Free Miracle by Elizabeth Scott Page A

church. Someone we’ve known for years. Someone who has only had kind things to say to us, even back when we first got married.” He turned to me. “What did you have to eat?”
    “Deviled ham.”
    He made a face. Dad hated ham. “Well, then it was definitely very nice of you.”
    “George!” Mom said again, and Dad squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to your show now.”
    When he went back into the kitchen, I turned the television down.
    “That’s it?” I heard Mom say. “That’s all you have to say?”
    “Let’s see. Margaret made her lunch. I don’t see what the problem is.”
    “You know I like Margaret. But I just . . . I know what the Bible says.”
    “I know what the Bible says too,” Dad said, sounding tired. “‘Let him without sin cast the first stone.’ And while you may feel up to it, Laura, I know I don’t.”
    “George—”
    “Do you remember the look on your father’s face when you told him you were pregnant and I said we were getting married? I do. Do you remember their silence when Meggie was born, or when it looked like David . . . when it looked like he wouldn’t make it? Even when the news about Meggie’s plane came out, nothing. They’ve never said a word to us through everything, and all those letters you write come back unopened. We’ve been judged by others for what you and I have done, by family even, and I won’t do that to someone else. Only God should have that right.”
    Mom sniffed twice, and then said, “George,” again, her voice cracking. I turned the television back up.
    She came up to my room that night, before I was supposed to go to sleep. She kissed me good night and then took my hands in hers. “I think what you did for Margaret today was awfully kind, and I don’t want you to think that I don’t love you or don’t see how wonderful you are, all right?”
    I nodded, fiddling with the top of her wedding ring. It winked up at me, glinting as she flicked off my lamp and threw my room into darkness. I lay there, staring at the ceiling and sure I wouldn’t fall asleep.
    And then I did.
    I woke up under a burning sky, my whole body aching, my mouth full of smoke, and when I looked down I saw green and brown disappearing under the smoke, under flames falling from the sky. I saw a snake moving across the ground, pushing awkwardly on its belly, its yellow scales a blur. The snake twitched, then screamed, and I realized it wasn’t a snake but a woman. Her hair was on fire and her hands were clawing at the ground, a gold ring on one finger flashing in the flames.
    I woke up shaking, my mouth open but my throat closed up so tight my scream was a silent one, stayed inside me. I woke up and lay there, unable to push the dream away. I woke up and knew the woman from my dream was Sandra.
    Sandra, from Flight 619. Sandra, with a baby that she’d left behind.
    I woke up and knew what I’d dreamed wasn’t a dream at all.
    I stayed home from school that day. My head hurt, a sharp band of pain across my forehead and behind my eyes. I told Mom and regretted it right away when she knelt down beside me, anxiety on her face as she felt my forehead and then yelled at Dad to call the doctor.
    “I’ve just got a headache,” I told her. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get up. I’m fine.” But it was too late, and I knew I was going to have to spend the morning in Dr. Weaver’s office.
    I couldn’t stop thinking about my dream, about Sandra clawing at the ground. I shouldn’t have survived that. I shouldn’t have been able to walk away. Not when . . . Sandra had burned to death. Screaming, in pain, and I’d—
    I put my head in my hands.
    “Meggie, what’s wrong?” Mom sounded frantic, at the edge of tears, and I lifted my head. She relaxed, a sigh pushing out of her, and when I came downstairs because she’d been—of course—able to get an appointment with Dr. Weaver, she put a plate of food in front of me. I ate it fast and asked for more.