MAYBE A MIRACLE
Brian Strause
Ballantine Books
Fiction
ISBN: 1400064643
368 pages

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Chapter 2

I'M ON MY WAY to the pool house --- that's where I hide my pot --- when I see Annika floating face-first in the pool. We had watched Harold and Maude about a week ago and the first thing I think is she's just trying to get a rise out of me. You know how Harold tries to shock his mom by pretending he drowned in the pool? But she's been through it all so many times, she just jumps in and swims on by? Like he's not even there? Annika couldn't stop laughing about that, so I figure she's trying to pull the same stunt on me.

She's just floating, not a ripple in the water . . . it's a very convincing performance. So, just to make sure, I pick up a tennis ball and chuck it at her, not too hard, but hard enough. It hits her head and bounces into the bushes. She doesn't flinch. She just keeps floating, facedown, her back to the world, the ripples of her spine in stark contrast to the stillness of the pool.

Annika's threshold of pain is much too low to fake her way through a beaning, no matter how soft. Clearly this isn't some stunt to get attention, not that she would do that anyway. She gets all the attention she could ever want. So I dive in. Some people say this makes me some sort of a hero, but it's what anyone would have done. You probably would have done it too, unless you're in a wheelchair or something. It's really no big deal.

She's in the deep end, near the diving board. When I get to her she's limp. I hang her over my shoulder --- no struggling, no nothing --- and swim toward the steps. It feels like surrender, her rag doll body, like I got there too late. Her mouth is right next to my ear, but nothing is coming out of it, not a gurgle, not a breath. I swim her to the shallow end, walk her up the steps and out of the pool, screaming for help.

When we get out of the water, I give her the Heimlich maneuver. On the second thrust, about a gallon of water comes gushing out, but still there is no gasping for breath, no wheezing. Just silence. It's not like TVwhere they start gulping for air, so I lay her on the stone patio and feel for a pulse. Nothing. Maybe I'm not doing it right. Maybe I'm just making it worse. I scream for help again, for someone to dial 911.

But it's so quiet, all I can hear is the water lapping against the sides of the pool and in the distance the Gormans' sprinkler is going around and around. Water everywhere. I guess I should be scared, but in moments like this you don't really think, there's no time for that. You just do what you have to do, so I try CPR. They gave us a class in gym once, but I'd never done it on a real person, only on some plastic dummy.

I hold her nose while I place my mouth to hers, pumping my breath into her lungs, when finally Mom comes to the second-story window. She must have seen me hunched over Annika, my lips locked with hers. She screams down at me, "Monroe, what the hell are you doing to your sister?" It's such a weird thing to say, like what does she think I'm doing? Making out with her?

I blow another breath into her lungs and I yell, "Call 911!" Again, I check Annika's pulse, but there isn't one there. I look up at the window, but Mom's gone.

This is the part where you jump-start their heart. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. You can really screw someone up. You'd think a sternum would be pretty sturdy, but they're not. Maybe nothing really is. Maybe everything is just hanging by a thread.

Even if the ambulance is on its way, there isn't much time left, so I start pushing down on her chest, afraid I might be hurting her, afraid I'm making it worse. But I don't know what else to do. After about a dozen times, she starts to breathe, her chest rising and falling all on its own.

The doctors say I got there just in time. A minute later and she probably wouldn't have made it.

There are times I wonder if she would have been better off if I hadn't been going to the pool house to get high that day. I know that's a terrible thing to say, not that I would ever say it out loud. I just know if it were me, I probably would have just let go.


AS I WATCH them load my sister into the ambulance, water drips from my tuxedo, forming a puddle at my waterlogged shoes. Mom is losing her mind, but they let her ride in the back anyway. After all, who can blame her? That's what she's supposed to do. But what I'm supposed to do now, I'm not quite sure. I'm given a hint, though, before the technician closes the doors. "We're headed to Riverbend," he says. That's the hospital where I was born. As they pull out of the driveway, their siren screaming, a bunch of kids pull up on their bikes to see what all the fuss is about.

Josh Gorman from next door asks me what happened. He's always coming over to play with Annika. They're friends. He wants to know if she's going to be okay. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. I should say, "I hope so," but I just stand there, staring at the ambulance as it pulls away. He may have asked me again, I'm not sure. He rejoins his friends and the boys pedal fast, trying to keep up with the ambulance, their bikes' safety flags flapping in the wind. Even though it's humid and sticky outside, a chill comes over me. The street is suddenly empty. It happens so fast I wonder for a second if it happened at all. But that's just wishful thinking; the wail of the siren fading away tells a different story.

I don't know how long I stand there, just staring down the street. When Stevie Robbins drives by on his bike and throws the weekly Chelsea newspaper at my feet, I snap out of it. I look at the paper, but I don't pick it up. I leave it there and go around back. The pool is so still it could be empty. I take off my wet tuxedo and go inside, leaving the monkey suit in a pile by the door. It's the only evidence left that something out of the ordinary happened here.

I put on some dry clothes before I get into Mom's new car, a blistering red BMW convertible that Dad gave her for their anniversary last year. "A cherry on top of twenty-five years," he said. It's the first time I've ever driven by myself. Dad will understand. He'll make an exception.

Annika loves this car, especially when the top is down, which I hate. I always feel like such a dick in a BMW, a red one no less. But Annika will hear nothing of it. She says I'm a snob. Somehow, not wanting to drive a snobby car makes me a snob. Why? I don't really understand. But I don't say anything. There's really no use getting into it with my little sister. Very little joy comes from winning an argument with an eleven-year-old.

