The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin

by Stephanie Knipper

  Lily came in to work that Monday and spent the morning fielding calls from the CEO and the head of IT. At noon, after death had been restored to its rightful position in the insurance world, she grabbed her laptop and left, planning to finish working from home.

  Upon arriving there, she opened the door to her study and set her computer on the desk. Sunlight filtered through the two large windows. While she waited for the laptop to boot up, she opened the windows. A yellow finch sang in the redbud tree outside. From her childhood study of the Victorian language of flowers, she knew redbuds symbolized new life, perfect for a tree that bloomed in spring.

  She stared out the window, and for just a moment she was not in her house on the south side of the Ohio River; she was back at Eden Farms, in Redbud, Kentucky, where she grew up. April was her favorite time there. The land was waking, and the air tasted like hope.

  Covington, where Lily now lived, was in northern Kentucky, on the banks of the Ohio River. The land there was steep hills and deep valleys, not mountainous like Appalachia in eastern Kentucky but different enough from the town where she grew up that she often felt she had moved across country instead of only two hours north.

  Redbud was in central Kentucky, just south of Lexington. The land there was draped in Kentucky bluegrass and rolled like soft ocean waves, much of it decorated with white-plank fences that surrounded the area’s sedate Thoroughbred farms. Nestled among them, Eden Farms was a burst of color. In summer, the fields behind their farmhouse were a crazy quilt of purple, pink, yellow, white, and red. For Lily, it was a wonderland, and she and her sister, Rose, used to pretend they were fairies, the fields their kingdom.

  Outside her house a car honked, and Lily came back to the present. She pressed her fingers hard against the windowsill. Nothing good came of dwelling on lost things. She bit her lip as she turned from the window. Covington was nowhere near New York or Chicago in size, but it was a far cry from the country, where everyone lived acres apart. In Covington, if she stood in her side yard and stretched out her arms, she could touch her house with one hand and her neighbor’s with the other.

  She lived in the city’s historic district, and her house was two hundred years old. The floors sloped in places and the yard was postage stamp size, but she had transformed the ramshackle place into a warm, inviting home. Here in the study, the walls were the color of sun-warmed soil, and three Kentucky landscapes hung above her desk. Her sister had painted them at age fifteen. The colors were too bright and the proportions were off, but Lily liked their slight awkwardness. It reminded her of Rose at that age, lanky but beautiful, child and adult at the same time.

  A purple potted orchid and a small framed picture decorated Lily’s desk. In the photograph, Rose and Lily stood with their arms wrapped around each other, holding on as if they’d never let go. Their cheeks were pressed together and their hair—Rose’s light blonde and Lily’s deep brown—twirled over their shoulders. Seth Hastings had snapped the picture right before Rose left for college.

  At the thought of Seth, Lily clenched her jaw and quickly looked away. Losing him shouldn’t hurt after all these years, but it did.

  Focus on work, she thought. She sat in front of her laptop, and her stomach grumbled.

  “If you’d let me take you to lunch like a normal person, you wouldn’t make such awful noises.” The voice startled her, sending her heart to her throat.

  Her neighbor, Will Grayson, leaned against the doorframe. He slumped into the wall as if he couldn’t hold himself up, reminding Lily of how he had looked when he’d been taking morphine. Almost a year had passed since his last chemo treatment, but from his appearance today she guessed he still had some pills left.

  Automatically, her mind went to the death tables. A thirty-four-year-old male in remission from lung cancer had a five-year life expectancy of 13.4 percent.

  Thankfully, Will stood solidly among that 13.4 percent.

  Several months ago, she had accompanied him to his oncologist’s office for a follow-up visit. The doctor smiled at them. “I don’t get to say this often enough,” he said. “Your CT scan is clear. We got it all.”

  Lily thought she might slide to the floor in relief, but Will was nonplussed. He nodded once and stood. “Cancer’s got nothing on me,” he said. That’s what she liked about him—he made his total self-interest charming.

