The Question of Miracles (16 page)

Iris had listened to her dad talk about his plans all winter long, so she knew what they would be planting, and where: chives, parsley, and radishes in the bed closest to the house; carrots, beets, broccoli, and leeks in the raised planter just a little farther; and Brussels sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, peas, rhubarb, and spinach out near the far edge of the garden.

All of the plants would be surrounded by a fence her father was to erect next month, before the chickens were big enough to be outside. Today they were still nestled in their shells, though according to her dad's calendar, they were due to hatch in three or four more days.

Eventually, the hens would have their own coop on the other side of the house, but Iris's dad wanted them to free-range on the lawn a few hours a day, and he didn't want them to be able to get to the vegetables.

“Healthy chickens need access to worms and bugs,” he had said, and when Iris told him that was disgusting, he said, “It's worms and bugs that make eggs taste so good!”

Iris couldn't tell whether or not he was joking.

But working in the garden—turning the soil, helping her dad trowel the rows, and later, pouring out the seeds that would one day become her family's food, carefully tucking them under the rich, dark earth—it all felt good. And even though her nose and fingers were cold, even though the mist thickened and turned again inevitably to rain, the core of Iris, her heart, felt warm and happy.

The next day at school, playing Magic with Boris in the library after they'd finished their lunch, Iris asked, “Hey, Boris. Can you play this game with more than two people?”

“Sure,” said Boris. “Absolutely. Actually it's better with more players. Three or four is the best, but you can have even more than that.”

“Well,” said Iris, “I've been thinking.”

“What?”

“How about if we teach that girl Heather to play? She seems pretty nice.”

Boris looked up from his cards. Blinked. “I don't think so,” he said, and looked back at his hand.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Isn't it okay the way it is?”

“Sure,” said Iris. “But it might be fun to add someone else. You know, to make the game more interesting.”

“Other kids make fun of me,” Boris mumbled, so softly that Iris was only pretty sure that it was what he said.

“Not all of them,” Iris answered. “I've never heard Heather make fun of you. Of anyone, I don't think.”

Boris shrugged again. “I'm not that great at making friends.”

“You got me to be your friend,” Iris argued. “And I didn't even really want one.”

Boris grinned. “We are friends, huh?”

“I guess so,” said Iris. “And I could help you with making more friends. I used to be pretty good at it.”

“It's not like playing cards, Iris. It's not as if there are certain rules and then you win all these friends.”

“Actually,” she said, “it kind of
is
like that. There are rules to making friends. Things that make it easier, anyway.”

“Like what?” Boris was looking at her now. The cards in his hand drooped a little, and Iris could see their faces.

“Well, for one, like table manners. That kind of stuff matters more than you'd think, to most people.”

“My table manners are fine,” Boris said.

“There's room for improvement,” Iris said tactfully.

Boris sighed. “That's what my mother says. Okay. Tell me when I'm doing gross stuff, all right? I'll try to be better.”

“That's the spirit,” said Iris. “And . . .” She wondered if she was pushing her luck, bringing up the next thing. She didn't want to hurt Boris's feelings.

“What is it?”

“Well, most kids like it when people ask them questions. You know, about their hobbies and stuff. And they don't really like it if the other person is a know-it-all.”

“I can't help it if I know more than most people.” Boris sounded insulted.

“Sure,” said Iris, trying to make her voice soothing like Dr. Shannon's. “But you don't always have to
tell
everyone about it.” She was remembering the Lego-brick conversation.

“This seems like a lot of work just for a few friends,” Boris said.

“Maybe,” said Iris. “But friends—the good ones—are worth the work.”

“Okay,” said Boris. “We'll teach Heather how to play Magic. Happy?”

Iris smiled. “I'm working on it.”

 

“My mom got Charles this striped sweater,” Iris told Dr. Shannon later that afternoon. “He seems warmer.”

Today Dr. Shannon was wearing jeans, but she still managed to look dressy. Her jeans were cut differently than regular jeans; they were like slacks, with pockets on the sides instead of in front, and they were a really dark blue.

