Miracle Girl Part IX

          I walk swiftly toward the north side of campus,  A zephyr of air snatches wind-born leaves from their hiding places in the nooks and crags of nearby buildings and thrusts them upward into the marbled, overcast sky.  I shove my right hand into my pocket, my left still clutching the phone to my ear.  Another gust throws dust into my eyes and rails me backwards, as if even the forces of nature are conspiring against me to stop my progress.  I beat on, feet against the pavement, borne ceaselessly forward toward my destination by the pulsating beat of the heart within my chest.

          "I'm to the left of the Wilson building.  Just coming up on the McJohnson."  Mercedes says, her voice cracking again.

          I readjust my course, turning down a narrow opening between the Dayton Center and the Donaldson building.

          "K.  I should be able to see you soon."  I scan the pathway ahead for the tell-tail gleam of blond hair.  A blast of air batters me again and I duck my head against the brunt of it.

          "Nick!"  I turn and look left and there she is, walking quickly toward me.  Her hair's disheveled, tied hopelessly in knots from the unrelenting wind.  It's more than the wind though.  There's something about herself as a whole that's worn down.  As we get closer I see the broken look on her face and know instantly, without any possible doubt, that I've made the right decision.  She stops a few feet away from me.  Hot droplets burn tear tracks from the violet gems of her eyes down the sides of her cheeks.  An irrepressible compulsion to protect and comfort wells up inside of me.  I step forward and pull her into a hard embrace. Somehow Mercedes overrides her natural inclination to resist me.  I try to squeeze out all the pain and suffering I can see in her.  My social self-consciousness tries to stop me from showing such unreserved emotion in public, but my desire to help her is too strong.  I hear a tiny groan in my ear and feel her relax against me as the strain of carrying her personal burden becomes too much to bear alone.

          I step back and lead her over to a nearby bench.  She lowers herself down slowly, as if scared she might shatter if she hits something too hard.  The dark barriers I've seen so long in her eyes are gone, beaten down by the cruel weight of whatever drove her to call me today.  I wait for her to get possession  of herself.  I'm in no hurry.  I have all the time in the world.  This is what I have time in the world for.

          When she calms down enough that I feel her trembling against my side slowly subside, I quietly ask, "What is going on?"

          A few more tears slip out.  She's gathering the courage to tell me.  Finally she pulls up the sleeve on her right arm.  I see the marks there, first not comprehending, then suddenly realizing.  I've been wrong all along.  All this time it hasn't been her family at all.  It's drugs.  The dark circles under her eyes, her mysterious late-night activities, skipping class, the fact that she told me she isn't close to anyone when everyone knows she hangs out with Kyra, it all makes sense now.

          The look on her face makes it obvious that she hasn't told anyone before.  She's studying me closely, watching, even expecting, to see me shrink away.  Instead I pull her closer.  I feel the wetness of her cheek against my shoulder.

          "How did it start?"  I ask.

          And the reservoir bursts and she's telling me about feeling lost and alone in high school with all the right friends for all the wrong reasons.  About ending up with the wrong crowd halfway through senior year, how that crowd followed her to college, this time without parental restraint holding her back.  Then about how her grades keep slipping, her sleep schedule getting twisted up into knots, cut off from everyone, wanting to escape all week, making the firm resolve to break free time and time again but finally caving in anew every weekend.  She talks about her repulsion of the people she deals with, how she longs to be with others but how the feeling of who she is drives her away, about waking up coming off a high, how it burns and burns and makes her feel rotten, about hating herself every time she goes back for more.  She goes on and on, pouring out her trembling vulnerable self into my outstretched hands.  I hold the information carefully, honored and humbled by the preciousness of what she's given me.  All through her words I keep her close, locked onto her violet eyes, straining to glean every detail, every facet of what she is feeling.

          I lose track of time.  There is no time here.  It doesn't matter.  There's only the continual stream of thoughts and emotions as Mercedes gives me all that she has.  Finally she stops, having run out of stamina, and silence returns after its long absence.  Mercedes is trembling up against my side again.  Outside our world, the wind has died down.  I give a long pause, letting the silence sink in a bit to soothe her stinging heart.

          "Do your parents know?"  She shakes her head.

          "They know some, but not much."

          I make sure she's looking me in the eyes so she'll feel the intonation of my next question and not take it the wrong way.

          "Why are you telling me now?"

          She sighs, gathering courage, and starts up again.  "One of my roommates found some of my stuff.  She showed it to the landlord and they're going to kick me out."

          "Are they going to report you to the police?" 

          She shrugs.  "I think so."