  Now she looked up at him and smiled. “I thought you were finished with that stuff,” she said, referring to the powerful pain pills he had taken when he was ill.

  His dark hair shot up in surprising directions and smile lines feathered out around his blue eyes. He was an emergency room doctor at St. Elizabeth Hospital. She knew that before his illness he’d had the habit of spending an hour each day in front of the mirror, even on his days off. She’d once asked why he dressed like a member of the Young Republicans club.

  Postcancer Will still wore khakis and button-down shirts, but on his days off he didn’t tuck in his shirttails, and he no longer smoothed every hair into place. Sometimes Lily caught him taking deep breaths as if testing his lung capacity. When he finished, he’d close his eyes and smile, seemingly content in a way she’d never seen before.

  He tugged his shirt cuffs over his still-thin wrists. “I’m not working, and it’s too good to waste. Want some?” He fished the prescription bottle from his pocket and tossed it to her.

  She tried to catch it but missed. The bottle smacked into her nose. “No,” she said, leaning over to pick it up.

  He shrugged as he took the bottle. “Suit yourself, but you’re missing out. How about lunch? I’m starving.”

  She shook her head. “I have to work.”

  “Aw, come on. What’s a guy got to do to impress you?”

  They went through this routine at least once a week. Will wasn’t specifically interested in her; he was interested in anything female. Since she fell into that category, he occasionally slipped into Romeo mode with her until she reminded him that she wasn’t interested. Which was true. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes her heart sped when his dark hair flopped into his eyes. Then she forced herself to count the girls she had seen leaving his house that month. Six in March.

  “When are you going back to work?” she asked.

  A month ago, Will had taken a leave of absence. “To focus on the things in life that really matter,” he had said.

  Now he crossed the room and spun her chair around till she faced him. Then he leaned down, putting his hands on the armrests. He was so close she felt his breath against her lips. “As soon as you agree to go out with me,” he said.

  She saw flecks of lilac in his blue eyes and felt her cheeks flush. “Did you get the coffee grounds I left on your stoop?” she asked.

  “Thanks. Worked wonders for the azaleas.” He pointed at her computer, which now sported the blue screen of death, warning her that a data loss was in process. “I think you’ve got a problem.”

  “Shit!” She turned away and jabbed the power-down button then waited for the screen to black out. “What do you want, Will? The key’s for emergencies, not your daily drop in.” He flinched slightly, and she immediately wished she could take back her words.

  “Ah, cut to the quick. You’re cruel, Lily Martin. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  She glanced at the picture on her desk then looked away, hoping he didn’t notice. She had more photos, but this was the only one she displayed. Under her bed, she had eight boxes of snapshots. On nights when missing Rose made her head ache, Lily stared at the pictures until she fell asleep, surrounded by pieces of the life she used to lead.

  She also had baby pictures of her niece, Antoinette. Sometimes Lily tried to imagine what the little girl might look like now, but she never could. As a baby, Antoinette had been different. Trying to picture her as a ten-year-old was impossible.

  Will caught her glance at the picture. He snatched it up.

  “Give it to me, Will.” She held her hand out, but he jumped back.

 
“You were cute then, but I like you better now,” he said. “Even that little wrinkle you get in your forehead when you’re mad.”

  “I don’t have a wrinkle.” She raised a hand to her forehead and pressed.

  “Yes, you do. Right here.” He removed her hand and smoothed his fingers over her skin. “There. All gone now.”

  His fingers were soft, and she relaxed under his touch. He put the picture back on the desk. “Your sister doesn’t have anything on you.”

  That was a lie. Rose was the beautiful one.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She’s pretty in an obvious way. But who’d want a blonde, blue-eyed Barbie doll when they could have a girl with green eyes and skin like porcelain? Don’t sell yourself short.”

  Lily looked up at Will. His eyes were the blue of the cornflowers that grew wild in the fields back home. No wonder he never had trouble finding women.

  “Not funny, Will. Why are you here?” She didn’t like being teased.

