On that night, the night before the funeral, Wunder still believed in miracles as he tried for the hundredth time to start the schoolwork he had missed over the last two weeks. His earth sciences book was open in front of him. It had been open for two hours, and in those hours, he had read the title of the chapter—“Trees of the World”—and he had stared at the pictures.
Live oak. Sacred fig. Yew. Ash.
Wunder stared at the pictures until branches and leaves and trunks blurred together, until greens and browns faded into a dark gray spot.
Then he closed the book.
He still believed in miracles as he said good night to his father, who was sitting on the living room couch, a blanket and pillow beside him. His father had spent the evening staring at papers of his own—not “Trees of the World” but hospital bills and bank statements and a list of expenses for the funeral that Wunder’s mother did not want to have. When Wunder said good night, his father reached out his hand, but he didn’t look up from the paper-strewn coffee table.
Wunder placed his hand in his father’s for a moment.
Then he let go and left the living room.
He still believed in miracles as he walked down the hallway, past his parents’ bedroom. The lights were off, the room was silent, and Wunder knew the door was still locked. His mother was inside. She had spent most of her time in her room since there was no longer any reason to spend most of her time in a hospital room.
Wunder paused. He pressed his hand to the door frame.
Then he went to his door, and he opened it.
And it was then, at that exact moment, that he stopped believing in miracles.
For the last five nights, Wunder had slept out on the couch. He had gone into his room only when necessary—to grab a new shirt, to put away his pillow.
But he couldn’t sleep on the couch tonight, because his father was sleeping out there. His father was sleeping out there because when he told Wunder’s mother that he had arranged the funeral she did not want, she had locked the door to their bedroom.
Wunder had been sleeping out there because of what was in the far corner of his room.
And looking at it now, his heart absolutely did not feel like a bird. His heart felt like a broken promise. His heart felt like a stone, hard and cold and heavy.
Then he looked around the rest of his room. It was, he realized, a miracologist’s room. But now, he wasn’t a miracologist anymore.
He knew what he had to do.
He went to the walls first. Down came the framed picture of himself as a baby, the words Where there is great love there are always miracles inscribed along the bottom. Down came a drawing of the Twin Miracle of the Buddha that he’d traced from a library book. Down came the Calendar of the Saints, still showing September 26, as if time had stopped on that day.
Then he cleared off his desk, which was covered in the newspapers he scoured daily for stories of miracles. He tossed an old clipping from the Branch Hill Broadcast about his miracology. There was a copy of the speech he’d written for the first meeting of the Unexplainable and Inexplicable Phenomenon Society there too. He’d started the club at the beginning of the school year, and so far that first meeting was the only one he’d had.
Now he was sure he would never have another one.
From the bookshelf, he took down the eleven angel statues his father had given him, one for each year of his life. Then he started on the books—poetry, philosophy, scriptures from many faiths—all filled with miracles, all given to him over the years by teachers and family and neighbors.
He tossed them to the floor, one by one.
Then there was only one thing left. On his nightstand, worn black leather with a peeling white title—The Miraculous.
He picked up the book. He ran his fingers along the silver edges, along the letters stamped on its front, then opened it to the first page. The writing there was his mother’s, because he hadn’t known how to write yet:
Miraculous Entry #1
My name is Wunder Ellis, and I am a miracologist. My mother says my birth was a miracle, but I don’t remember that. The first miracle that I remember happened yesterday. I was in the woods, and there was a bird—
Wunder slammed the book shut. He didn’t want to read about miracles. He didn’t want to read his first entry, and he definitely didn’t want to read his last entry—the entry he’d completed five days ago, before he knew there would be a funeral.
He didn’t want to read The Miraculous. So he threw it into the pile of discarded things.
He threw it as hard as he could.
Then he rolled everything up inside the rug and shoved it into his closet, behind his shoes, behind his laundry hamper, in the very back where he wouldn’t have to see it.
Now his room felt like the stone of his heart. Cold. Bare. Dark.
Except for the far side of the room.
The far side of the room, where the bright, soft promise of something new stood.
The crib.
The crib was still there.
“She’ll be in our room at first,” his mother had said just two months ago. Her face had been pink and glowing. “But once she outgrows her bassinet—once she’s sleeping through the night—what do you think about her being in your room?”
Wunder had been expecting this question, and he was ready with his answer.
“Yes,” he had told his mother. “Yes, I’d like that.”
And the heart-bird had soared through him.
But she never slept there, in the white crib with the flower-patterned sheet that his mother had washed over and over to take the scratchiness out of it.
She never slept in the bassinet either, the bassinet next to his parents’ bed, ready and waiting for someone small.
She never made it home.
And if that wasn’t proof that miracles didn’t exist, Wunder didn’t know what was.