The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

ran inside to answer the phone. She needed to get away before she did something she’d regret.
    “Hello?” she said, out of breath.
    Silence. Then, in a voice so soft it didn’t sound real, “Lily?”
    At first she thought she was imagining things.
    “Hello, Lily? Are you there?” Rose’s voice was the same, but beneath her soft Kentucky accent was an undercurrent of fatigue.
    The surprise of hearing her sister’s voice was so great, Lily’s knees wobbled. Her response came out like a question. “I’m here?”
    AFTER THE CONVERSATION ended, Lily remained seated on the cold tile floor, holding the phone, until a robotic operator voice said that if she would like to make a call, she should hang up and dial again.
    Will was still on the deck when she went outside, but he seemed far away somehow. She felt odd, like she stood in a bubble. Everything was distorted.
    “You okay?” he asked, surprising her with his concern. “What is it?” He closed the space between them and put his hands on her shoulders.
    She closed her eyes, wishing she could hide from what she had to say. “That was Rose, my sister?” Again, it came out like a question. “She has congestive heart failure. She developed peripartum cardiomyopathy when she was pregnant. Most women recover from it. She didn’t. I had assumed she’d be okay. She’s not.”
    Rose had already outlived the statistics Lily knew.
    Will brushed his hand across her cheek. “A transplant—”
    Lily shook her head. “She has pulmonary hypertension. She doesn’t qualify.”
    Blinking hard against the tears that stung her eyes, Lily said, “My sister is dying.” The words suddenly made it real, and she began to cry. Will reached out to hug her; this time, she didn’t pull away. She buried her face in his shoulder, her tears darkening his rough shirt. She could still hear Rose’s voice: “I need you to come home.”

ROSE’S JOURNAL
    March 2003

    FEAR HAS A taste.
    I’m sitting at our scarred kitchen table, tulip and daffodil bulbs lined up in front of me. I should be working on my senior portfolio. It’s spring break, and I graduate in seven weeks. Instead, I’m writing in my journal and gulping lemonade, trying to wash the taste of copper pennies from my mouth.
    My baby is due in late May.
    My. Baby. I picture myself sailing across the stage at graduation, my black gown billowing like a circus tent around my belly.
    Yesterday, when we arrived home, Lily dropped our bags by the kitchen door, then ran outside and clambered down the porch steps.
    “Not going to give your mom a hug?” our mom asked. She stood in the kitchen waiting for us. It was March, but already her skin was dark from working in the fields. Her nails were bright red. Years of pushing seeds into the ground and ripping out weeds left them permanently stained. She always wore nail polish.
    Lily glanced over her shoulder. The wind lifted her long brown hair. She looked like something that sprang from the ground. “In a minute. I’ve got to check something in the greenhouse first.”
    She returned holding a bouquet of herbs. One plant had airy, fernlike leaves, the other, small scalloped leaves. “Fennel and coriander,” she said as she presented them to me. “Strength and hidden worth.” She smiled as if I were someone worth looking up to, instead of a pregnant college girl abandoned by her baby’s father.
    Now I pick up a daffodil bulb and run my fingers over its smooth white flesh. The kitchen is the best place to work. In early morning, light fills the room. I can pretend I’m in an art studio on campus, my stomach still flat, my plans to travel to Italy after graduation intact. In those moments, I’m not returning home to work on the farm to support my daughter—I am an artist.
    Briefly, my stomach muscles contract, and I can’t breathe. “False contractions. They’re called Braxton Hicks,” my obstetrician had said at my last visit. He claimed they didn’t hurt. He was