  He grinned, flashing his perfect teeth. “It’s an emergency. I’m out of coffee.”

  “There’s a Starbucks down the street,” she said as she turned around and shut her laptop.

  “But then I wouldn’t get to spend the day with you.” He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Well? Do you have any?”

  “It’s in the kitchen, where it usually is.”

  He kissed her cheek then walked into the kitchen, looking for the coffee she kept on the counter next to the coffeemaker.

  Will made her heart flutter and her palms sweat. She had often imagined his lips pressed against hers. Part of her wanted to leap head first into a relationship with him. But Lily never jumped into a pool without first testing the water. That part of her—the cautious side—told her to wait. Will was her best friend, and she didn’t want to risk losing him.

  She dropped her head to the desk and slowed her breaths, counting each one. The counting had started when she was a child. It grounded her when she was anxious: ceiling tiles, picture frames, flower petals. She counted them all.

  When she was younger, and hadn’t yet learned to count under her breath, kids at school christened her “the Count.” Every day on the way into school, Lily counted the dirty white tiles between the entrance and the library. Her classmates would strike mock Dracula poses, pretend cloaks across their faces, and they’d yell out random numbers.

  The teasing continued until one day when Lily was in fifth grade. After school ended for the day, some students encircled her while she waited for the bus. They shouted numbers at her, laughing when tears accumulated in her eyes, until her friend, and neighbor, Seth Hastings, shoved through the crowd. Seth grabbed the ringleader, threw him to the ground, and punched the boy in the gut. Then Seth hooked his arm through Lily’s and walked her to the bus. When the stress of the situation made Lily start counting, Seth added his voice to hers. After that, Seth walked her to the bus every day, and no one called her “the Count” again.

  Lily had since learned to count silently, but she hadn’t been able to stop the habit. She had reached the number seven when Will called from the kitchen. “I can’t find the coffee.”

  She closed her eyes and murmured, “Eight,”—she never stopped on an odd number—before answering. “It’s on the counter.”

  “Lils! It’s not out here.”

  His words were long and rounded, but if she didn’t know him, she wouldn’t realize he was high. She wondered if he ever went into work at the hospital that way. She pictured him in a white lab coat, sneaking into a supply closet and shaking a few pills into his hand. Maybe thinking you were invincible was a trait all doctors shared. Or maybe it was just Will.

  “It’s not here!” he said again.

  She pushed back from her desk. Today wasn’t a good day for work anyway. Every year, as spring beat back the winter gray, a sense of depression stole over her. Redbuds bloomed and daffodils poked their heads from beds that lined the streets. It was beautiful but felt somehow artificial, and it made her miss the farm.

  Rounding the corner to the kitchen, she nearly ran into an open cabinet. All twelve doors were open. “I can’t find it,” he said.

  She crossed the room, closing doors as she went, and picked up the bag next to the coffeemaker.

  “Thanks.” He measured out even scoops. “You want some?”

  She nodded and grabbed tomatoes and cheese from the refrigerator. Since she couldn’t work, now was as good a time as any for lunch.

  As she put the meal together, she glanced out the window. Off of the kitchen was a small wooden deck with rickety stairs leading to a brick patio that filled what passed for her backyard. It was surrounded by a high stone wall. In late spring and early summer, white clematis and New Dawn roses scrambled up the wrought iron lattices covering the wall. It was beautiful and practical at the same time, providing a small barrier between herself and her neighbors. On one side was Will and, on the other, an artist who made kinetic sculptures out of Campbell’s soup cans. While she loved her old brick house, living so close to other people was difficult for her, even after six years.

  Everything was crowded here. The sidewalks were cracked and not quite wide enough. When passing someone, she had to twist sideways to avoid touching them. Birds fought to be heard over the constant rumble of cars and buses. Plants jumbled together, vying for the little pockets of soil that served as yards around the houses.

