The Question of Miracles (14 page)

The drizzle grew heavier. They were protected from it on the back porch, and they watched together as it swelled into rain. It had been half a year now that Iris and her parents had lived in Oregon, and in that time Iris had learned a lot about rain—its transition from soft to hard, the various sounds of it against the roof, the way it could mist and float and softly fill the air, the way it could pound the earth with bulletlike intensity.

In Oregon, the question was never
would
there be rain, but rather
what kind
of rain there would be.

“Maybe I'll buy a kit,” Iris's dad mused.

“They sell kits?”

“Oh, yeah,” said her dad. “The chicken-coop industry is a moneymaking machine.”

“Huh,” said Iris. “Yeah. Maybe a kit is a good idea.”

“All right,” he said. “I'll get a kit. And what about you, Pigeon?”

“Me?” said Iris. “What about me?”

“Spring's coming up,” he said. “I hear your school has a tennis team. Have you given any thought to trying out?”

Iris was quiet.

“It might be good for you, Pigeon. You were getting pretty good before . . . before we moved.”

Iris knew what he had been about to say. Before Sarah died. And it wasn't even all that true. She was never really good at tennis. Not good like Sarah was. Iris liked playing, that was true, but it was more because she liked being with her friend than because of the actual sport.

She liked the funny little sound Sarah made when she scored a point. She liked the perfect
thump
of the tennis ball when it hit the sweet spot of Sarah's racket. She liked watching Sarah double-knot her shoes. She liked the
idea
of tennis, that even if you have nothing—not a single point—you still have Love.

“I can't play tennis here—there's too much rain,” she muttered. “I'd better go do my homework. I have to write a paper about what it means to be a good citizen.”

“Huh,” said her dad. “That sounds pretty boring.”

Iris laughed a little. “Yeah.”

“Well, let me know if you need any ideas,” her dad offered.

“Okay. Let me know if you need any help with the coop.”

Inside, Iris found that Charles had abandoned his fluffy blue blanket. He was in the living room, spread out across the top of the incubator like it was a tanning bed. His tail was unfurled, limp. He seemed to be smiling.

Maybe they should keep the incubator, Iris thought, after the eggs were hatched. For Charles. She stroked his head, and he twitched a little.

Then she knelt down and stared into the incubator, at the eggs. All twelve eggs lay perfectly still in their individual grooves.

She thought of the eggs, the way her dad had all these hopes and plans for them. She thought of him, out on the porch with his tilting, awful chicken-coop project. She thought of how her parents had moved her here, far from home, far from her memories.

She thought about Sarah's tennis racket, tucked in their closet. Iris remembered when Sarah had gotten the racket as a Christmas present from her parents two years ago.

Sarah had laughed, telling Iris about how it had been wrapped. “They didn't box it up or anything,” she said. “They just stuck a big gold bow right in the center of its head.”

Iris thought of all the things Sarah's parents had hoped for that racket. They'd probably wanted Sarah to use it on the junior high school tennis team. Maybe they thought she'd win some trophies with it. Maybe they figured that she'd use it to teach her younger sister and brother how to play tennis, even.

One thing Iris knew. There was no way Sarah's parents ever could have guessed that their Christmas present would end up here, in the middle of Oregon, a thousand miles away from where they'd tucked it under a Christmas tree.

And yet here it was. Here
she
was.

You can make your plans,
Iris thought.
You can shelter your eggs, and keep them warm and dry. But even still.
Even still.

On the eighth of April, Boris passed Iris a note during Social Studies. They were in the middle of playing a geography game called Where in the World. The teacher had told them to break into two teams, and Heather had asked Iris to be on hers.

Iris couldn't help but feel suspicious of Heather. Was she just being nice to Iris because she felt sorry for her, because Iris had a dead friend and hung out with Boris every day at lunch?

Iris didn't like the way the other kids acted with Boris—they didn't pay any attention to him half the time, and when they did, it was usually to make fun of him. Not in a really
mean
way, not threatening or bullying, just sort of messing with him. Like there was nothing better to do.