I think maybe we'll be able to stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home. She'll want a Blizzard with chopped-up Butterfinger, maybe some onion rings. I tell myself everything is going to be okay, but I don't believe it. I can't get that last image of her out of my mind. Even though she was breathing, her lips were blue when the medics arrived, so blue it looked like she'd just eaten a blueberry sno-cone. I might as well be drunk. The drive is a blur until I pull into the hospital parking lot, press the button, and get a ticket. Until then I don't even realize I'm listening to Neil Diamond singing "Forever in Blue Jeans." Mom loves Neil Diamond, but she doesn't play him in the house anymore. She probably got tired of listening to everyone complain, especially me. I've always hated "Forever in Blue Jeans" and now, here it has me crying. I can't bring myself to credit Neil's emotionally penetrating baritone. It's just I always thought forever seemed so far away, but now it feels like forever might just end today. Aguy pulls up next to me and looks me over like I'm some sort of freak, crying to the stupidest song in the world. I don't care. I just turn it up louder and let the tears fall.

When I get inside the hospital, the first thing I do is call Emily. I tell her about the accident and how it doesn't look like I'm going to be able to make it to the prom tonight. I tell her, "I'm really sorry. There's nothing I can do."

"Monroe, you're not funny. I'm ready to go. My dad's already taking pictures, it's torture. Just get the fuck over here."

"I'm serious." There might have been a few times when I made up stuff, so I guess I can't blame her for not believing me. "Do you hear me laughing?"

"God damnit, Monroe. Look, I know you don't want to go, but it's too late for that now."

"Emily, I'm at Riverbend Hospital." She still doesn't believe me, so I tell her to hold on for a second. I pull over a nurse and I ask her if she'll tell my friend where we are. She takes over the phone and confirms my location.

"See, I told you."

"If this is your way of breaking up with me and going out with someone else, it's pretty shitty, Monroe."

"Jesus, Emily, she's like fifty years old. She's a nurse." The nurse looks at me and scowls, but there's nothing I can do about that. "If you don't believe me, why don't you come over and see for yourself. . . . We don't even know if she's going to make it. She probably could use your help."

I feel bad saying that --- we don't know if . . . I haven't even gone into the emergency room yet, I don't know anything. I only want Emily to believe me. But now they're out there, these words --- and it feels like I've mentioned a no-hitter is in progress, jinxing the whole thing. "Oh my God" is all Emily can say. She's on her way.


MOM'S IN THE WAITING ROOM all by herself. Dad should be there too, but he's in Detroit taking depositions. He's always somewhere else. It doesn't really matter where. It's not like he ever brings back any presents, even stupid crap from the airport gift shop. Not that I need a snow globe or some retarded T-shirt. It would just be nice to know he's thinking of me. The truth is, I barely even know the guy. Dad's a big-shot lawyer. He's never lost a case. Not once. What's scary about him is that he's so persuasive it takes him only a few minutes to get you to agree with whatever it is he has to say. He'll have you believing kittens could be a healthy alternative to chicken if you give him half a chance. At least that's what people say, people who probably know him a lot better than I do.

Dad almost never talks about his cases with anyone in the family. Not even my mom. If you ask, he'll just change the subject to sports, or the weather, or if he's feeling particularly conversational he'll just answer with a short burst of condescension and you'll change the subject all on your own to sports or the weather. . . . Truth is, it makes me not want to talk to him at all, which is probably exactly what he's shooting for. It wouldn't bother me so much; it's just that he's never that way with my brother, Ben. He'll talk to Ben about anything. Emily says my dad is evil --- an allegation based largely on the fact that he represented a waste management company that leaked some plutonium into a nearby river. Her parents are always protesting anything nuclear, so that's where she got the idea that Dad's evil. I never held it against Emily's parents for turning her against my dad. After all, plutonium is pretty vicious stuff. I wouldn't want it anywhere near me either. They say if you dab some on the tip of a needle, there's enough to kill 250,000 people. Dad's client, Waste Disposal Inc., somehow managed to dump seven pounds on the banks of a river within a hundred yards of a subdivision. When the people who lived there found out what happened, they were understandably concerned. The plutonium quickly became the cause of everything that ever went wrong in their lives . . . and they were pissed. Mom and Dad had a party once and I overheard Dad say, "I don't know why they were so upset. Finally, they had something to blame for all their problems. How often in life do people get a chance to do that? It's kind of attractive, really, to think whatever's gone wrong in your life is not your fault." Like most Republicans, Dad talks a lot about personal responsibility; yet he spends his life making sure corporations never have to take responsibility for anything they ever do. It was no surprise when Dad proved those people weren't in any danger --- after all, the plutonium was stuck in mud. In the paper, he said it was as dangerous as a gun encased in concrete. And a jury believed him. They always do. At that same party, one of the guests, well out of Dad's earshot, said, "Jesus Christ is probably afraid to come back, because if he did, Larry would drop a civil action suit on his ass for breach of contract." Then another one of his friends added, "Yeah, Larry would keep JC bogged down in court for so long he'd beg to be put back up on the cross."

They all thought that was pretty funny.

Mom is a mess of tears in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers. Historically, emotional displays aren't our family's specialty, but for once in her life it seems Mom doesn't care what anyone thinks. I sit down next to her and put my arm around her, which I've never done before. She's still wearing her tennis clothes and I can't take my eyes off the white sock with the little green ball on the back of her ankle. I just keep staring at it, wondering why it's even there, what possible function it serves --- that little green ball just hanging there like some sort of fungus. You don't see those little fuzzy balls very much anymore. Some genius probably figured out that they impede peak aerodynamic performance. Or maybe they just realized how stupid they look.

She's crying uncontrollably now. My arm around her shoulder isn't working. I don't know what else to do, so I try to hold her hand. But that only makes it worse. It's not something we'd ordinarily do, holding hands, and now she's crying harder. She must think if it's come to this --- holding hands --- it must be really bad, worse than she ever could have imagined. I tell her everything will be all right. Annika will be okay. I don't know what else to say.

