It's a Miracle!

by H. Claire Taylor

  While the reporters didn’t say a word, camera shutters clicked and fluttered rapidly, and the small group seemed to undulate like a sea anemone as each shifted restlessly on their feet. Eugene Thornton crouched forward, and he reminded her of an African elephant bull preparing to attack.

  “But before we dive into that, I want to make it clear that no charges will be pressed against any known or currently unknown suspects who left the scene of the collision. The Mooretown Police Department has looked into it and found no fault, so there will be no questions regarding that matter.”

  Jessica’s eyes darted over to her mother who stood next to Coach Rex. They hung out off to the side and a little ways behind the media. Coach Rex’s arm was draped over Destinee’s shoulder as he squinted at Chief Wurst like he was struggling to read an eye chart. Destinee glanced over at her daughter and gave her a hollow thumbs up. Jess sighed deeply. She supposed she should feel relieved that the chief had actually held up his end of the deal, or rather announced it on the record so that she could hope he would keep his word. But obviously if he were to renege on his end later on, Jess knew better than to rely on the media to have her back in any meaningful way. Also, it was damn near impossible to feel excited when she still had yet to confess publicly.

  No, not confess. That wasn’t the right word for announcing you can perform miracles. But it certainly felt like the right word.

  “As far as new information, it’s been discovered that it was in fact the vehicle being operated by Ruth Wurst that ran the stop sign and was driving without headlights at the time, so the fault for the accident does not rest with the other driver.”

  “Sir, do we know who the other driver was yet?” shouted a female reporter from the throng.

  Chief Wurst held up his hand. “I’m getting to that, Julie. Cool it.” He cleared his throat. “Yesterday, the driver of the other vehicle came by the office to turn herself in, and in doing so, much more regarding the situation came to light. That’s why we’re here. I’d like to invite her onto the stage so that you can hear it directly from her. Please refrain from asking questions until the designated time.” He peered over the crowd until he spotted Jessica and nodded.

  Please don’t let me screw this up.

  YOU’LL DO FINE. YOU PRACTICED YOUR STATEMENT, RIGHT?

  Not really.

  OH CHRIST. YOU KNOW YOU’RE NOT GOOD AT IMPROVISING.

  And you’re not good at helping.

  Her feet carried her toward the microphone, even though her mind wasn’t present.

  WHAT DO YOU SUGGEST I DO TO HELP?

  Wha— How am I supposed to know? You’re God! You’re the man with the plans.

  THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY, BUT IF YOU EVER REFER TO ME AS A MAN AGAIN, EVEN IN JEST, I WILL SMITE A PUPPY. A CUTE ONE, TOO. NOT ONE OF THOSE HAIRLESS ABOMINATIONS I MADE WHILE I WAS DISTRACTED WITH THE CRUSADES. SECONDLY, HUMANS ARE ESPECIALLY GOOD AT TELLING ME SPECIFICALLY WHAT KIND OF HELP THEY WANT. “GRANT ME THIS,” AND “BLESS ME WITH THAT.”

  Jessica arrived at the edge of the stage.

  God hadn’t gone on a rant like this is quite some time.

  You seem stressed.

  God sighed, or at least that’s what she thought he did. It felt like steam bellowing from her ears.

  IT’S SRI LANKA.

  Okay. I don’t actually care right now.

  BUDDHISTS WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE MY JOB EASIER—

  Seriously, I can’t right now.

  She arrived at the microphone. And as God continued on about the Buddhists, she employed her only effective strategy to make Him skedaddle. She focused on Eugene Thornton’s stupid face with his stupid eyebrows and his stupid mustache and asked herself, Is Eugene Thornton the Devil?

  The result was inconclusive, but her head was clear.

  Chief Wurst had taken a step to the side to give her the floor. The sounds of camera shutters sounded like a swarm of locus wings descending on her. She couldn’t deny the satisfaction she felt at having surprised so many of the reporters with her appearance.

  Then the beating wings of the cameras started to subside, and it was almost silent. It was definitely time for her to speak. She opened her mouth and the wings flapped frantically again. She shut her mouth. Did they want pictures of her mouth open?