She wore little leopard-print heels, too. Iris asked, pointing, “Do you wear those all day? Out in the rain and everything?”

“These?” Dr. Shannon waved her foot. “Oh, no. They'd be ruined in the rain. I wear my galoshes to the office, and then I switch into these.”

“So you carry a second pair of shoes, like, in a bag, and when you get here you change?”

Dr. Shannon nodded.

“That's a lot of trouble for shoes,” Iris said.

“Not really. See, I like wearing pretty shoes. It gives me pleasure. But I live in a place that isn't terribly conducive to pretty-shoe-wearing. So I adjust.”

“Couldn't you just get used to wearing rain shoes all the time?”

“I suppose I
could,
” said Dr. Shannon. “But why would I want to do that?”

“It would be easier,” said Iris.

“Probably. But there's more to life than easy.”

Iris examined the sweater Dr. Shannon was wearing. It was purple, and kind of fuzzy, with little hairs sticking out all over the place. “I like your sweater,” she said.

Dr. Shannon laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “You're really into fashion today, aren't you?”

Iris shrugged. “I like that yarn,” she said.

“Me too,” said Dr. Shannon. “Feel it—it's so soft!” She reached over so that Iris could touch the arm of her sweater.

It
was
soft. Iris wondered if Charles would like a fuzzy sweater. “What's it made of?” she asked.

“Angora,” said Dr. Shannon.

“Did you knit it?”

“Me? Oh, no. I'm not crafty like that. A friend of mine knit it for me. There's a woman in Albany, not far from here, who raises Angora rabbits and dyes the hair herself, spins it into yarn. My friend Caroline made it for me, for Hanukkah last year.”

“I think maybe I'll learn how to knit,” Iris said. She didn't know where the words came from, but once spoken, they sounded true.

Dr. Shannon's effusive response didn't help. “Great!” she said. “That's a great idea. Lots of people are into knitting here in Corvallis. You could take a class, or buy a book if you'd rather learn on your own.”

“Maybe,” said Iris.

“Well, I think it's wonderful that you're thinking of taking up a new hobby.”

“Maybe,” said Iris. “We'll see.”

Then Dr. Shannon wanted to talk about
feelings
for a while. So they did—Iris told her about the book she'd bought for Sarah, and how she'd moved it upstairs, to her bedroom. She wasn't reading it, but she kept it on the nightstand next to her bed. Maybe, she told Dr. Shannon, she'd read it soon.

“It might be like visiting with your friend,” Dr. Shannon suggested. “Reading her favorite book, laughing over the scenes that made her laugh—it might feel like Sarah is right there with you.”

Iris shrugged again. A minute passed. It wasn't uncomfortable; Iris had been visiting Dr. Shannon twice a month for a while now, and she'd gotten used to sitting quietly together. At first she'd felt like she was wasting her parents' money if she didn't fill up all the time with talking, but then her dad had told her not to worry about it, that their insurance was paying Dr. Shannon anyway, and that she could just sit without talking the whole hour, if she felt like it. And silence with Dr. Shannon was kind of nice. Dr. Shannon's gentleness made it feel safe.

After a little while, Iris said, “I've been thinking about something lately. About tennis.”

“Oh?”

“Not about playing. About scoring. I've been thinking how, with tennis, when you say ‘Love,' that means that you've got nothing.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Shannon. “Yes.” She looked very interested in whatever Iris might be getting ready to say. She leaned forward, across the long orange couch, and her eyes stayed on Iris's.

“Maybe the people who made up the rules of tennis are right. But maybe they're bigger right. Like, maybe that's what
Love
means.”

“You're wondering . . . if
Love
means having nothing?”

Iris nodded. “Of course, not
all
the time. Sometimes, when you love someone, it fills you up, you know? But sometimes, like if the person goes away, or if she dies, if that happens, then what? You've got nothing left. Maybe you've got
less
than nothing, even. You've got a big hole.”