Thankfully, Aunt Sally shows up and I'm off the hook. Aunt Sally's not really an aunt; she was Mom's roommate in college. They've been best friends ever since, so she's more of a pseudo-aunt. We call her Aunt Sally for no other reason than that it would be weird to call her Mrs. Hamilton. She's also my godmother; if Mom and Dad die, she has to take care of us, although I'm eighteen now, so I'd probably just be on my own.

Aunt Sally takes over for me and holds Mom. She's telling her everything will be all right too, but she's a lot more convincing than I was. It probably helps that she didn't see Annika's blue lips. I go over to the other side of the room and look out the window at the fountain, its flumes reaching high into the air and exploding into a ball of white spray like an exclamation point screaming just how serious this all is. People in wheelchairs circle the water and orderlies hold their patients' hands. It's too much reality, so I ask if anyone minds if I turn on the TV. No one says anything. They probably don't even hear me. They have their own dramas to worry about. There's a Reds game on. Annika and I were planning to go see them play next month after I graduate, just the two of us. It was going to be our secret. The plan was to tell Mom we were spending the day at the country club playing tennis and swimming, but instead we'd drive down to Cincinnati. We'd never done anything like that before. Mom probably would have let us go, but for some reason it was more fun to lie. It was practically all Annika talked about for the last week, always in hushed tones, always looking over her shoulder. When she was done with the bathroom, I'd find go reds go written on the steamed mirror.


UNBELIEVABLY, MY BROTHER, BEN, shows his face. It's a Friday night about eight o'clock. By now he's usually wasted. All day Ben plays golf, but once the sun goes down he starts drinking. Ever since Ben was fourteen, people around here started calling him the next Jack Nicklaus. That's pretty high praise, not only because Nicklaus may just be the best golfer ever, but because he learned to play golf about two par-fives from our front door. He's a local legend and I guess now Ben is too. After one more year of college, he'll go pro. He's that good. Whenever people start their Jack Nicklaus talk, I always tell them Ben's really more like the next John Daly. It's pretty generous of me, I know. I don't come out and say Ben's a stupid, self-destructive drunk. They can figure that out on their own.

I guess it sounds like sour grapes and maybe it is. I never really understood the big deal about golf. People are always talking about it like they're mapping DNA or sending a man to Mars. But really they're just hitting a stationary ball into a stationary hole. It's not baseball, that's for sure.

When I see Ben come through the door, I start leafing through a

Sports Illustrated from a couple of months ago. It's an instinctive selfdefense mechanism I've honed over the years. Avoid Ben and no one gets hurt. Especially me.

As I scan predictions for the Reds' future, I keep an eye on Ben. It would be hard not to. He's still wearing the clown clothes he plays golf in. He's like flashing neon; you can't help but look at the striking combination of patch madras pants and a lime green shirt. It should surprise no one that Jimmy Buffett is his favorite musician. Ben looks at Mom crying like she's an animal at the zoo, an animal he's never seen before. It startles him enough that he deigns to come over and sit next to me.

"What the fuck is going on here?" He always talks like that. Fuck this. Fuck that. Everyone is a fucker. Fuck you.


So I tell him what happened, concluding with, "That's all we know. The doctors are still working on her."

"Wait a second, you did CPfuckingR on her? You sure you knew what the fuck you were doing?"

"Yeah, I knew what I was doing."

"Because if you don't, you can make it a fuck of a lot worse."

You can see why I really don't like Ben very much. Fortunately, that's when Emily comes running into the waiting room. She's still wearing her prom dress. I've never seen her look so beautiful. I've never even seen her in a dress. Her blonde hair is accented with a blue iris, her lips painted red. She hugs me hard, like someone who wants you to catch them from a fall.

"Is she going to be all right?"

"We haven't heard anything yet."

"I'm so sorry, Monroe. I'm so sorry I didn't believe you."

Emily's an only child, so maybe it's not surprising she's always treated Annika like a sister. Every time she came over, she'd give Annika stuff she had left over from when she was a kid. Like plastic horses. Emily had a ton. Once she gave all her horses away, she'd move on to something else, like dolls, or barrettes to put in her hair. Stuff girls like.

"I don't know what to say."

I tell her, "You don't have to say anything."

She sits down next to me and holds my hand. It never feels weird holding hands with Emily. It's practically all we ever do. We sit there waiting, like everyone else. No one is saying anything, mainly I suppose because there's nothing you can really say in a waiting room. Everyone just wants their people to be okay, so there's no sense talking about it. All you can do is hope for the best. I keep my eye on the baseball game, careful to pretend I don't really care. In the bottom of the fifth inning, Barry Larkin puts one out of the park, giving the Reds the lead. I'm inclined to rub it in Ben's face --- he hates the Reds --- but instead I pick up a Time magazine and act like I don't notice.

It's forever until a doctor finally comes into the waiting room. He addresses my mother. "Mrs. Anderson? Hello, I am Dr. Singh. I have been attending to your daughter."

"Is she okay?"

"For now, yes. She is a very lucky young lady. After two minutes underwater, one loses consciousness. After three to five minutes, we have to worry about brain damage. Do you have any idea how long she was under?"

Mom looks at me and I shrug, I don't know.


"The next twenty-four hours will be of paramount importance."

"The next twenty-four hours?" she asks.

"Mrs. Anderson, your daughter is in a coma."

A coma? My mother's eyes unleash a waterfall of tears. He could have at least come up with some clever euphemism, like saying she's currently unresponsive, but coma? It just sounds so stupid, like a bad soap opera. Since when do people in real life fall into comas?

He tries to reassure us. "A coma can be a very positive development.

It is often the body's way of preserving itself. In fact, sometimes we induce them ourselves. She's on a respirator right now. Her breathing was irregular. This too is quite normal. We will know much more tomorrow. There's not a lot more we can do right now."