  Head in the game, McCloud!

  She’d have to pretend this was football. That was the only way she’d be able to keep her mind sharp with this many people watching her.

  She opened her mouth again and did a better job of ignoring the fluttering shutters as she tried to remember how she was going to start her statement. Geez, had she not even written talking points on a note card? God was right (as usual); she had done a shit job of preparing. “So yeah,” she started off, knowing it wasn’t the best lead in. “Um, I was the one driving the vehicle that Ruth Wurst struck the other night. Or I guess it was a week or so ago. But it was still another night.”

  What am I even saying?

  She forged ahead. “She ran the stop sign, like the chief said, and then she clipped the front of my truck. Well, it wasn’t my truck, but I was driving it. I don’t own a car. Or truck.” The sound of cameras had stopped completely, and she thought that wasn’t a great sign. Had she confused the photographers into a stupor? Could that be a good strategy? Probably not. “Anyway, that doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?” asked a young male reporter, almost pleadingly.

  “I’m here because you should know that Jimmy Dean wasn’t anywhere near the scene of the accident. And he definitely wasn’t the one who brought Mrs. Wurst back to life.” She braced herself. “I was. I brought Mrs. Wurst back to life. It was … a miracle.” While she’d failed miserably to say the last word with any enthusiasm, it didn’t matter, as the reporters went nuts anyway.

  “Are you telling me …” Eugene Thornton began.

  “Oh Christ,” she mumbled on impulse before realizing it might come off as narcissistic.

  But it didn’t deter Eugene, who pushed ahead with his question. “Let me get this straight, one of your powers as the Antichrist is to bring people back to life?”

  Jess rolled her eyes. “I’m not the Antichrist, okay? Jesus. Get it through your head.”

  Eugene nodded thoughtfully. “You just used the Lord’s name in vain. Can you clarify how that doesn’t play into the theory that you’re the Antichrist?”

  “It wasn’t the Lord’s name. It was His son. They’re two very different things.”

  He was getting her off track. But luckily another familiar voice chimed in to help reel it back. “Miss McCloud,” said Maria Flores, brushing gently over the D at the end of her name. “What do you intend to do with your newly discovered miracle of raising the dead?”

  They’d discussed this on the phone earlier that morning, but Jessica couldn’t for the life of her remember what she was supposed to say. So she opted for, “I plan on raising people from the dead, I guess.” She noticed Eugene’s eyes light up and knew that wasn’t good, so she tried to nip in the bud whatever horrible thing he was thinking that made him grin. “But only good people. Not bringing back any jerks.” He was still smiling, and she could only guess at what he was thinking. Whatever it was, she needed to nip that in the bud, too. What would be the worst-case scenario of someone bringing a bunch of people back from the dead? Her mind was able to conjure up a visual startlingly quick, and if she hadn’t been so hurried to reply, she might have stopped to wonder about it. But Eugene was staring at her eagerly, so she finished with, “And not amassing a loyal army of the resurrected?” The glee on Eugene’s face implied that they’d time-hopped to Christmas morning.

  WHAT IN MY NAME WAS THAT? “NOT AMASSING AN ARMY OF THE RESURRECTED?” ME DAMN. THAT’S NOT SUSPICIOUS AT ALL.

  I wasn’t thinking.

  CLEARLY.

  What should I do?

  STOP TALKING TO ME AND FOCUS, OBVIOUSLY.

  Shit!

  She’
d spaced out in front of everyone. This was not good.

  Reporters were shouting all kinds of absurd questions now, like, “Are you having a stroke?” and “Will there be death panels that decide who the real jerks are?” and “Will your army of undead include illegal immigrants?”

  Maria was waving at her. She looked at the woman, who mouthed, “No more questions.”

  Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. “No more questions,” she said, and then she sprinted from the staging area, making a beeline for Chris’s truck.

  Chris was a step ahead, and by the time she reached the F-350, the engine was already thrumming and Chris waited in the driver’s seat. She climbed in and didn’t need to say a word. He hauled ass out of the school parking lot.