So being his friend meant that Iris got mostly ignored, and occasionally teased, too. Never anything terrible, but nothing really great. Heather, though, seemed to want to be friends. She kept being friendly, even though Iris hadn't been. Like today, asking Iris to be on her team. She didn't
have
to do that.

Boris was on the other team, so when he passed Iris the note, everyone on his team mumbled accusations that he was giving Iris answers because he
Liked
her.

“People can be stupid,” Heather said knowingly, and Iris realized that even though most of the other kids had, Heather had never once made fun of Boris.

So she smiled at Heather and shrugged, hands up, like,
What can you do?
And they both laughed.

Iris didn't open the note until the bell rang and the class rumbled into movement, gathering books, coats, backpacks. Heather lingered near the door like maybe she was waiting for Iris, but after a minute she went out into the hallway.

Maybe it would be okay to have another friend, Iris thought.

The note read,
Vatican at my house today! Want to come over after school?

The message left Iris feeling queasy and excited for the rest of the afternoon.

She peppered Boris with questions during lunch—“How many people are visiting? What do they look like? Are you sure they'll still be there this afternoon?”

Boris didn't have answers to the first two questions, since they were due to arrive after he'd left for school. But he answered her third question confidently—“Of
course
they'll still be there. They're here to meet
me.
I'm the miracle, after all.”

Boris was the miracle. That was almost impossible to believe, sitting across from him, watching him eat spoonfuls of macaroni and cheese.

There was nothing miraculous about the way Boris ate. Most days, it was all Iris could do to ignore his chew-talk.

But still, he was the miracle.

“I'll call my dad from your place and tell him I'll need him to pick me up after dinner,” Iris said.

 

When Boris and Iris came in through the kitchen door, dripping wet as usual, there were four people in Boris's kitchen. Katherine was there, wearing makeup and a blouse Iris had never seen her in before. She was sitting at the table along with three men, surrounded by stacks of papers and spilling file folders. When Boris and Iris walked in, the men stood up, all with broad smiles. Two of the men were priests. They wore long black robes with short black collars. Each priest's collar had a notch in the front that showed a square of the white band underneath.

The third man was dressed in a suit. It was a very nice suit, Iris thought, as far as suits went. It was dark gray with light gray pinstripes. This man wore a wide red tie and had a square of red silk tucked into his jacket pocket. All three men wore glasses.

One of the priests was very old, and tall, and thin, with wispy white hair combed across his half-bald scalp. The other priest was younger, and fatter, and he had all of his hair.

The man in the suit was younger than the old priest but older than the young one. He wasn't fat or thin, and though he was balding, he was just losing the hair at his temples, not on the top of his head.

The young priest said something in Italian, and the man in the suit nodded.

“Boris, there you are,” said Katherine. “Hello, Iris. Nice to see you, honey.”

“Hi, Katherine,” said Iris. She couldn't take her eyes off the old, white-haired priest. His eyes were liquid blue behind the round wire frames of his glasses, and he stared without blinking at Boris.

Nothing about the men struck Iris as particularly magical or powerful, and Iris felt a pricking of disappointment.

“Boris, Iris,” said Katherine, “this is Monsignor Augustin, Father Santorno, and Mr. Gardello. Gentlemen, this is my son, Boris, and his friend Iris.”

The three visitors smiled and nodded politely at Iris, but really they only had eyes for Boris.

“It is our great pleasure to meet you,” said the young priest, Father Santorno, who seemed to be speaking on behalf of all three of them.

“It's nice to meet you, too,” said Boris, who looked, Iris thought, distinctly uncomfortable.

Boris held out his hand, and each of the three men shook it, first the man in the suit, then the young priest, then the older one. He held Boris's hand for a long time, patting it with his other hand, and examining Boris's face. When he finally let go of Boris's hand, he grasped Boris's cheeks and kissed him on the top of his head. Then he lifted his glasses and wiped his eyes.