Later, I learned they could have done a lot more right then, right there. Waiting until tomorrow was only going to make it worse. I'm sure if Dr. Singh had known more about traumatic head injuries, he would have done it all differently.

I was never very good at science. I didn't know then how the brain floats on a cushion of spinal fluid, but Dr. Singh should have. When the brain gets injured, sometimes it swells and the swelling restricts the flow of blood, and well, nothing good can come from that. It's a slow strangulation. A lot of doctors think the first thing you should do with someone in a coma is to monitor the pressure on the brain. If it's so high the blood flow is cut off, you release some of the spinal fluid to bring the pressure back down and keep the blood flowing. It sounds simple, but Dr. Singh didn't do that. I guess he didn't know any better, but like Dad always says, "Sometimes doing your best just isn't good enough."

Mom asks, "Can we see her?"

The doctor says, "Of course," like it's the first thing he's been sure of all day.

Chapter 3

ANNIKA'S ROOM SMELLS LIKE ROSES. Before this day, I always thought roses smelled disgusting, like the cheap rose perfume worn by my dead grandmother who always left behind a sickly sweet, polyester trail --- a smell so bad it only made sense when I found out she was trying to hide the stench of an embarrassing case of gangrene. This rose smell, though, is the real thing, soft and clean. But there are no roses to be seen. The room is so full of machines it would be hard to find a place to put them. For a second, it looks like Annika might just be sleeping, but to believe that, you'd have to ignore the tubes going up her nose, down her throat, and in her arm. And they're pretty hard to ignore.

Mom starts to cry again and falls down on her bare knees. It's amazing she has any tears left. She's still wearing her tennis whites --- I know it sounds stupid to be even thinking about that, but I am. I'm thinking how just a few hours ago she was running around the court hitting balls with her friends just having a good life, never imagining something so horrible could be right around the corner. Who would? But now, here she is saying, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb." And she keeps saying it over and over again. I've never heard her say a Hail Mary before. Not once. I wish I could say I never heard it again.