  Lily carried the plates outside to the bistro table on the deck. Will brought their coffee. He placed her cup next to her plate, but he didn’t sit. He paced, sipping his coffee and shading his eyes. There was a slight breeze, but the sun warmed the last of the winter air. Aside from the squeak of a rotating sculpture in the artist’s yard and the street traffic, the day was quiet.

  “How can you stand it out here? It’s so bright,” he said as he shoved a piece of cheese into his mouth.

  She shrugged and held her face to the wind, feeling the coolness on her cheeks, drawing memories of her younger self to mind.

  “That’s right, you were a farm girl.” Will laughed. “I wish I had seen that. Bet you were cute with your brown hair in braids and pig slop on your feet.”

  “It was a flower farm. There weren’t any pigs.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on the red glow of the sun behind her eyelids.

  “I can see you now. Barefoot in the dirt. A chicken in each hand.”

  With her eyes still closed, she said, “I told you, it was a flower farm. No chickens. No pigs.” Her mind, though, was on the numbers of Eden Farms: the percentage she once owned (half), the percentage she now owned after signing her share over to Rose when their parents died (zero), the number of years that had passed since she had been home (over six), and the number of years since she’d last spoken to her sister (also over six).

  Being apart from home, and from Rose, was like missing a limb, but going back would be like trying to sew an arm back on.

  “Why won’t you tell me about it? And when was the last time you went back?” Will asked, pushing her deeper into memories. “It’s home. You know, that place where if you show up, they have to take you in?”

  No, Lily thought. They don’t. And most likely, they wouldn’t.

  Will was still talking. “It’s half yours isn’t it? Just because your sister’s crazy doesn’t mean you have to stay away.”

  “She’s not crazy. She’s mad at me.” It wasn’t half hers anymore either. Lily pushed her plate back and stood. She and Rose once had been sisters in every sense of the word, when they were young and naive enough to believe that something like blood could tie you together forever. What they didn’t know then was that it could just as easily push you apart.

  “Which in my book makes her crazy. How could anyone be mad at you? Come on. It’s not far. Let’s hop in the car and surprise her.”

  There was a pile of terra-cotta pots and concrete urns under the deck Lily had been meaning to go through. Most were cracked or broken in some way, but she hoped some co
uld be salvaged. As Will prattled on about the farm, she stood and walked down the stairs to the patio.

  After a moment, Will followed. The deck boards creaked under his feet. “You know I don’t mean anything.” He ducked under the deck. “I bet you were cute then. Barefoot in the dirt.”

  She reached into the jumble of pots and picked up a blue ceramic container. A thin crack slashed across its surface. She turned the pot over: the crack went all the way through. She put it aside. The next pot she removed from the pile had a thin coat of green mold on the outside but no cracks. Definitely salvageable. Inside the house, the phone rang, but she made no move to answer it.

  Will took the pot from her and set it aside. He captured her hands and said, “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be good this time. Now come on back up and sit with me.” In the sunlight she could see how dilated his pupils were. They squeezed out most of the blue in his eyes.

  “Come on, Lils. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll sit on the deck, and I won’t mention your crazy sister at all.” Lily struggled not to smile, but he saw it anyway. “That’s the Lily I know.” This time when he tugged her hand, she let him lead her back up the stairs.

  He guided her to the far edge of the deck and leaned against the rail. “See,” he said, “I can be good.”

  “There’s a first for everything,” Lily said with a smile.

  Will bumped his shoulder against hers. The gesture was friendly and intimate at the same time. “I just want you to be happy.”

  Lily looked out across her small backyard. The roses had started to leaf out, but it would be a month or more before they bloomed. “I am happy,” she said.

  “I know you better than that. I see it every spring—you miss home.”

  He was right, but Lily didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she said, “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  He twined his fingers through hers. “You should know the answer to that. You matter to me. What’s important to you is important to me.”

  Her hand grew hot under his.

  “Plus,” he said, “I’ve got a thing for farm girls. You in a pair of cutoffs with your hair in braids.” He grinned. “I’d die a happy man.”