The Miracles of Ordinary Men (27 page)

God happened. God is . . . happening. God in front of her, around her, everywhere. There is no blue-white energy, no fizzle of electricity in her hands. Just a strange being, shimmering and impotent, passing through her house. By the time she gets to the kitchen, the angel is already sitting down. A bottle of whiskey lies open on the table.

She doesn't laugh. She can't laugh. “Where did you get that?”

The angel looks up, eyes unfocused. Its chest is shadowed, overcome by ribcage — she sees dips and hollows, a layering of grey on white. “In the stove.”

“In the cupboard, you mean.”

“Yes. In the cupboard.”

She takes two steps and tries to wrestle the glass from the angel's hand. Her skin burns when she touches its fingers — she jerks away and checks for swelling, finds nothing but her own unworthy flesh. Peach-coloured. The angel frowns and holds the glass of whiskey close to its chest.

“No,” it says petulantly. “I
like
it.” It tilts its hand in the air so that the light — from the angel, from the wings — filters through the glass. “I like the way it — shines.” Then it looks away. “I have been waiting for you,” it says in a small voice. “I've been waiting for so long.”

A dream of a man, the water rising to his hand.

A spear, piercing her shoulder.

A deer, watching its life splinter into shards.

“Have I been waiting for you?” she whispers. “All this time?”

The angel frowns. “I have a message for you, from God.”

Lilah sits down at the table — carefully, because it hurts to do anything. She tries to laugh, but her hands are shaking so badly she can't do it. When she speaks, her voice is only a whisper. “I always thought Timothy would bring me one of those.”

The angel stares at her. “God,” it says, its voice wistful, strange, “is full of surprises.”

She sobs, brings a hand to her mouth. And then she looks — they both look — at her coat, crumpled on the floor, the bills hidden and waiting in the cuff of her sleeve. Her voice so calm that night at the restaurant, so apologetic, her fingers so deft and sure as he let her choose the tip. He was right — the service was much better this time around.

“Israel,” the angel says.

She takes a breath. “What about him?”

The angel screws up its face. “He's not good for you, Lilah.”

This makes her laugh hysterically. She shakes in her seat and wipes the tears from her eyes. “That's not news,” she says when she can finally talk.

The angel spreads its hands. “You're wasting so much time.”

Days ago she'd have had a retort for this, some kind of smartass remark. Now she opens her mouth and finds nothing. Instead, she clenches her fists and lets her fingers unfurl so that her palms lie open, asking. “Help me,” she says finally.

The angel traces circles on the table. “You know,” it says. “You know what you have to do.” As odd and childlike as it is, the words themselves are deep, certain. Lilah thinks of her own life, and the shape that words can take, what they can do. Golden dot of possibility in her abdomen. Then she thinks of Timothy and Roberta, who are gone.

“How can you be so sure?” she says. The question would be bitter, except that she's not bitter anymore. She's too tired.

“I
am not sure.” The angel spreads its wings so that the table is blanketed in feathers. “I am only a messenger,” it says. Then it shrugs. For a moment it sounds wistful, as though remembering a memory from far away. A memory oddly human, oddly real. “Whatever that means.”

Lilah opens her mouth, and something roils up in her stomach. She jumps up from the table and runs to the bathroom, pukes into the toilet. Then she rests her forehead against the gritty tile, too drained to even cry.

“You're bleeding,” says the angel, behind her.

“I know.” She sobs into the floor, no tears. She will take the money and leave, today. And Israel will follow, a different kind of angel altogether. He will follow, and she will run, even if it means that they will always be running, even if it means that she has to spend the rest of her life flying away.

“I will come,” the angel says softly. “I was meant for you. You, above all others.”

She almost laughs. “Doesn't God have better things to do?”

“But Lilah,” the angel says, “there's nothing better than you.” It places a hand on her back. A sudden warm rush flows from Lilah's spine down to her toes. She jerks up and around in surprise.

The angel smiles with pointed teeth, sharp in the grey light from the street. Lilah closes her eyes. And there it is, again — that golden dot, that pulse of life, deep down inside of her. Waiting. When she opens her eyes, the angel steps forward and bends down, places a hand against her stomach.

“Lilah,” it says. “Be not afraid. I bring you a message from God.” Then it opens its mouth, and all she sees is light.

Notes

[Epigraph] “And is it not true in this instance also that one whom God blesses he curses in the same breath?” Søren Kierkegaard,
Fear and Trembling.

[
89
] “If wings were not the essential element in determining the difference between a hawk and an airplane, they were even less so in the recognition of angels.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Published in
Leaf Storm and Other Stories
, Harper-Collins Publishers,
1979
.

[
181
] “Pain is an alchemy that renovates—where is indifference when pain intervenes?” Jala¯l al-Di¯n Ru¯mi¯,
The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi.
(MVI
4302
-
04
. Translated by William C. Chittick).