Mom's never been particularly religious, but she does go to church. It used to be you could lure me to Saint Victor's with the doughnuts they sold after Sunday school, but I got over that in the fifth grade when I asked Father Ferger why all the people in Africa were starving while we were jamming doughnuts in our faces and he said it was all part of God's bigger plan, that God doesn't give anyone anything more than they can handle, to which I replied, "How much starvation do you think you could handle?" He laughed and told me he could probably stand to go on a diet, like it was some big joke. After that, I told Mom I didn't want to go anymore. I told her I thought the whole thing was a scam. She said fine, I didn't have to go anymore if I didn't want to. She said it like she thought for sure I'd feel too guilty to take her up on it, but apparently I didn't inherent the Catholic guilt gene. Now, I'm willing to go to Midnight Mass on Christmas, but that's about it. It seems Dad and Ben feel pretty much the same way. Mom and Annika, though, frequently go on their own.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like the church doesn't have some decent ideas --- like some of the Ten Commandments. Don't steal. Don't kill. Don't commit adultery. Don't bear false witness. Don't covet your neighbor's stuff. Honor your mother and your father --- those are pretty respectable guidelines, I guess, but then again, they're pretty obvious. Even a retard can tell you not to kill, steal, or lie. Curiously, the rest of the commandments are about not painting pictures of God, or taking His name in vain, or being sure to take a day out of the week to pray to Him. And whatever you do, don't pray to any other gods --- in fact, that's the first one. The least He could have done is save that one for last: By the way, don't go praying to anyone else. It's bad enough, making everyone capitalize pronouns. It's a big pain in the Ass. If Christians are right about God, He sure has a big ego. I hate to say that, but four out of the Ten Commandments are about how you're supposed to get down on your knees and pray to Him, like He's some sort of genius for coming up with six rules any three morons could have figured out.

~~~

BEN AND I are standing by the bed. We're the only other ones there, besides the doctor and Mom. They said only the family could come into the ICU, so Emily and Aunt Sally have to stay outside. Looking at Mom, I think I should be crying too, but the tears aren't coming. I think I should be praying, but I don't know who to pray to. I think I should say something, but I don't know what to say.

Then Ben says, "She looks so peaceful," which sounds like something you'd say at an open casket funeral. I hate him so much for saying that. I hate him for saying anything at all. Ben doesn't know Annika. Not like I do. He should just shut the fuck up. But, I don't say that. Instead, I nod my head, as if he's right, as if I actually agree with him.

"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit." That's Mom. There's something so unseemly about praying to God only when you really need help. It's like the flip side of people who root for a sports team only when they're winning, and just as bad. I can't take it anymore and go back to the waiting room.

Emily's still there, her face wet from her tears. "How'd she look?" Emily asks. I lie and say Annika looks good. I say I think she's going to be okay. Emily's face softens; it's what she wants to hear. She hugs me and I start to feel better too. If you think of lies as wishes you want to come true, they're really not so bad, but the Ten Commandments don't say anything about that.

A woman comes up to us. Her shoulders are hunched over like she's been caught in the rain all of her life. She says, "Hi, I'm Lynne Erickson from The Dispatch. I understand you're quite a hero."

"Not really."

"Do you think I could talk to you for a few minutes about what happened?"

"I saw my sister floating in the pool and I pulled her out. It's pretty much that simple."

"And then you gave her CPR. She'd be dead if it weren't for you."

"I happened to be the one who was there."

"Ahhh," she says. "The reluctant hero. Our readers will love that."

I'm thinking, "What the hell kind of thing is that to say?" Even though the words don't come out of my mouth, the question must have been etched on my face. Shell-shocked, I don't say a word. I just shake my head, like I don't understand her.

Emily chimes in. "An eleven-year-old girl hanging by a thread --- I can see how that would sell a lot of papers. Seriously, I can. People are just that lame. The only thing lamer is giving the people what they think they want. Why don't you just leave him alone? Can't you see this isn't really the best time?"

"Unfortunately, I specialize in not the best of times." The reporter says it like she's said it a thousand times before.

Emily takes me by the hand, "Let's go get something to eat in the cafeteria." For a second I think I don't need her help, I can defend myself, but that's not true. The only time I ever defend myself is in my imagination and by then it's usually way too late.

When we get to the elevator and as Emily pushes the button, the door opens and, like some magic trick, out comes my dad.

"Hi, Mr. Anderson."

Dad doesn't acknowledge Emily, but not in a rude way. He's just doing what anyone would do.

"Where is she?" He's so focused on the task at hand you can almost see the bulldog marine tattoo popping through his shirt sleeve. Dad was in the marines during Vietnam; it's no big deal. At least, that's what he says if you ask him.

I point down the corridor. "Room 712."

And off he runs, his wing tips sliding down the hall. I want to go after him, to be there for him, but I wouldn't know where to begin.

BY THE TIME Emily and I get to the basement cafeteria it must be around nine o'clock. If all had gone as planned, we'd be finishing up dinner at the Riverfront Gardens, this new restaurant downtown. It was supposed to be really romantic. I had already paid the band to play the Beatles' "Something" right after they served dessert. That's Emily's favorite band, the Beatles. Deep down she's quite a traditional girl.

People litter the cafeteria, just waiting for the day to end. It's a tough battle --- the flickering fluorescent lights fighting back time. It's a bunker mentality down here; everyone's bracing for the worst. I feel like an insect trapped in amber, something we'd study in Mr. Yatkov's science class back in eighth grade. In a way I guess they're lucky --- those bugs trapped in amber. They've acquired a degree of immortality no man has ever achieved. Most old people hope their kids remember to call once a week, but to be remembered a million years after you were feeding off dinosaur dung? That's a pretty big accomplishment. It should be enough to give hope to us all.

Here in the cafeteria, we're specimens under the light --- not much different than the not-so-rare roast beef drying out under the heat lamp. To take the edge off, to help everyone relax, they pipe in Muzak. But the thing about Muzak is this: once you notice it's there, it's not so relaxing at all.

Despite the enticing kaleidoscope of Jell-O and whipped cream dessert concoctions, we settle for a pair of Cokes and pay the cashier. "It's a little early for the prom casualties, isn't it?" says the puffy cashier.

Before I can say, "Well, actually . . ." Emily says, "I guess not. My best friend is in critical condition. They say they may never be able to get all the glass out of her face."

"I'm so sorry," says the cashier in full retreat.

"Save it."

If there was a moment I could point to and say I was in love, that would be it.

We head to a corner and sit down, people staring at us --- well, actually just at Emily --- all the way to our table. Emily looks so good, who could blame them? She's in white, her back bare. Her hair, straight and full, shines across her shoulders. I always thought she was pretty, but not like this. Not like some picture out of a magazine. "Thanks a lot for coming. I know how you really wanted to go to the prom."

