Let Her Lie, page 8
That day, Miracle stood by her locker, talking to two friends. One was Gemma. They stayed friends all the way through high school and beyond. Miracle never remembered who the other one was. It made no sense to her; she could recall so many exact details from that moment. The lockers were a vibrant blue color, both dark and bright at the same time, like the paint was still wet. The hall smelled like hand sanitizer and chocolate cake—her locker was the closest one to the cafeteria. She wore black tights and a white top and those horrible platform flip-flops that, for some reason, everyone loved. She was so excited, and sort of nervous about school. Everything felt new and scary and full of a potential that she didn’t really understand. Then Madison walked up.
Miracle could remember what Madison wore, too. Down to the exact shade of her hemp surfer’s choker. She could still hear the sound of her footsteps. Clack, clack, clack, like a horse on an old cobblestone street. The way she smelled, like that Paris Hilton perfume. And the way she smiled at Miracle. Like she had just pulled up a crab trap full of a dozen keepers.
“Hey, Gemma,” Madison said, but she stared at Miracle.
All three said hi to her.
“I like your necklace,” Miracle even added.
Madison smiled and told them where she’d gotten it. The other girl seemed to drift out of the moment. Maybe she left. Maybe Miracle just didn’t notice her again.
“I saw it there,” Gemma said.
“I like your shoes,” Madison said to Miracle.
“Thanks.”
Madison’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Miracle in “that way.” Kids love attention until the first time someone at school looks at them that way.
“You’re adopted, right?” she blurted.
Somehow, in her sudden panic, Miracle noticed Gemma’s eyes widen and took a step backward. More of a shuffle.
“Yeah,” Miracle said, the words sticking in her suddenly bone-dry mouth.
“And your mom left you in a bathroom sink.”
As if for the very first time, the Miracle Baby blinked. As she stared at Madison, frozen, the lines of the girl’s face seemed to melt away. But her eyes pierced Miracle. Violated her. She felt sick and exposed and, worst of all, unsafe for the first time in her life … that she could remember, at least.
“What?” she whispered.
That’s when Gemma pushed Madison. Right on the chest, below her throat. Miracle never forgot. In that moment, when she felt the first tremor of the quake that would pulverize her childhood, her friend stood up. Gemma actually hit another girl, which in anyone else’s story might be the absolute best moment of the sixth grade. For Miracle, it was something else. A tether that seemed to keep her present, despite the sudden darkness flooding her insides. It also would become a source of guilt. She’d never thanked Gemma for that. Because, like Gemma, Miracle acted as though it had never happened. Like it was just some horrible dream.
* * *
The instant her friend’s hands hit Madison, Miracle’s day might as well have ended. She could remember almost nothing as she haunted the halls of her school, drifting from one classroom to the next. Maybe friends asked if she was okay. Maybe rumors started to drift, slower before cell phones but no less indomitable.
One memory, however, clung from that day forward. It was a feeling like every inch of her being had become suddenly, excruciatingly alive. The thin fabric of her white top hung like chains. The thongs of her shoes, the ones she had loved so much before, threatened to sever her toes. Her eyes burned, boring into every perceived intention around her, leaving the rest of the world dull and out of focus.
Somehow, the day ended. Miracle wandered home from school, making it to her neighborhood. Without even a hitch to her step or a turn of her head, she walked past her house, continuing to the thin beach that ran along the coast of the bay that backed up to the houses across the street. Slipping out of her sandals, she let the coarse sand scratch the bottoms of her feet as she moved south.
Small docks ran out into the bay behind a few of her neighbors’ tiny yards. Soft little waves rolled up onto land, hissing against the beach. An old dinghy, white and blue paint flaking off the sunbaked sides, knocked against one of the half dozen crab traps attached to the pier. Until that moment, the sound had been as much a part of Miracle’s life as bedtime and the summer tourists. That day, it raged inside her skull. Tears came to her eyes as she hurried away, following the contour of Rehoboth Bay until the houses slipped out of sight.
At one point, the gravel gave way to stones. The stones became dark, slick rocks. Miracle picked her way among them until she was utterly alone. Then she climbed atop one that jutted out. The surface was wet and the air so briny that the salt seemed to cling to her face, burning her hot cheeks.
There she sat, solitary, staring out at the water. She paid no mind to the beautiful sunset. She didn’t hear the distant calls as gulls fought over the overturned remains of a horseshoe crab. Nor did Miracle watch the fishing boats chugging in through the inlet. Instead, she pulled her knees up and let the dampness soak through her pants, cooling her skin as Madison’s words repeated over and over again among her storming thoughts.
And your mom left you in a bathroom sink.
Miracle reached down and found a smooth stone nestled among the crags. With a shout, she sent it rocketing over the waters, as far as she could. It hit the surface, skipping once before cutting through the sparkles and sinking to the dark, silty bottom.
“That’s not right!” she cried out. Then, more quietly, “That can’t be right.”
* * *
“Hi, Miracle!”
Mrs. Harris waved from her back porch as she cut through the woman’s yard. Miracle tried to smile and wave. Mrs. Harris put her hands on the perfectly white railing and leaned forward.