Dr. Shannon nodded, thoughtful, and handed Iris the box of tissues. Iris took a few, wiped her eyes. Blew her nose.

Then Dr. Shannon asked, “Do you really think that? Do you think that's true for you, with Sarah?”

“Sometimes,” said Iris. “It's like I've got nothing, where Sarah used to be. Except for all this
sadness.
And all these . . . tears,” she finished, tossing another tissue into the wastebasket.

Dr. Shannon waited for Iris to blow her nose again. Then she said, “Do you know why we say ‘Love' for nothing in tennis?”

Iris shook her head.

“There are different theories,” Dr. Shannon said. “No one knows for sure. But some people think it's because ‘Love' sounds like
‘L'oeuf'
—the French word for egg. An egg is ovular, like a zero. And it's full of potential, like ‘nothing' is. When you have nothing, when your egg isn't yet hatched, you don't really know what you might have, what might come from that potential.”

Iris thought about that for a little while. About eggs, and nothingness, and Love.

“What happened to your friend, Iris, is a terrible thing,” said Dr. Shannon. “It never should have happened. It's a real tragedy.”

That was all she said. She didn't try to add a “But” sentence next, she didn't try to say something smart about life going on, or silver linings, or any of that dumb, stupid stuff that so many people tried to tell Iris, even though she didn't think they believed it themselves.

Iris appreciated that about Dr. Shannon.

 

A couple of days later, Iris went home with Boris after school.

“So,” Iris said, finishing her shuffle and drawing seven cards, “what did the Vatican decide about your miracle? Does that guy get to be a saint, or what?” They sat cross-legged on the floor of Boris's room. Flora snored gently, curled into a ball at the foot of the bed.

“Dunno,” said Boris. He was slipping into Magic mode. In a couple more minutes, he'd be practically unable to process any information other than what appeared on his cards.

“Well, did they say anything when they left?”

Boris looked up, blinked. “Huh?”

“To
you,
” Iris said. “Did they say anything to you?”

“Yeah,” Boris said. “Of course. They came all the way from Italy to meet me, you know.”

“So what did they say?”

Boris shrugged. “I don't really know. They said some prayer, but it was in Italian. And the older guy made the sign of the cross over my head.”

“Oh,” said Iris. “Well, did you
feel
anything?”

“Yeah,” said Boris, suddenly serious. “I did.”

“What was it?” asked Iris, excited. “What did you feel?”

“Glad that they were finally leaving,” Boris answered. He snorted a laugh.

Iris rolled her eyes. “Great, Boris.”

“Ready to play?” he asked. “I've got a new Army of the Damned card I can't wait to use on you. It puts thirteen 2/2 Black Zombie Creature tokens onto the battlefield. I'm going to
destroy
you.”

 

Iris wasn't surprised when Boris did, indeed, destroy her. But she
was
surprised when, while Boris was sorting his cards and putting them away, she saw a short, round basket tucked behind his Magic boxes. She had seen the basket before, but she'd never thought anything of it. Today she noticed that in it was a pile of yarn balls, one green, one red, one gold, one blue, and a set of knitting needles.

“Hey,” she said. “What's that?”

“What?” said Boris. “That? That's just my knitting stuff.”

“You
knit?
” said Iris.

“Course I knit,” scoffed Boris. “I've got four sisters. The older two taught me how. They told me it would make me a better husband one day. I think they just wanted someone to finish their projects for them.”

“Are you any good?”

“What's the point of learning how to do something if you don't get good at it?” said Boris.

Iris grinned. “Do you think you could teach me?”

“How to knit? Sure. It's not hard. Kind of boring. Repetitive. But easy, once you know the basics. What do you want to make?”

“A sweater for Charles,” said Iris. “A fluffy one. Out of Angora hair.”

“You want to knit a rabbit fur sweater for your hairless cat? Okay, that's pretty cool—I'll teach you.”

But Iris didn't want Boris to teach her unless she had something she could teach him, too. She was tired of him always being the one who knew how to do everything.