, as well as its geography and all its inhabitants, entirely from my imagination. Any resemblance to the real Paradise or its citizens is strictly coincidental. As for my iron-willed main character and her potential similarity to my eight older sisters, I have no comment.

  I’d like to express my deepest gratitude to several folks who saved this manuscript from certain death. I thank George Clark, for his enthusiasm and expertise on fairy forts. I thank Warren Frazier, for his always thoughtful criticism and guidance. And I thank editor Cheryl Klein, who would likely be unbearable if she weren’t right so often. Her belief in Andi made all the difference.

  For their camaraderie and inspiration, I thank my colleagues at McNeese State and the many graduate writers who have made up the MFA workshop I’m so privileged to be a part of.

  Lastly, it is impossible to imagine any part of my life without Beth. For all our renaissances, and the ones that await us still, I am endlessly grateful.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Neil Connelly’s first young-adult novel, St. Michael’s Scales, earned a starred review from Publishers Weekly. He is also the author of numerous short stories and the adult novel Buddy Cooper Finds a Way. For a decade, Neil directed the graduate fiction workshop at McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana. He now teaches creative writing at Shippensburg University in his home state of Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife and their two sons. Visit him on the web at www.neilconnelly.com.

  COPYRIGHT

  Text copyright © 2010 by Neil Connelly

  Cover design by Christopher Stengel

  Female profile © Brooke Pennington/Getty Images

  Boy sitting on fence © Mike Kreiter/Glow Images

  All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and the LANTERN LOGO are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Connelly, Neil O.

  The miracle stealer
/ Neil Connelly.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In small-town Pennsylvania, nineteen-year-old Andi Grant will do anything to protect her six-year-old brother Daniel from those who believe he has a God-given gift as a healer—including their own mother.

  ISBN 978-0-545-13195-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  [1. Healers—Fiction. 2. Miracles—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 4. Faith—Fiction. 5. Camps—Fiction. 6. Family life—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 7. Pennsylvania—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C76186Mir 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010000727

  First edition, October 2010

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  E-ISBN 978-0-545-32885-2