Carnegie Library. Used by several independent colleges in the area, and as a public facility, it cradled the love of words with majestic stained glass and rich, gleaming wood. No chrome, or plastic, or beveled glass. It smelled of yesterday’s lessons and tomorrow’s promises.
The more time we spent here, the more I felt the humble and special appeal it held for Misty. There was peace here. Answers.
Between college kids with their gadgets and tomes of research, and the white-haired before-tech-ers who read printed newspapers and played games of chess, Misty glided silently back toward the historical biography section. Up a short, almost hidden, flight of stairs until she found a landing and the bank of computers she considered her own special place.
Dropping her backpack on the ground, she slid into a massive leather armchair that was surprisingly comfortable. She kept her hood up and her face buried in its folds. She had three more massive volcano zits along her jawline. She sighed, shifting inher seat as wispy fingers of ache filtered up her ribs and under her abdominal scar.
Logging in, she opened up her email inbox to see if MiracleMan had responded. There were two messages. I felt her surprise. As if she thought her email would be as unwanted by him as her presence was at home. Hope was all she had left and it fluttered faintly. She read his first message and she flipped off the screen in frustration. Think positive? Why was that everyone’s stupid advice?
But then she opened his second message:
Hi, M—
I sounded like a dumb fortune cookie before. Sorry. Jackass.
What’s your story?
—Samuel
Misty’s lips twitched with the tiniest smile as she reread his message ten times. “Total dumb fortune cookie.” Did he understand? Could he?
Better than you think he might. Write him back!
I wondered if I was the only one of us to recognize the much needed lifeline he’d tossed her.
But what was her story? What would she say to him? Would she be honest? I waited, holding my metaphorical breath.
Her screen blinked and there was a messaging request. She clicked for info. “Who is it?”
Samuel aka MiracleMan. Ah, good job, Sammy!
“Wanna chat?” Misty read out loud. Did she? What did he want? What was his angle? Without overthinking it, Misty clicked on the blinking icon.
M: hi
S: sorry
again
M: it’s ok
S: whyd u ask?
Why had she asked a stranger? The Internet’s
Daily Miracle
newsman. Misty pictured an old guy, like a loony professor in a suit and never-combed hair. The cursor blinked at her. Waiting.
M: thought u might no
S: the mystery is inherent in the miracle otherwise theyd just be normal stuff or maybe the normal stuff is the miracle
A wave of intense dizziness squeezed the breath out of Misty’s lungs. Her vision grayed. She breathed through it. Forcing her feet to feel the insides of her shoes, the carpet beneath. Insisting her brain register that she still sat in the armchair. But her fingers curled off the keys and her ears rang with internal screams. The cursor mocked her.
S: misty?
S: misty?
S: come in MISTY?
Come on, Misty, talk to him. He cares
.
Misty blinked back tears. Weariness laid heavy hands on her shoulders and shoved her deeper down. She slid bonelesslytoward the earth. Under the far desk caddy, beneath the Russian poets and surrounded by theologians’ and philosophers’ lives etched in words.
Misty huddled in her sweatshirt, tucking her knees against her stomach. No one saw her. No one used this section. She closed her eyes and forced herself to find a place where she felt safe. It was there. Somewhere deep and far down in the dark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vivian saw Leif staring up at one of her most recent pieces, hung high on the studio wall. Mathilda No-last-name. She knew the portrait of this one-hundred-year-old homeless lady was haunting and disturbing. It drew viewers in and didn’t let them go. People either loved it or hated it. Curiosity stroked her
The more time we spent here, the more I felt the humble and special appeal it held for Misty. There was peace here. Answers.
Between college kids with their gadgets and tomes of research, and the white-haired before-tech-ers who read printed newspapers and played games of chess, Misty glided silently back toward the historical biography section. Up a short, almost hidden, flight of stairs until she found a landing and the bank of computers she considered her own special place.
Dropping her backpack on the ground, she slid into a massive leather armchair that was surprisingly comfortable. She kept her hood up and her face buried in its folds. She had three more massive volcano zits along her jawline. She sighed, shifting inher seat as wispy fingers of ache filtered up her ribs and under her abdominal scar.
Logging in, she opened up her email inbox to see if MiracleMan had responded. There were two messages. I felt her surprise. As if she thought her email would be as unwanted by him as her presence was at home. Hope was all she had left and it fluttered faintly. She read his first message and she flipped off the screen in frustration. Think positive? Why was that everyone’s stupid advice?
But then she opened his second message:
Hi, M—
I sounded like a dumb fortune cookie before. Sorry. Jackass.
What’s your story?
—Samuel
Misty’s lips twitched with the tiniest smile as she reread his message ten times. “Total dumb fortune cookie.” Did he understand? Could he?
Better than you think he might. Write him back!
I wondered if I was the only one of us to recognize the much needed lifeline he’d tossed her.
But what was her story? What would she say to him? Would she be honest? I waited, holding my metaphorical breath.
Her screen blinked and there was a messaging request. She clicked for info. “Who is it?”
Samuel aka MiracleMan. Ah, good job, Sammy!
“Wanna chat?” Misty read out loud. Did she? What did he want? What was his angle? Without overthinking it, Misty clicked on the blinking icon.
M: hi
S: sorry
again
M: it’s ok
S: whyd u ask?
Why had she asked a stranger? The Internet’s
Daily Miracle
newsman. Misty pictured an old guy, like a loony professor in a suit and never-combed hair. The cursor blinked at her. Waiting.
M: thought u might no
S: the mystery is inherent in the miracle otherwise theyd just be normal stuff or maybe the normal stuff is the miracle
A wave of intense dizziness squeezed the breath out of Misty’s lungs. Her vision grayed. She breathed through it. Forcing her feet to feel the insides of her shoes, the carpet beneath. Insisting her brain register that she still sat in the armchair. But her fingers curled off the keys and her ears rang with internal screams. The cursor mocked her.
S: misty?
S: misty?
S: come in MISTY?
Come on, Misty, talk to him. He cares
.
Misty blinked back tears. Weariness laid heavy hands on her shoulders and shoved her deeper down. She slid bonelesslytoward the earth. Under the far desk caddy, beneath the Russian poets and surrounded by theologians’ and philosophers’ lives etched in words.
Misty huddled in her sweatshirt, tucking her knees against her stomach. No one saw her. No one used this section. She closed her eyes and forced herself to find a place where she felt safe. It was there. Somewhere deep and far down in the dark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vivian saw Leif staring up at one of her most recent pieces, hung high on the studio wall. Mathilda No-last-name. She knew the portrait of this one-hundred-year-old homeless lady was haunting and disturbing. It drew viewers in and didn’t let them go. People either loved it or hated it. Curiosity stroked her
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