Read Online Some Kind of Miracle by Iris R. Dart - Free Book Online Page B

either of these rooms, and though the stairwell was right in front of Dahlia, she thought that going up might be a mistake, so she went back out to the porch. The white-haired woman was talking to herself earnestly with her brow furrowed. “And you know what I told him? I said, ‘Baby, I’m not gonna do that,’” Dahlia heard her say.
    One of the men looked like Santa Claus—he was round and large, with a white beard—but he certainly wasn’t jovial. His beard rested on his chest as he stared straight ahead. Dahlia cleared her throat loudly, thinking one of them might look up at her, but not one of them even blinked.
    “Uh, hi. I’m looking for Sunny Gordon.” No response. “I’m her cousin. I was wondering if she was around? Anybody know?”
    Finally Santa Claus looked up and turned slowly toward her. He was dead-eyed and sleepy-looking.
    “Field trip. Couple of ’em went to the mall to get cigarettes and that kinda thing,” he said, then went back to his reverie.
    “I’ll wait,” Dahlia said. “Thanks.” And she walked back down the steps.
    Seth was reading a newspaper in the van when she got in again.
    “Did they say she lives here?” he asked.
    “Not exactly. But one of the men seemed to know who I meant.”
    “Maybe we ought to go to the zoo for a couple of hours and come back later and try again—”
    “Look.”
    There was a faded brown Oldsmobile rattling up the street. Even before it turned into the driveway, Dahlia was sure it had to be the car returning from the mall. The car with Sunny in it. The car stopped, and she was surprised to hear her heart pounding too fast in her ears. She put her hand nervously on Seth’s arm as the doors to the car opened and they watched each of the passengers climb out.
    There were two women. One was a short, stocky woman who was jabbering to the one who was still in the car and waving an angry finger as she did. The other one had flaming wild and frizzy orange hair, wore too much makeup, had long blue fingernails, and was dressed in a bright red parachute jogging suit that clashed with her hair color. A burly black man with a big belly and a very bushy Afro was the driver, and he locked the car doors, then took the steps two at a time and went inside.
    Behind him the short woman rushed up the steps and into the house while the orange-haired one walked more slowly. She stopped to talk as she got to the top of the steps, and now Dahlia saw she was chatting with Santa Claus, who stood and pointed down to Dahlia’s van. The shocking orange hair shimmered halolike around her beaten and tired face, and she squinted hard as she peered at the van where Dahlialeaned out the window to look back at her. The color of the woman’s hair was a blindingly bright Day-Glo fluorescent that practically pulsed. Dahlia got out of the van, and when she did, the woman walked down a few of the steps to look more closely at her. Dahlia felt panicky, but she moved forward to return the woman’s gaze.
    “That her?” Dahlia heard Seth ask. His voice sounded very far away.
    A clammy feeling crept into the back of Dahlia’s neck as she began to make out the woman’s facial features clearly—the flat nose, the prominent ears, the almond eyes, the turned-down mouth of her father’s family. There was no mistake. Under the haggard face and baggy eyes and blazing hair was the result of twenty-five years of God only knew how many electroconvulsive shock therapies and probably every kind of mind-altering drug. Sunny. Nicknamed that instead of called her proper name, Sandra, because she was born to brighten all of their lives. That’s what Uncle Max always said.
    “That’s her,” Dahlia replied as a slide show of the times they’d spent together rushed through her mind. Sunny, Sunny, my God, it’s you, Dahlia thought, wanting to run to her and shake her and shriek. You have to remember me. You were the one who taught me to play the piano and write songs and love music. You were