"Without you? What would be the point?"

"Well, for starters, you would have been the most beautiful girl there."

"Tell it to Kelly Kirkwood." Like most girls, Emily can't take a compliment. Around here, if you don't show outward signs of hating yourself by fifth grade, everyone calls you conceited. "I'd be happy to tell Kelly she's not half as hot as she thinks she is."

"Yeah, right. You're just looking for an excuse to talk to her." The Muzak fills in the empty space. That's what it's for: killing uncomfortable silences in elevators and waiting rooms. Without Muzak, people might actually talk to each other.

"Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" trickles through the invisible speakers, prompting Emily to ask, "Isn't that the song from Butch Cassidy?"

"Annika loves that movie." My dad had taken us all to see it last fall when the revival house did a Newman--Redford retrospective. Dad always liked taking us to movies, probably because then he didn't have to talk to us. For two hours he could just relax and no one could bother him.

"You know what I was looking forward to more than anything?" Emily asks.

"Riding in a limo?"

"You got a limo? Monroe, I told you you didn't have to do that." "What did you think I was going to do? Pick you up on my bike?" "Dancing. That's what I was looking forward to the most. We've never danced before."

"I didn't know you liked to dance."

"What girl doesn't?"

"Okay, let's dance." I take her arm and lead her to an open space by the salad bar. Raindrops keep falling on my head . . .

We dance slow.

"Wow, Monroe, you're really good."

"Thanks," I say. I never told her I used to take lessons and I'm not going to tell her now. It would just spoil the illusion. I think Annika would approve, at least I hope so.

We dance like we've been doing it every Friday night of our lives, but usually on Friday nights we end up at a coffeehouse or a movie and if I'm lucky we have enough time to make out in her car before she has to get home. I shouldn't be surprised Emily's a really good dancer. She takes my lead, not that we're doing anything fancy, but I can feel her trust. It's easy, like a conversation you don't have to think about --- when you're really listening to what the other person is saying, not worrying about what you're going to say next.

As the tune slips effortlessly into the first sugared-down notes of "Everyone Plays the Fool," a few people applaud. Us. Until then, for those few minutes gliding across the floor, I'd forgotten where we were. Emily looks at me, her lips flush with red. When she was twelve she split her lip open trying to fly her banana bike over a creek. The scar is still there. I think it embarrasses her, but that only makes it sexier than it already is.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," I say way too seriously. "You'd probably collapse into a fetal ball, roll away, and never be heard from again."

THEY FINALLY KICK us all out of the hospital at eleven. Except Mom and Dad. They get to stay. Ben, remarkably, hasn't left. He's probably been casing the place, trying to figure out a way to get to the drugs. That'd make him quite the hero at the frat house, I'm sure. We head down the elevator with him. He hasn't said a word to Emily all night. "Nice dress."

"I would let you borrow it, but you'd just stretch it out." He's not used to people giving him shit, so he just scowls. It's not that he's gay; he just prefers stupid girls. If I'd said that to him, he'd kick my ass; but in an unprecedented move, he plays nice. He says there's a party down on campus. Emily and I can come if we want. I say, "I really don't feel much like partying."

"And I do?" he replies. "I just want to forget this day ever happened." It's the most compassionate thing I've ever heard him say. The plan is for Emily to drive me home; I gave Mom her keys back. We're both pretty cashed, but as we're pulling out of the parking lot, I say, "We could probably catch the tail end of the dance. You know, if you want."

"That's sweet of you, Monroe, but I don't really feel like being around anyone --- except you."

I don't want to go either. "I just thought I'd throw it out there." As the Grateful Dead start into the first few bars of "Fire on the Mountain," Emily pulls into the circular driveway in front of our house. I really can't stand the Dead, but in this moment they actually don't sound so bad.

"How come everything always sounds better on the radio?" I ask. "I don't know," Emily says, even though she does. "I guess sometimes if you're listening to a CD and you're all alone, the music just makes you feel more alone. Maybe you want to dance, but there's no one there to dance with or maybe you want to cry and there's no one there to lean on, but with the radio, even if you're listening all by yourself, there're still all these other people listening with you, and all of a sudden it's like you're not alone anymore. You're part of something bigger than just you, you know?"

"I'm glad I'm not alone now," I say.

When she kisses me, the day falls away. It's just the two of us. This was the way this evening was supposed to end. The band breaks into a jam I'd ordinarily say you'd need to be on acid to appreciate. But my head is clear, clear as it can be, and warm waves of cascading guitar and rolling drums are wrapping and bending around my neck like Emily's fingers do sometimes when she kisses me.


Chapter 4

THE SPRINKLERS KICK IN, waking me up, but I don't move. The car's foggy windows filter the sun in shades of honey. Emily is still sleeping, her face nuzzled on my chest, gently rising and falling with my every breath. There are moments like this, moments you want to hold on to forever, but they're always gone when you realize how great they are. Not this one, though. I know right now I want this one to last as long as it can; so I just stay here, barely breathing, looking at the light on Emily's face, the way each tiny hair on her cheek glows like wheat in the sun. I want to kiss her so badly, but that would just ruin everything.

I see him coming. The windows are encased in fog but I know it's him --- the torso in a gray suit. But I'm not going to move. I still have a few more seconds to let this last. Even though it's pretty much ruined for me, it's not yet for her.

He taps on the window hard with a crack, his wedding ring taking the brunt of the impact. Emily stirs, her head pushing into my neck, her fingers gripping my shoulder. Two more cracks and she's up: looking around, all mole-eyed and confused, getting her bearings. She looks at me, smiles, and rests her head back on my chest; but the tapping isn't going away. Her mom always says she's hard to get up. I guess I shouldn't have worried about my breathing. Dad keeps rapping over and over again on the driver's-side door. He's nothing if not persistent; that's what people always say. I can't take it anymore and say, "You better get that, Emily." And finally, like she's turning off an alarm clock, Emily rolls down the window.

"Hi, Mr. Anderson."

"Good morning. What are you two doing?" I swear, even though she's eaten dinner with us about a hundred times, Dad still doesn't know her name.

"Hi, Dad, I guess we must have fallen asleep. How's Annika? Anything change?"

"She's still unresponsive. This will be a big day for her. Monroe, we need to talk about what happened." Despite the bags under his eyes, the disheveled suit, the pasty skin, Dad is the consummate professional. He may not even realize it yet, but he's thinking about who he's going to sue.

"Okay."

Then he walks away.

There are so many things I want to say to Emily, but none of them are coming to me. I guess they could be encompassed in one big "I love you," but saying that will probably just screw everything up. Instead, I look at her like a doofus. That, she's used to.

With a kiss she's gone. Just that fast. And as I watch her round the corner it's hard to believe that only minutes ago I never felt so connected to anyone in my life.