Boris cleared his throat, shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“We're going to be a while longer, going through all this paperwork,” said Katherine, clearly giving Boris permission to leave the room. “We'll call you in when we're done, all right?”

“Sure!” said Boris, grinning with relief. “Come on, Iris. Let's go play . . . cards for a while.”

Iris noticed that Boris didn't say “Magic.”

“Actually,” she said, “do you mind, Katherine, if I hang out in here and watch?”

“You want to watch us go through all these medical files?” Katherine's tone was incredulous.

“Uh-huh. If that's okay.”

Katherine looked at the men standing around the table. They were all politely waiting, each with a folder open in front of him.

“Sure. Why not?” said Katherine.

Boris rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. “I'll be in my room if you get bored.
When
you get bored.” He waved at the three men. “Nice to meet you,” he said again, but the way he retreated hastily from the kitchen made it seem like he didn't think it was very nice at all.

The young priest, Father Santorno, offered Iris his seat. “Oh, no, that's okay,” she said. She grabbed the yellow stool from the corner by the phone and swung it around, wedging it next to Katherine's chair.

Then it was as if she became invisible. The men sat back down, turned their attention to the files in front of them, and Iris listened as they asked Katherine question after question.

Most of them were medical—“At what point during the pregnancy did you first learn that there was an irregularity with the child?”

“Twenty-four weeks,” said Katherine.

“At that time, what was the amniotic fluid level?”

“Less than one. Fifteen is considered average; less than four is critical.”

“What did the doctors suspect caused the problem?”

“Either a genetic abnormality, a chromosomal abnormality, or a virus.”

“What were the results of the unborn baby's B2 test?”

“Very disheartening. They found that his kidneys were extremely damaged. They told us that ninety to ninety-five percent of babies born with kidney function like our baby's die shortly after birth.”

The two priests nodded and smiled at this response, and the older priest said something in Italian. Father Santorno scratched a note in his folder.

“And even if his kidneys proved to be healthy after birth, the baby still faced many difficult hurdles, yes?” This question came from the man in the suit, Mr. Gardello.

“Yes,” answered Katherine. “There was a strong likelihood that Boris's lungs had been damaged, as a result of my low amniotic fluid level. If his lungs failed to develop, there would be nothing anyone could do for him when he was born. The doctors warned us that when he tried to breathe for the first time, or when the doctors attempted to resuscitate him, it was probable that his lungs would just crack, break, and fall apart.”

“But that didn't happen.”

“No,” said Katherine. “That didn't happen.”

“Your son's name—Boris—that is an unusual name for an American boy, no?”

“Yes,” said Katherine. “It is. Originally, we had planned to name him Andrew. After my husband's father. But when we got the news about his condition—about all the hurdles he'd have to jump just to stay alive—we decided he needed another name. A fighting name. Boris means ‘one who fights for glory.' It seemed appropriate.”

“Yes,” said Father Santorno. “Very.”

“And the nuns,” said the Monsignor. His accent was heavy. “They prayed for the boy. They prayed that Pope Paul would save him.”

Katherine shifted in her seat, as if the question made her uncomfortable. “That's what my cousin says,” she answered. Then she said, “Look, I'm happy to help you out. It's important to my cousin that I do. But I'm not the right person to speak with about the nuns, or the pope they're hoping to have sainted. The way I see it, we were incredibly lucky. We beat the odds. If anyone worked any miracles, it was Boris, in healing himself. And of course the doctors who performed the surgeries Boris needed during the first couple of years of his life. And the ultrasound technician who found what was wrong with the baby in the first place. Even after healing himself and surviving, without modern medicine, Boris would have been in a terrible pickle. Modern medicine, and a healthy dose of good luck.”

Iris looked at the priests to see their reaction. Would they be mad at Katherine for doubting that Boris's survival was a miracle? She couldn't help but wonder if maybe, by saying those words—that it was the
doctors
who helped Boris, along with luck—that the priests or God Himself could be angered, could decide to take the miracle back. She half listened for the sound of Boris's body falling instantly dead.