[
186
] “Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.” Rainer Maria Rilke,
Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke.
(Trans. Jane Bernard Greene and M.D. Hester Norton. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.,
1969
).

[
225
] “O foolish anxiety of wretched man, how inconclusive are the arguments which make thee beat thy wings below!” Dante Alighieri,
The Inferno
, Paradiso, Canto
X1
.

[
253
] “Yet in my flesh I shall see God.” Book of Job
19
:
26
, Holy Bible, English Standard Version (
2001
).

[
260
] “For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and chastises every son whom He receives.” Hebrews
12
:
6
, Holy Bible, English Standard Version (
2001
).

[
293
] “All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.” Leo Tolstoy,
War and Peace
,
Vol. 2
(Trans. Louise Maude, Aylmer Maude.
E
-book edition, Digireads Publishing,
2009
).

[
311
] “You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.” Psalm
145
:
16
, Holy Bible, New International Version (
1973
,
1978
,
1984
).

Acknowledgements

First and foremost to my agent, Samantha Haywood, who pushed this novel to be the best it could be and whose faith never wavered; and to Meghan Macdonald, also at
TLA
, who was the book's first true champion. This novel would not be where it is today without the help of these two wonderful women, and for that I am so grateful.

To Michael Holmes for his excellent editorial advice; Jenna Illies, my publicist, for her excitement and enthusiasm and for auctioning off a galley copy of Miracles in lieu of a Secret Santa gift; and Carolyn McNeillie, Crissy Boylan, Erin Creasey, and all the rest of the lovely folk at
ECW
.

To John Burnside, Meaghan Delahunt, Oliver De La Fosse, and David MacCormack, teachers and colleagues at the University of St. Andrews back in 2008, who all read and commented on the novel in its embryonic stages. And to John, especially, for bringing Joni Mitchell into the story.

To Natalie Olsen at Kisscut Design, for reaching right into the heart of this novel and giving it the perfect cover.

To Sarah Taggart, who read and commented on the terrible first draft before I sent it off into the world.

To Steph VanderMeulen, copy-editor and friend extraordinaire, who had exactly the kind of ruthless, infinite heart that this book so badly needed.

To Nick and Rhian Wright, who were there with champagne when the journey of this book took a turn for the better.

To Jess DeSanta, who has always known exactly what to say during bad cases of the writerly blues.

To Trevor Cole, for the gift of a jacket photo, and for telling me not to give up right when I needed it the most.

To Mike Cramer and Tricia Sinclair, who talk me up to their accomplished friends even though I don't deserve it, and whose house is still my favourite place to finish writing books.

To my aunt, Virginia Brown, who gave me my first ever Writer's Kit (complete with Skin Thickening Cream!) when I was in my teens. The skin thickener didn't work, but I made good use of those Papermate pens.

I am indebted to a large number of writers and readers who kept me company during the long (and altogether much scarier than I'd imagined) journey to publication. I am going to attempt a list, although I'm most likely forgetting a person or two. I apologize in advance: Angie Abdou, Elissa Bergman, Heidi Bischoff (and the original Chickenhead), Kris Bertin, Trevor Corkum, Clare Coyle, Ally Crockford, Andy Foreman, Krista Foss, Julie Gordon, Steven Heighton, Leigh Hensley, Miranda Hill, Nina Iyer, Will Johnson, Barb and John Jolliffe (a.k.a. the Reverend Mother and Holy Father), Sinéad Keegan, Pamela King, Susan Lewandowski, Sabrina L'Heureux, Maggie MacIntyre, Heather Middlemiss, Troy Palmer, Jessica Rose, Tom-Paul Smith, Sarah-Jane Summers, Ayelet Tsabari, Linda Tuthill, Helen Walton, Liz Windhorst-Harmer, Deborah Willis, Allegra Young, and Vicki Ziegler.

I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of the Ontario Arts Council, whose gift of a Writers' Reserve grant allowed me precious time and space to put the finishing touches on the book.

Lastly, and most importantly, I owe a lifetime's worth of gratitude to my parents, Raymond and Debra Leduc, and my siblings, Allison, Alex, and Aimee Leduc, for believing in this novel and supporting my crazy (and expensive) writer whims. For texting me halfway across the world with title suggestions, fighting over who got to read the manuscript first, and devising master plans to usurp the “Heather's Picks” stickers at Indigo—my love and thanks, forever.

Amanda Leduc was born in British Columbia and grew up in Ontario. She holds a Master's degree in writing from the University of St. Andrews and has published across Canada, the U.S., and the U.K. She lives in Hamilton, Ontario, where she is at work on her next novel.

Copyright © Amanda Leduc

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Cover and text design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design
Cover image: (Feather) Miss X / photocase.com
Author photo: Trevor Cole

The publication of
The Miracles of Ordinary Men
has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada, and by the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. The marketing of this book was made possible with the support of the Ontario Media Development Corporation.