“Are you okay? Your knee’s bleeding.”
She glanced down, noticing the tear in her leggings. There was blood, too. She had caught her leg on a rock while climbing down and never noticed.
“I’m good,” she said, her voice empty.
“Do you need me to call your mom?”
“No thanks, Mrs. Harris.”
The second she left her neighbor’s yard, Miracle knew the older woman would do just that. News passed quickly through their tight-knit neighborhood, especially if it involved the handful of children living there. The retirees watched any activity out their windows like it was television. So, by the time Miracle reached her driveway, Meg Jones stood in the threshold, her hip propping the storm door open.
Liar.
The word flared in Miracle’s head like an eruption. It burned so hotly from her eyes that she looked away, trying to hide it from the only mother she had ever known.
“What happened?” Mrs. Jones asked.
“I’m fine,” her daughter snapped back.
“You’re hurt. And your clothes.”
Miracle looked at herself again. Muck stained her top. Her leggings were torn. Her feet were bare. She glanced over her shoulder–casually, really–when she remembered that she’d left her favorite shoes back by the rocks.
Then Miracle stormed past her mother, into the house. “I said I’m fine.”
* * *
The next morning dawned with a deadly tease. Miracle opened her eyes to the rising sun, and for one glorious but fleeting second, the words had never been said. Her usual smile greeted the day. For a flash, her life was as it should have been. As if her past belonged to someone else.
A tick of the clock and it came back like an electric shock. Her stomach flipped, and the pain turned the skin of her face cold and wet. She sat up, swallowing down the nausea, and felt the first tickle of a new thought. One that ticked the back of her internal dialogue. Taunting her. Asking her, softly, if this was all just a bit too much. If it was worth fighting.
But Miracle was still young then. She still owned that famous resilience. Rising through the weight of it all, she pulled her thick, dark hair back into a loose ponytail. Standing in front of her mirror, she stared at the ends, which curled almost into bananas. Normally, that drove her crazy and she would straighten her hair before heading downstairs. That morning she simply closed her eyes and moved away. She spent a fraction of her normal time picking clothes for the day, settling on a T-shirt and sweats from the surf shop in Bethany Beach. Slipping on a pair of low-top white Converse, she made her way out into the hallway, pausing only at the top of the stairs, and only for a moment, before making her way to the kitchen.
The instant Miracle walked into the room, her mother seemed to react. As if she somehow knew.
“I can make you toast,” her mother said, standing with her back to the sink.
“No thanks.”
Miracle moved to the table, still not making eye contact.
“You’re not wearing your new sandals,” her mother said.
Miracle just stared at the floor, somehow fighting back the tears that threatened to sweep her into the bay. A crack formed in that moment, a fissure that would build slowly for years. “I lost them,” she blurted out.
For a second, Miracle did not lift her head. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to blink. Refused to let them out, to let them trail down her cheeks. Then she looked at her mother. Meg stood, as she had most of Miracle’s life, with a solid purpose, like a farmer ready to seed, or more accurately, a young yet grizzled crabber preparing to check her traps. For the first time, though, Miracle noticed the sun damage. The gray hairs pushing a pale dye job up from the roots. She saw the glasses precariously clinging to the reddened end of Meg’s Roman nose.
That was the first of the changes. As she turned her eyes away again, Miracle thought about her brother. He was fifteen years older, living upstate and working as a civil engineer. Whereas Miracle was birdlike in bone structure and energy, her brother was a country boy with a slow drawl and a slower temper, the first to smile from his comfortable seat in front of the television. He had that same nose. So different from hers.
Her next thought hit like sharpened glass.
I’m not a part of them.
It was too much, at least for that moment. Without a word, she rushed out of the kitchen.
“Are you leaving?” her mother asked. “It’s early. What about breakfast?”
Before she finished, Miracle was already out the door, heading to school as if it might be better there.
* * *
Overnight, her school had transformed. The halls were darker, lonelier. The shadows deeper, more dangerous. The eyes that watched her walk the halls seemed to taunt her with the kind of crushing silence that only a middle schooler can truly understand. Every glance cut through her skin, setting her nerves on end and making Miracle want to jump out a window.
The day inched on, and it only grew worse. She felt fat, ugly, weird. Her mind convinced her that every whisper shared some piece of her past. A heartbreaking truth that left her raw and exposed. Worst of all, she had no idea what those truths might be. Not really. For though Miracle knew she was adopted, she had never asked for anything more.
As she stood alone in the hallway with her head almost tucked into her open locker, she wondered—for the first time in her life—why. Her parents had been open. She’d never felt they wouldn’t answer anything she asked. But she never had. Never wanted to. Instead, she had felt a stable contentedness. And that had been torn from her, as it had to be. For it wasn’t real. And lies can last for only so long. Though Miracle didn’t make the connection that day, she would in later years. In fact, she would spend a lot of moments, the lonely moments that speckled her daily life, contemplating the difference between resilience and denial.
