CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Waiting for a Miracle

Gabe’s house is quiet. Reverend Beaudean spends late hours working at the church or visiting with various congregants. Sometimes he uses the church van if Gabe’s got the Taurus. All of that means Gabe has lots of time to himself and we don’t have any competition for the TV tonight.

We sit side by side on his couch, flipping between news stations. CNN, predictably, airs their story first. A shot of the Clemency welcome sign, flanked by another picture of Baby Cheesus, fills the screen behind the news anchor. The two images fade to black for a moment and then there’s an image of Mel’s front yard with the words miracles in middle america hovering in giant red teletype above.

“Isn’t Kansas middle America?” I ask. “We’re south. Southwest if you want to get technical.”

“News stations like alliteration,” Gabe says. “Quiet down, they’re starting.”

“Tonight we bring you a special story right out of the Heartland of America. Many are questioning whether God’s hand is at work in a tiny Texas town as miracle after miracle appears.”

The bubbly news anchor smiles at the camera and runs through the story of Baby Cheesus being found and the image appearing on the McDonald’s drive-through window. A moment later the screen cuts to a live video feed from Mel’s front yard. Mel stands beside the well, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants and looking terrified by the cameras.

Beside Mel, a man with slicked-back hair and a dimple in his chin smiles confidently and half turns to face the camera. “Wyatt Owens here on location in Clemency, Texas. I’m speaking with Melanie Teasedale. Miss Teasedale, please tell me about this remarkable well and the impact it is already having on your life.”

Mel glances at the house behind her and then back at the reporter. “We feel so blessed to have been visited by God and given one of his miracles.”

Before she can continue, the front door of the house bangs open and Mrs. Teasedale charges out in her pink floral nightgown, white hair frizzed around her head like Einstein and a frying pan clutched in both hands. The old lady pauses for a moment, narrowing her eyes at the reporter and Mel before raising her pan and screaming, “Get off my lawn! Get! Get!”

Mel’s face turns red. She hurries to put herself between her mother and the reporter. “Mom! Go back in the house. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t you talk back to me!” Mrs. Teasedale screams. “Out here carrying on with boys, Melanie. Trampling my daisies! When your father gets home, he’ll take a strap to you.”

The old woman reaches Mel and the reporter and takes a shaky swing with her pan. Mel grabs her mother’s arm and wrestles the pan away, crying now. The reporter dances back, one hand pressed to his ear, holding his earpiece in place and sputtering.

Mrs. Teasedale’s eyes are narrowed with spite and flecks of spit cling to the corners of her mouth. “Get off my lawn! You get on out of here. Go on, get!” Gabe flips the TV off and we sit frozen. Our smiles and laughter sucked into the now blank screen.

“That was awful.” I dig my fingers into the edge of the couch cushion. “Poor Mel.”

Gabe nods, setting down the TV remote as though it’s a stick of dynamite. “They used to come to Holy Cross every Sunday, but they’ve missed a couple weeks. Dad’s been by twice but he didn’t say anything about Mrs. Teasedale losing her mind.”

I stare at the dark TV screen, unable to forget Mel’s tears and her mother’s screaming. “You should have seen Mel at the store today. She really thought God might have cured her mom. I guess she didn’t get the miracle she was expecting.”

“That’s not fair,” Gabe mutters. “Maybe he gave her the miracle she needed. We don’t know how things will turn out with that well.”

“I’m sure that’s a huge comfort right now,” I snap.

“Del,” Gabe begins, but I cut him off.

“No, you want to prove the miracles are real? Fine. Show me a shred of evidence. Tell me how that well has done anything to make Mel’s life better.”

“She only found it a few hours ago.” Gabe throws up his hands. “Not everything happens right away.”

“What about Baby Cheesus? It’s been weeks since Andy found it. That should be long enough for you. What good has that cheese wheel done? Or McJesus? A bunch of questionable healings, a crush of idiot people invading our town. There’s no evidence any of the miracles are real.”

“There’s no evidence they aren’t,” Gabe counters. “I thought that’s what we were doing. Or are you finally willing to admit you’ve got a personal agenda for all of this? You think if you prove the miracles aren’t real you can prove God isn’t real either?”

The words cut through me, sharp as shards of glass. Nausea rolls in a slow burn up my throat. “That isn’t the point,” I whisper. Even though it partially is. It’s all so complicated. Part of me doesn’t want to believe in God anymore. The larger part, though, needs God to be real if only so I can blame him for Claire’s death. Someone has to be responsible. It can’t be Claire and it can’t be me. Please, please, it can’t be me.

Gabe softens, reaching out to brush my cheek. I flinch away and he drops his arm.

I’ve never been able to hide from Gabe. That scares me. There are dark places inside I don’t ever want him to see, things I’ve done that I can’t ever share.

“Please, Del.” Gabe’s look is pleading. “I don’t know what to say to help you.” He makes a frustrated noise. “My dad would know what to do.”

“I doubt it.” My voice is thick and waterlogged. I get up from the couch and touch Gabe’s shoulder. “I’m gonna head home. You don’t have to help me with the miracles, I’ll figure out who’s doing this on my own.”

The words burn my lips as I say them. But Gabe’s a preacher’s kid and that’s never gonna change. He’ll always be on the side of miracles and I’ll always be hanging with the skeptics. I should’ve known asking him to help me investigate was a terrible idea.

Gabe scrambles up, softness dropping away in a heartbeat. “I said I’d help. Don’t shut me out of this too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m doing the noble thing, walking away. He should just let me.

“I’m tired of you shoving me to the edges of your life. You won’t talk to me, not about anything important. Every time I bring up Claire or your family, you shut down, give me some snarky answer and move on. Every time things get tough, you run away.” He meets my eyes and won’t look away. “So I’m not ready to picket the miracles. That doesn’t mean I’m not trying to help. I’m here. I’m the one who’s been writing down lists and helping you come up with theories.”

“You don’t actually want to do any of that though. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” My dramatic speech is ruined by the fact my voice is shaking but I hold my ground.

Gabe throws his hands up in the air and storms back to the couch. “You asked me to help.”

“It was a mistake.” Words are spilling from my mouth and they won’t be dragged back no matter how hard I try.

“Fine. Walk out. Go prove everyone is wrong and the mighty Del, martyr extraordinaire, is right.”

“What do you want from me?” I scream. The sound shocks us both and we freeze, eyes wide.

“You,” Gabe whispers. I’m holding my breath, poised at the edge of something. “You’re my best friend. Don’t walk out on me too.”

There is an entire world of meaning in those last words. Don’t walk out on him like I’ve walked out on my family, my sister’s memory, my classes, my sometimes-friends at school. Don’t walk out on Gabe like his mom, his always-busy-with-the-church dad. I crumple under the weight of those words.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is raw and low, blood dripping from the edges. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Let me help you,” Gabe pleads.

“Proving it’s all a hoax?” I want to laugh, throw the words in his face, make him hurt as much as I do, but he already does. I can see it in the way his lips press together, the way he stands as though waiting for a wrecking ball to smack into him.

“Prove something. Whichever way it goes. But together, okay. We do it together or not at all.”

He holds out his pinky toward me and a broken laugh slips past my lips. “Aren’t we a little old for pinky swears?”

“You’re never too old for pinky swears.” Gabe’s voice is solemn, but there’s something fragile about his expression. If I turn around and leave his hand hanging in the air, some vital part of our friendship will shatter and I won’t be able to fit the pieces together again.

I take one step forward, and then another, until we’re close enough that the tips of our shoes touch. I hook my pinky with his and squeeze tight.

“Together,” I say and Gabe squeezes back.