  It wasn’t until they were a mile down the road when she realized that maybe, just maybe, fleeing from a press conference wouldn’t do much for her public image.

  * * *

  Only half a mile down the road from Mooremont, Jess answered her phone. Maria shouted to be heard over the ruckus of the staging area. “Gordon’s,” she managed. “Be there in fifteen. Someone I want you to meet.”

  After agreeing, Jessica hung up the phone. A burger sounded nice anyway, so she told Chris the new plan and he gladly took the necessary detour and headed to Gordon’s instead of the McCloud home.

  They already had their food and Chris had just stood from their booth to refill his soda when Jessica saw Maria enter with a woman she’d never seen before.

  Gordon’s was always busy over the summer, but all activity ceased as soon as Maria and the other woman walked in, their curves anything but hidden away in the flattering, high-quality, form-fitting clothes that Jess was sure couldn’t have been bought at any local stores. Maria’s friend didn’t seem to mind the attention, and Jessica hoped the woman assumed the stares were because she was a bombshell and not because she was black. Although after the eye-opening few months of having dated a black guy, Jessica knew that realistically both factors were equally likely culprits.

  Maria spotted Jessica and waved, and the two ladies crossed the dining room, stopping at the edge of the table. “Jessica, I’d like for you to meet Wendy Peterman.”

  Jessica stood as much as she could in the cramped booth and shook hands with the woman. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” said Wendy. Her voice was smooth and warm, and Jessica liked her immediately.

  “Y’all are welcome to sit,” she said, motioning to the bench across from her. “Or, I guess you might want to get food first.”

  “Maybe later,” Maria added before sliding into the booth, only experiencing minor difficulty in keeping her A-line skirt in a modest position as she scooted over to make room for Wendy. Wendy’s slick pants allowed her to sit gracefully a moment before Chris reappeared at the table. He plopped down next to Jessica and looked over at Wendy. “Chris.”

  “Ah yes, I’ve heard about you from Maria.” She nodded in a way that assured him it was all good things.

  Chris’s eyes remained shamelessly glued to Wendy, even as she turned her attention to Jessica and Maria began a more comprehensive introduction. “Wendy is a PR specialist out of Dallas.”

  “PR?” Jessica asked.

  “Public relations,” Wendy said. “I work predominantly with individuals as opposed to corporations or small businesses.”

  “And what do you do exactly?” Jessica asked, already sure that any job that allowed Wendy to buy the clothes she wore, maintain the expensive manicure, and afford housing in Dallas was one Destinee wouldn’t be able to pay her to do.

  “I help high profile individuals manage their public image. Help empower them to take control of the narrative of their lives.”

  “And she’s very good at it,” Maria added. “I called her yesterday to come down for the press conference to see if you were a client she might be interested in working with.”

  Jessica’s stomach dropped. “You were there for the press conference?”

  Wendy pressed her lips together and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes. Not great, but salvageable.” She paused, then folded her fingers together on the table. “I’ll be honest with you, Jessica, I’ve been following your story from the start. And you’ve botched almost every opportunity for positive coverage.”

  When Jess noticed her mouth was hanging open, she wondered how long it’d been that way. No one had ever been so frank with her, and while she could feel her face turning red at the brutal assessment, she also knew Wendy was entirely correct. “Yeah, this isn’t my strong point.”

  “I’m glad you realize that,” Wendy added. “It means you’d be a dream client.” She smiled, and Jessica felt an instant pang of guilt, knowing she would have to refuse the woman’s help. She couldn’t ask Destinee to work more hours than she already was, and once football season started, Jessica wouldn’t have a single second to spare for a job between athletics and school. And then there was the whole thing of her senior year approaching. When adults mentioned senior year, they had a tendency to draw out the word, lower their voice and raise their eyebrows significantly to convey, she supposed, the gravity of such a rite of passage.

  It was almost as if Maria could sense Jessica’s hesitancy, because she began to sweeten the pot. “Wendy represents some of the hottest public figures right now. Jeremy Divorak, Cherry Valencia,” she paused, then added, “Jameson Fractal.”