The tardy bell for third period rang. She heard it. She knew she had to get to math class. But as the seconds passed, a fury built inside her. It raged harder than the Atlantic during the worst nor’easter of her life. Without realizing it, she held her breath. Her fingers gripped the edge of her locker door, then slammed it so hard that the entire row rattled. Spinning, Miracle sprinted down the hallway, away from her math class. Her hand struck the exit door by the tech closet. Pain shot up her forearms, but Miracle didn’t care. She didn’t even feel it over her anger.
Once outside, she ran. Panting, her face burning, she didn’t slow until she reached her front porch. Steps from her door, she planted her foot. One hand grabbed the support post. Struggling to catch her breath, she doubled over. Her resolve faltered. Exhaustion, and possibly fear, tempered her fury. The confrontation she so suddenly needed seemed even more dangerous. So much so that Miracle took a step back down the stairs.
That’s when the door swung open. Meg Jones stood with her back straight. Her chest out. Her eyes sharp, as if she somehow knew what the day would bring.
“Are you ready to talk?” her mother asked.
As anger often does during the crushing moments of life, Miracle’s rage vanished as quickly as it had erupted. The strength left her, slackening the muscles of her back and draining the blood from her face. Meg saw the change. She had been waiting for it, maybe since the day of Miracle’s adoption. She did not hesitate, nor did she question. She simply swooped to her daughter and held her as she cried.
* * *
Often, through the years, Miracle would think back to that day and wonder. Should the moment have been different, more like one of those movies her mother watched on the Lifetime channel? Meg could have taken her by the hand and walked her out to the park by the water. With the sun shining down on them, her story could have been told in a hushed whisper and a voice trembling with emotion. Or maybe Miracle could have rushed home from school to find her entire family waiting, sitting in a circle. Meg’s empathetic eyes taking in her daughter’s fears, her pain, just before the love in the room surrounded her in a warm embrace.
Those moments in life, the pivot points where the future is written less by choice than by circumstance, never happen like that. They are neither planned nor perfect. Instead, much as Meg did, people stumble through them, making it up as they go. As each word slips out into reality, the doubts immediately follow, flooding our best efforts, making them brittle and thin. Afterward, every second can be picked raw, but it changes nothing. The path is set. The future hits like a tsunami, washing everything away without warning.
For Miracle, there was no family meeting. In fact, there was no conversation. Instead, Meg pulled back from her daughter and nodded. Without a word, she turned and hurried into the house. Confused, fighting to catch her breath, Miracle followed. In the living room, her mother reappeared, holding a folded piece of paper in her hand. It was an old, yellowed clipping. When Meg handed it to her, it felt brittle in Miracle’s fingers.
Their eyes locked through films of unshed tears. Meg’s mouth opened. Words might have tried to push their way out. She took a step back, and the change Miracle saw in her mother was more frightening than whatever words might be on the paper. Until that moment, and to everyone who knew her, Meg Jones was unflappable. Dressed in her customary shades of brown and her trusty angler’s vest, she stood solid and firmly rooted in reality. She took in others’ pain but never showed her own. Till now.
Suddenly, she spun and hurried from the room. Shocked, Miracle watched. As the seconds ticked past, the news clipping between her fingers grew heavier. Her eyes lowered and she saw the tail end of a headline. MIRACLE BABY. Standing alone in her living room, or what she had always considered her living room, she peeled back the corners of her past. As she read, as the weight of it settled over her, she knew she would never truly be Miracle Jones again.
CHAPTER
2
GINNY HARRIS STOOD at her front door, looking down at me. Whereas I felt exhausted, disjointed, as if caught between spans of time, she appeared the opposite. The stories filled her with energy. Her eyes almost shined with it as she stood under the porch lamp.
“Thank you,” I said. “When Mrs. Jones gets back, can you give her my card?”
“Of course. Are you okay to drive?” she asked. “You keep yawning.”
“Definitely. I’m great. I really appreciate your time. Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Anything you’d like,” she said with a smile.
“Do you know when Miracle learned about her mother—her real mother?”
“Oh,” Ginny said, her cheeks flushed. “I really … I guess I couldn’t tell you. I mean, I don’t know. The last two years or so, she’s been … different. Quiet. Very private.”
I nodded. “It’s been so great meeting you.”
“I hope it was helpful,” she said, or maybe asked.
“It was …”
Ginny Harris stepped out onto the decking. “If you need anything else, please let me know. I’m not sure about being filmed and all … but I could probably manage. If that’s what you need.”
“Of course,” I said. “I have the recording of the interview. But we’ll need an intro shot. Maybe out by the water. I’ll be in touch.”
She watched me for a moment. Then her helpful smile returned. “Drive carefully.”
“I will.”
I backed toward the car. She hovered, so I opened the driver’s side door. Nodding, Ginny Harris slipped back inside her house. Once she was gone, I closed the car door without getting behind the wheel. Instead, I moved through her yard and out to the water. It was dark by then, and I found Rehoboth Bay more by sound than by sight. When I saw the sliver of moonlight dancing across the dark, calm surface, I stopped, taking a deep breath. The air felt so clean inside my chest, so unlike the city. At the same time, the space around me, the silence, closed in tighter and tighter. I pushed through it and turned left.
