The Miracle Stealer (21 page)

At nine months, my stump had matured and I got fitted for a permanent prosthetic, which was more comfortable but still no good for real running. A bunch of folks around town—Gayle and Bundower, Mayor Wheeler and even the Abernathys—they all pitched in and sent me to see a specialist in New York. My
running leg's lighter and got more flexibility; there's a bowed metal blade where you'd expect a stiff rod. Sticking to the roads, I've worked my way up to looping the lake, though my time still sucks. This summer, when Jeff runs with me, he's got to hold back. For now.

Some days my leg still hurts, or I get an itch on the bottom of that long-gone foot. And I still have nights when I wake up sweating in the cove, or when I reach for that knee, screaming in my sleep. But out on the road with the wind whipping through my hair, I get that old sensation of freedom and lightness that comes with speed, the thrill that accompanies motion. I just like feeling like I'm going somewhere.

As for the Pilgrims and the true believers, they kind of faded away after the accident. Gayle told me Leo stepped in right away, urging the believers to let my family heal and look elsewhere for their miracles. My mom stopped bringing Daniel to the UCP, and everybody around town, even Volpe and the Abernathys, refused to talk to the few reporters who called. Scarecrow, who kept ranting about God's voice and “testing” Daniel, went straight from the fairy fort to Bundower's jail and then got shipped to Bonneville, a place with walled gardens and bars on the windows. Gayle put that story on the front page. Bundower, from what I hear, made it clear to the citizens of Paradise that Daniel was to be left alone. Everybody could see how close he and my mom were getting, and folks weren't eager to cross him.

These days, nobody comes right out and asks Daniel to pray. Being Daniel, I know he wouldn't mind, but I don't think he misses the pressure of being the Miracle Boy. I've never asked him what he remembers about the cove, if he recalls saving me by
taming Samson or a white tunnel of light. But sometimes when he thinks I'm not watching, I catch Daniel staring at me. In these moments, I turn to my brother, and he smiles like he knows a pretty good secret.

It took me a good long while to come to terms and feel ready, but I've tried here to be faithful to Leo's calling, to be a witness to what happened to Daniel and me. And you're probably wondering after all this, what do I believe? That's a fair question. Is there a benevolent divine being watching over us all with a plan for our lives, waiting to intervene with miraculous acts?
Of course
, my mom would certainly answer, and once this would've been a no-brainer for me too. But after Daniel fell in that hole, after my father left us and the town seemed to die and everything went crazy, I would've told you,
Not a chance
. I can't deny, though, the things I saw later eroded my bitterness—that Abernathy baby, the faces of those people lined up in the fairy fort, the way Daniel came back for me. In the end, I guess, out on the jagged rocks of McGinley's Cove, I gave up my anger for something better. To this day, it's not something I'd call faith exactly, but something closer to hope. I'll never be a Holy Roller nutjob. I'm just more open to things I don't understand, the mysterious possibilities around us all. So here's my grand answer:
Maybe
. This might come across as some lame cop-out, but for me—a daddy's girl abandoned by her father, a big sister who nearly killed her kid brother, a born runner who lost a leg—it seems honest, sincere, even hopeful.
Maybe
feels like a prayer all its own.

W
hile there is indeed an actual Paradise, Pennsylvania, it has no bearing on the fictional place of the same name in this book. I created this Paradise, as well as its geography and all its inhabitants, entirely from my imagination. Any resemblance to the real Paradise or its citizens is strictly coincidental. As for my iron-willed main character and her potential similarity to my eight older sisters, I have no comment.

I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to several folks who saved this manuscript from certain death. I thank George Clark, for his enthusiasm and expertise on fairy forts. I thank Warren Frazier, for his always thoughtful criticism and guidance. And I thank editor Cheryl Klein, who would likely be unbearable if she weren't right so often. Her belief in Andi made all the difference.

For their camaraderie and inspiration, I thank my colleagues at McNeese State and the many graduate writers who have made up the MFA workshop I'm so privileged to be a part of.

Lastly, it is impossible to imagine any part of my life without Beth. For all our renaissances, and the ones that await us still, I am endlessly grateful.