  Jessica’s eyes darted to Wendy. “You represent Jameson Fractal?”

  Wendy bit back a laugh. “Yes. Although that’s a recent development. But yes, he’s one of my clients.”

  Vague possibilities of being in the same place at the same time as her long-time celebrity obsession began to swirl in a foggy stew in her mind and her heart began to race. Then she reminded herself that Wendy’s connection to Jameson didn’t matter, really; Wendy was out of the McCloud price range.

  Being poor sucked.

  “I just don’t know if I can,” she said, before sucking her Dr. Pepper morosely through her straw.

  “And why’s that?” Wendy asked.

  “Yeah, why’s that?” Chris echoed.

  She glanced at him. Did he have to be so obvious? She couldn’t blame him for his attraction, she supposed, considering she was having a hard enough time taking her eyes off the woman’s delicate yet fierce features, and holy crap did anyone naturally have such perfect, round, perky breasts, or was that a bra thing, and if it was a bra thing, where could Jessica buy that bra?

  She reeled in her thoughts. “We’re just not in a place where we could afford that sort of thing, I don’t think.”

  “Oh no,” Wendy said quickly, as she leaned over the table and placed a soft hand on Jessica’s wrist. “I wouldn’t charge you.”

  “Huh?”

  Wendy leaned back and chuckled good-naturedly. “Listen, I’m a business woman through and through, but I’d have to be out of my mind to charge God’s only daughter for PR work.”

  Again, Jess said, “Huh?” Then it sunk in. “Wait, you believe in me?”

  “Of course, dear. There’s no way you could know this about me, but usually I’m the kind of person that people seek out, not the other way around. If I thought you were anything other than God’s daughter, I would not drive all the way from Dallas to this time capsule of a town—where legalized slavery is probably still on the books—to offer you my services.” She laughed, and Jess laughed along with her, though it was mostly forced.

  “Yeah, I guess that wouldn’t make sense.” Kind of like this whole conversation.

  Wendy leaned back in her seat and looked at the shiny gold watch on her wrist. “Well, listen, I do need to get back to Dallas before traffic sets in. You don’t have to give me a yes or no right away, but promise me you’ll think about it, talk it over with your mom or whoever else you trust, and then give me a call one way or another.”

  Jessica nodded and Wendy reached in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “My cell number is written on the
back. Call that, not my office. You’ll never get past the centurion of a receptionist I hired.” She smiled again and then stood. Maria scooted out as well.

  “Promise you’ll call?” Wendy urged.

  The reality of free help was starting to settle in, and Jessica was reminded of the weightless sensation of taking off her sweaty football pads and helmet after a late-summer game. “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Wonderful.” She turned to Chris. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Christopher.”

  He muttered something back that sounded like, “Amb atchoo,” and the two women left Gordon’s.

  “I think she seems trustworthy,” he said, once he regained the ability to speak real words.

  Jessica rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

  It wasn’t until the previous Tuesday that Jessica had begun to wonder if she should say something, like a catch phrase, each time she brought patients back to life, and now it was almost all she could think about, as the fifty-four-year-old shooting victim on the table in front of her breathed the first breath of his second chance at life.

  That’s the stuff!

  No, that was a terrible catch phrase. Almost as bad as the others she’d thought of that morning while miracling the patients of Midland Memorial Hospital, like Back in the game! and Round two! and Don’t go toward the light!

  The last one was only sort of a joke, considering what she knew about that light, knowledge she’d long since decided to keep to herself. Maybe someday she would mention it to those closest to her in passing, like, “Hey, if you ever die and see a bright light … Just maybe pass on it,” or “You know what would be a good idea if you die? Going toward the confetti. I bet that’s Heaven. What? No reason.”

  On the table, the man’s wounds were nearly closed up and he opened his eyes with the blankness and disappointment of one who’d thought it was time for dessert, only to discover this was a fourteen-course vegan meal and he was still on the first of many tofu courses.