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Book: The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel by Stephanie Knipper
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Authors: Stephanie Knipper
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but Antoinette didn’t stop.
“It hurts,” MaryBeth said.
At the same time, Seth grabbed Antoinette under her arms and pulled her away. The connection broke, and the song faded.
The rain fell harder, but no one moved. Antoinette slumped against Seth, fighting to keep her eyes open. MaryBeth twisted her neck from side to side.
Are you happy? Antoinette thought. She tried to focus on MaryBeth’s face, but it looked fractured, as if her eyes had traded places with her mouth. Antoinette had to look away.
“What happened?” Eli asked.
“I don’t know,” MaryBeth whispered. Her voice was different, stronger.
Fireworks exploded behind Antoinette’s eyes, and her arms started to shake. Not yet , she thought, but she couldn’t stop. Her eyes rolled up, and color filled her brain.
“She’s having a seizure,” her mother said. “We need to get her to the van.”
Seth turned, but Eli grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“What just happened?” Eli said. “Look at MaryBeth. She’s not shaking. Antoinette did something!”
The colors came faster now, brilliant blues and reds like lightning that colored the sky at night.
Just before darkness overtook Antoinette, she heard her mother’s voice, soft with compassion: “Eli, you’re looking in the wrong place if you’re looking for a miracle. She’s just a little girl.”
ROSE’S JOURNAL
May 2003
I AM A mother.
A mom.
Mommy.
I chant the word as I ease Antoinette from her car seat. If I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe I won’t shake when I hold her.
It’s early. The sun is just now climbing over the hills, and the chill of the night still hangs in the air. Antoinette is six weeks old and barely weighs five pounds, yet I’ve never held anything heavier in my life.
Until now, she has spent every minute of her life in the NICU. Mom and Dad offered to accompany me to the hospital to bring her home, but in the past month and a half I’ve grown small with fear. How can I be a mother if I’m afraid to be alone with my daughter? I went to the hospital alone to prove to myself that I could.
A shock of blonde hair pokes from beneath Antoinette’s purple plaid cap. Her eyes are closed, and she snuggles into my arms as if there’s no place she’d rather be.
But my heart could stop beating any minute. How can she trust me when I don’t trust myself?
My knees are jelly as I carry her up the back porch steps. I move carefully, monitoring my heartbeat. I go to brush my hair away from my shoulders, forgetting I cut it off four weeks ago. I am not the same person I was before I went into the hospital. I needed my appearance to reflect that. Several heartbeats pass before I can open the door.
A bundle of cinquefoil sits in the center of the kitchen table. The shrubby plant spills out of the old glass someone used as a vase. The flowers are paler than they should be, more butter yellow than lemon. I’m not sure whether something’s wrong with the plant or with me.
Before I became ill, colors were vibrant. I saw pink and blue and yellow housed in a white rose petal. After all, white is a compilation of every color.
Things are faded now. I only see white. Or butter yellow in this case.
“They mean ‘beloved daughter,’ ” Lily says.
I startle. I was so intent on carrying Antoinette without dropping her that I didn’t see Lily beside the table.
My heart shudders. I take several deep breaths, calming only when Antoinette wraps her hand around my little finger. “What are you doing here?” I ask Lily.
“Can I hold her?” When Lily takes Antoinette, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted from me instead of a tiny baby.
She removes Antoinette’s cap and tosses it on top of her bag, then presses her nose against Antoinette’s scalp.
“Why aren’t you at school?” I ask. There is a week left in the semester. Lily missed several classes while I was in the hospital, so I know she has to be behind.
“Couldn’t miss my niece’s
“It hurts,” MaryBeth said.
At the same time, Seth grabbed Antoinette under her arms and pulled her away. The connection broke, and the song faded.
The rain fell harder, but no one moved. Antoinette slumped against Seth, fighting to keep her eyes open. MaryBeth twisted her neck from side to side.
Are you happy? Antoinette thought. She tried to focus on MaryBeth’s face, but it looked fractured, as if her eyes had traded places with her mouth. Antoinette had to look away.
“What happened?” Eli asked.
“I don’t know,” MaryBeth whispered. Her voice was different, stronger.
Fireworks exploded behind Antoinette’s eyes, and her arms started to shake. Not yet , she thought, but she couldn’t stop. Her eyes rolled up, and color filled her brain.
“She’s having a seizure,” her mother said. “We need to get her to the van.”
Seth turned, but Eli grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“What just happened?” Eli said. “Look at MaryBeth. She’s not shaking. Antoinette did something!”
The colors came faster now, brilliant blues and reds like lightning that colored the sky at night.
Just before darkness overtook Antoinette, she heard her mother’s voice, soft with compassion: “Eli, you’re looking in the wrong place if you’re looking for a miracle. She’s just a little girl.”
ROSE’S JOURNAL
May 2003
I AM A mother.
A mom.
Mommy.
I chant the word as I ease Antoinette from her car seat. If I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe I won’t shake when I hold her.
It’s early. The sun is just now climbing over the hills, and the chill of the night still hangs in the air. Antoinette is six weeks old and barely weighs five pounds, yet I’ve never held anything heavier in my life.
Until now, she has spent every minute of her life in the NICU. Mom and Dad offered to accompany me to the hospital to bring her home, but in the past month and a half I’ve grown small with fear. How can I be a mother if I’m afraid to be alone with my daughter? I went to the hospital alone to prove to myself that I could.
A shock of blonde hair pokes from beneath Antoinette’s purple plaid cap. Her eyes are closed, and she snuggles into my arms as if there’s no place she’d rather be.
But my heart could stop beating any minute. How can she trust me when I don’t trust myself?
My knees are jelly as I carry her up the back porch steps. I move carefully, monitoring my heartbeat. I go to brush my hair away from my shoulders, forgetting I cut it off four weeks ago. I am not the same person I was before I went into the hospital. I needed my appearance to reflect that. Several heartbeats pass before I can open the door.
A bundle of cinquefoil sits in the center of the kitchen table. The shrubby plant spills out of the old glass someone used as a vase. The flowers are paler than they should be, more butter yellow than lemon. I’m not sure whether something’s wrong with the plant or with me.
Before I became ill, colors were vibrant. I saw pink and blue and yellow housed in a white rose petal. After all, white is a compilation of every color.
Things are faded now. I only see white. Or butter yellow in this case.
“They mean ‘beloved daughter,’ ” Lily says.
I startle. I was so intent on carrying Antoinette without dropping her that I didn’t see Lily beside the table.
My heart shudders. I take several deep breaths, calming only when Antoinette wraps her hand around my little finger. “What are you doing here?” I ask Lily.
“Can I hold her?” When Lily takes Antoinette, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted from me instead of a tiny baby.
She removes Antoinette’s cap and tosses it on top of her bag, then presses her nose against Antoinette’s scalp.
“Why aren’t you at school?” I ask. There is a week left in the semester. Lily missed several classes while I was in the hospital, so I know she has to be behind.
“Couldn’t miss my niece’s
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