  DAD'S IN THE KITCHEN trying to make coffee. He looks perplexed, as if brewing a cup of coffee is the most difficult thing he's ever done. "Monroe, it doesn't look good."

"First you put the filter in, then the coffee," I say, trying to lighten the mood. But it doesn't.

"Monroe, I'm talking about your sister."

"What do the doctors say?"

"She could snap out of it any time, but they don't really know anything, any more than we do."

"How's Mom doing?" I ask.

"Father Ferger stayed with us most of the night. He seems to help your mother."

Then, just like a lawyer, he says, "Monroe, I need to know exactly what happened yesterday. Start from the beginning." It's like all of a sudden I'm on the stand. My palms are sweating. My heart is racing. This is the way Dad likes it.

"I was going out to the pool house to uh . . . look for my wallet, you know before the prom . . . and Annika was just floating. I thought she was joking, so I threw a tennis ball at her. She didn't move, so I dove in. . . . It all happened really fast."

"Damnit. I knew we shouldn't have gotten that pool."

I don't know what to say. I've always been a big fan of the pool. "The doctor said you saved her life."

"I just happened to be there. Even Ben probably would have done the same thing." I probably shouldn't have said that. Ben is Dad's favorite, but he lets it go.

"You know your mother and I love you very much."

"Yeah, I know." Actually, I had never given the matter much thought: the depth of their emotions for me. He'd never actually uttered those words before --- I love you. Neither had Mom. Not once out loud. It's not like they have to. It's not like I walk around feeling unloved. Every year I get a birthday card from them that says just that: Love, Mom and Dad. Each of them signs it. Just because someone at Hallmark wrote whatever else came before it, it doesn't necessarily mean the sentiment's not true. It's enough for me. Still, hearing the words for the first time --- that's when I know this is serious. Dad follows up his proclamation of love with a hug, continuing an avalanche of firsts. He's holding on tight, so I pat his back. I don't know why. It just seems like the thing to do. Like you see on TV. It's supposed to be reassuring, I guess. Whatever it does, it's working. You'd think Dad would be stiff after so many years with a stick up his ass, but right now, he's melting.

He pulls away from me, like he's forgotten where he is. "God damnit, I don't think I've ever made a pot of coffee in my life." I think he's about to cry. He turns his back on me and starts picking at a pack of filters, but he's having trouble peeling one off.

  I'VE SEEN MY FATHER get emotional only once before, but he didn't know I was there.

It was like this: Ben started drinking along the stretch of campus bars that runs up and down High Street the day he turned sixteen. You'd have hated him at first sight --- preppy, tanned, square-jawed. It happened at a red light. Ben was driving the Audi convertible Dad got for him when he won the Junior Nationals. No one likes a kid in a car like that. Sure, in Chelsea it's expected, but beyond these borders it's a different story. So when some rednecks in a pickup started calling Ben and his buddy faggots, it was only natural. As rednecks, that's kind of their job, to keep a lookout for preppy rich kids and give them shit. And despite his proclivity for torturing me, Ben wasn't one to get in a fight with someone his own size.

He probably thought he was safe on such a busy street, even if the top was down. Besides, he wasn't alone; one of his meathead friends was with him. I don't know what Ben said. He probably called them trailer trash. He probably said they could be bought and sold with his spare change. That would be just like him. Ben's considered quite witty among his frat boy friends.

Whatever he said, it was enough to prompt one of the rednecks to jump out of the truck at a stoplight and pull Ben from the driver's seat --- not all the way --- just far enough so he could open and slam the door on Ben's head. Over and over again. By the time the light turned green, Ben was all red, a bloody husk, slumped on the pavement. If the call from the hospital hadn't woken me up, I might have missed the whole thing. After Dad sped out of the driveway, I went downstairs to see what was going on, but Mom told me not to worry and go back to bed. Everything was okay. But I couldn't sleep. So when Dad's car pulled in the driveway, I was watching through the bars of the banister.

I saw it all. Ben wore a white button-down shirt when he went out that night. When he came through the door at three in the morning, the shirt was red with blood, and his face a puffy mass of black and blue. His left eye swollen shut. It was days before they were able to find the contact lens lodged somewhere in the bruised mess of flesh. He looked awful, his head striped in bandages, but he was so drunk when he came through the door, he couldn't stop laughing.

When Mom saw him she couldn't stop crying. Annika slept through the whole thing. I guess she always has been a heavy sleeper. I'd never seen Dad cry before that night. Not at a funeral, a wedding, or a movie. Never. I certainly didn't see it coming. After Ben passed out, I watched through a crack in the door while he sat in the master bedroom with my mom, listing all the ways he figured he had failed as a parent. It was like he was putting himself on trial. Exhibit A: "I'm never around." Exhibit B: "I can't even remember my children's birthdays." Exhibit C: "I never should have let him take sips of my Heineken." Exhibit D: "I should have gone to more golf tournaments." Exhibit E: "I should have eaten at home more, you know, like a family." Exhibit F: "I spend so much time planning for the future, I never enjoy the present."

I was surprised to see him take responsibility for anything; he had spent his entire life assigning blame to everyone else. That's his job. That's what lawyers do. Now here he was blaming himself because his son is a drunken asshole. He could list exhibits until he got to triple z, but it wouldn't matter. They're just excuses. Ben's a drunk because he likes to drink. It's that simple; it makes him feel good. Even though he's this gifted golfer, he's like most everyone else --- he doesn't really like who he is very much. In his case, it's for a good reason and when he's lit, he manages to forget that troubling fact for a little while. That's probably why most people drink --- to forget what assholes they are. I've done it myself. And the drunker I got, the bigger asshole I became.

Maybe it's just in us. We have no choice in the matter. We're programmed that way. It's genetic. After all, my dad's father was a boozer. Like anything else that's interesting around here, no one told me about it. I had to find it out myself. I knew both my grandparents died in a car crash, but that was about it. That was long before they ever got a chance to be grandparents. They only gained that distinction in death. No one ever mentioned it happened because my grandfather was wasted. I would have thought it was an accident, like everyone else, but in sixth grade I had to do a report on them for school. Since I didn't know them and Dad was nowhere to be found, I looked them up at the library. Even though that was a long time ago, when even less probably happened around here than it does now, I figured I'd find an obituary. Just a few facts. I didn't expect it to be front-page news. I didn't expect to see a picture of my grandfather's arm hanging out of the car, a broken bottle of whiskey on the ground.

So Dad was blaming himself for Ben. It was refreshing to see him be so human for once in my life. While it didn't stop me from being afraid of him, it helped.

For a lawyer, Dad never had much of a sense for justice. He'd probably say justice just gets in the way of practicing law. It's an occupational hazard. It would have been nice, though, if he could have treated all us kids the same. My driving privileges get revoked after one little accident, while Ben drives drunk and not only gets to keep his car, but gets to continue driving it wherever and whenever he wants. His punishment? Aweekend in rehab. It was supposed to last a week but they kicked him out because he wouldn't admit that he had a problem. You have to say you're powerless to alcohol and he wouldn't do it. No one seemed to have a problem with that. After all, if Ben wanted to deny he was a drunk, everyone else could too. So Ben kept his car while I've spent my high school career riding around on my bike. I wasn't even allowed to get a moped. It wasn't worth bringing up this inconsistency with Dad; he would have just said I was whining. After all, Ben, the gifted golfer, had places to go. I didn't.

Back in the kitchen, Dad wonders, "How can a grown man not know how to make a cup of coffee?"

"I don't know, Dad. I guess you've led a charmed life."

"Again with the sarcasm."

"Sorry, Dad."

Dad says sarcasm is a mark of the passive-aggressive and weak.

And maybe it is. But when you're eighteen there aren't many other weapons in your arsenal. The real trouble with my sarcasm is that half the time people think I'm being sarcastic, I'm actually being quite sincere.

I go up to my room and lie down just for a minute, resting my eyes, gathering the strength to take off my clothes.

  WHEN MOM WAKES me up, it's two in the afternoon. She says I should go over to the hospital. "Annika would like it if you did."

"She's awake?" I ask.

"No, not yet. But she knows we're there. I can feel it."

Even though it sounds like wishful thinking to me, I don't say anything. I put the pillow over my head and hope she'll go away. I hope maybe I'll fall back asleep and when I awake yesterday will be erased and everything will be like it was before.

Mom always wanted to be a ballet dancer. It's not the most original dream for a girl, I know, but it was hers. However, there's a difference between Mom and the millions of other girls dreaming that dream. Mom actually made a pretty good run at making it come true. At fifteen years old she was accepted to the summer program at the School of American Ballet in New York, a small-town girl from a farm outside Toledo.

It was a rainy Sunday when my mom got off the bus in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She had only been in New York for about two days and she was alone. She wanted to see Degas' dancers. I guess it's something you have to do if you're a ballerina, make a pilgrimage to the Met and pay homage to the dancers. But she never made it into the museum. As she got off the back of the bus, the belt buckle from her jacket got stuck in the door. She was tangled up but managed to run along with the bus, that is, until she tripped on a sewer grate. That must have been when the bus ran over her ankle. To make matters worse, she was dragged about a hundred feet down the street before the driver finally realized what was going on. By then it was too late.

Mom didn't dance again until the night she married my dad. Mom always says she's lucky. After all, she could have died like Isadora Duncan. Isadora was a dancer too, but not ballet, more like modern dance, which always seems to me like playing baseball without any rules. I don't really know much about art, but it's hard to respect something when you can't tell if someone's making a mistake. That's what I told Mom, but she said that beauty is beauty, whether you're coloring inside the lines or not.

Isadora was driving a convertible along the French Riviera in 1927, her scarf flowing in the wind behind her. She must have been beautiful, a postcard in motion. But somehow that scarf got caught in her back wheel. I guess it was a pretty long scarf. It couldn't have taken many rotations of the tire to snap her neck. One second she's driving along enjoying the view, the next second she's dead. She probably never knew what happened. I guess that's the most you can hope for when anyone dies.

Mom says Isadora's life wasn't easy, that it's a wonder she could bring herself to dance at all. Isadora grew up in poverty and suffered more than her share of tragedies. In fact, she had two children who drowned when their car rolled into the Seine River as their nanny watched, helpless. Now, it looks like Mom has something else in common with Isadora . . . well, almost.

While Isadora was pretty much a bohemian and Mom, well, isn't, you never know, they might have gotten along. If they met at a cocktail party, they could talk about how much they don't like cats. Isadora could tell the story about how she used to live next to a cat sanctuary. The cats didn't pay much attention to her fence and started hanging out in her garden. Isadora didn't like that much, so in retaliation she ordered her servants to kill any and all trespassing cats. And as a warning to their cat friends, their cat corpses were to be hung around the perimeter.

It worked; the surviving cats got the message. This solution may seem cruel, perhaps even barbaric. But it sounds like a fair warning to me. It sounds like the work of someone who doesn't really want to kill any more cats, but will only if they have to. Cats have a way of pushing the envelope. This way, at least, they knew the score. Mom has a story of her own. She could tell Isadora about how when I was a kid I used to spend a lot of time in the sandbox. That is, until the neighborhood cats started using it as a litter box. Soon after that startling discovery, I got sick. Mom did the math, although science would have probably been more appropriate, and concluded the cats got me sick. She was thoroughly appalled and banned me from playing there anymore (as if I needed to be told).

I thought that was that, but soon thereafter, posters for lost cats began popping up on lampposts throughout the four-block radius around our house. Rumors abounded: satanic teenagers were sacrificing them, mysterious black panthers were eating them, the local Chinese restaurant was serving them. . . . Articles were written in the paper. Emergency teas were held. Something needed to be done. I had no idea there were so many cat lovers among us. There hadn't been this level of community activism around here since they banned gasolinepowered leaf blowers.

There's an abandoned quarry across the river. There's a hole in the fence --- you can get through if you want. It's not like anyone's going to stop you, although everyone knows you're in big trouble if you get caught there, let alone swim in the water. Hidden in the bushes, I used to watch my brother and his friends drink beers on the edge of the cliff, until they got enough courage to dive in. They never even knew I was there.

Until, one day they spotted me. I didn't hang around to find out what would happen next. I knew. As I beat it through the brush, rocks rained down all around me.

The weird part was when I saw Mom's Volvo parked by the side of the river. I slipped behind a tree and watched her. I thought maybe she was there like me --- to spy --- that she was there to bust Ben. But that wasn't it at all. When she got out of the car, she looked around, as if to check to see if the coast was clear. Convinced she was alone, she opened the back door of the wagon. In there, she had two cages, one cat in each one. When she opened the latches, they bolted into the brush. Satisfied, Mom got back in her car and drove away. Mission complete.

That day, I knew my mother loved me. I knew that she really cared. "I love you" weren't just words on a birthday card; she was actually willing to back them up.

I never let on that I saw her. It would be our secret. She just doesn't know we share it. She could tell that story to Isadora; but I guess if it ever came to that, secrets wouldn't matter much anyway.

Excerpted from MAYBE A MIRACLE © Copyright 2005 by Brian Strause. Reprinted with permission by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved

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