          "What are you going to do?"

          "I don't know."  We're silent for a little longer.  Then,

          "Your parents can either find out from the police or from you," I say.

          Mercedes nods mutely.  I don't tell her what to do.  I just want to remind her how things are and point her in the right direction.

          She holds her phone in an outstretched hand like it's a bomb ready to go off.  Her arm shakes some more and she slips it back into her pocket.

          "I can't do it."  She says.  I don't push her.

          "What are you going to do now?"  Mercedes shakes her head and remains silent.  I don't know what to say.  I feel the weight of the situation press down over my shoulders.  The emerging crack in my self-assuredness grows wider.   I scrounge around in my brain for something else to say that might help her.  I'm completely out of my depth here.  Seeking inspiration, I look up and for the first time see the people going about their business around us.  

          Some of them glance over us interestingly, but they're all just caught in their own little worlds.  They walk on, each a complex blend of circumstance and decisions.  Some with strong determination and a will to succeed.  Others concealing wounds or chafing at the chains of monotony.  Yet each of them is inherently valuable, inherently powerful.  Each can become, and already is, a creature beyond comprehension.  I think about myself, a self-absorbed study freak turned hero.  I think about Lydia, who against all reason acted against her own interests based on my word alone.  Mercedes is one of those incomprehensible beings, just like me, Lydia, and every other person on this planet.  I've known it all along.  It's still true, even in light of what she's done.  In a sea of exceptional people, she is no less special.  And in that moment I know that there is nothing she could ever do that would stop me from seeing her as extraordinary.  All worry about what to say disappears, leaving in its wake only pure, clear love.

          "You can beat this," I tell her.

          "I can't."  She sobs.  " I've tried so many times and it doesn't work."

          "They have people who can help you.  You don't have to do it alone."

          She gives a humorless laugh.  "Maybe.  But so what if I get better?  No one will hire me with a criminal record.  No one will never be able to see me as anything other than an addict who's gone into remission."  Her free hand tightens into a first, nails pushed up against her palm so hard that it starts to bleed.  " No matter how good I am, people will always see me the way I used to be.  So why even try?"  The last sentence comes out almost like a whisper.

          "I don't see you as an addict."  Something inside me clicks, and I mean these words like I've never meant anything before.  It is crucial, it is imperative, for her to feel how strongly I believe what I'm saying, what I'm about to say.  "I see you as someone who can change the world.  You aren't afraid to tell people to change when they need it.  You're honest with yourself.  You see things the way they really are.  You never give up."  You never give up.  I pause after the last one.  I know it is true; I can see it in her.  But I don't know how I know.  Evidently she sees it too, because she doesn't object.

          "You don't have to settle for struggling back to being ordinary.  You already are one of the most amazing people I have ever met."

          Mercedes looks down at the fist clenched in her lap.  In the distance, somebody calls out.  I turn and look around.  Mara comes around the corner and comes to a halt, frozen, directly in front of us.  Her eyes take us both in:  Mercedes, eyes latched on me, leaning against me for support.  Myself, sitting very close to her, looking back at Mara with an expression somewhere between shock and dread.

          "Who is she?"  Mara asks with calm so false it's downright icy.  She knows exactly who Mercedes is.  It's a different question she's asking.  I remember suddenly that my date with her was supposed to have started in less than an hour and my insides turn rotten.  Mercedes opens her mouth to say something, but I'm not about to let her take the heat for me, so I say,

          "My friend is going through something rough right now and I was trying to help her."

          "Right.  Your friend."  Her gaze sweeps over us again, completely missing Mercedes' tear-stained face, and turns with spiteful derision to mine.  "Well I hope you both have a nice day.  Maybe you should take her to a movie or something."  Her voice cracks and she turns and marches away, trying and failing to hide tears of her own that splatter against the sidewalk beneath her feet.

          The world seems to freeze and shatter into a million pieces at the same time.  It's worth it.  I know it's worth it.  But that doesn't stop the pain of the moment from scorching scars of horror and guilt into my insides.  I will never be able to undo what I've just done to Mara.  But neither could I have backed down and let Mercedes throw her life by the wayside.

          Mercedes stands up.  Her face is devoid of all emotion.  "I should go," she says.  I stand as well, stung once more by the irony of how normal things would have been with Mara if Mercedes had left just a few minutes earlier.  Mercedes gives me one of her sad little cracked half smiles and begins to walk in the general direction of the apartments, where the police and her parents will no doubt be waiting for her.  It hits me as I stand here watching her go that I will never see her again.  If I want to leave one last mark on her life, it has to be now.  There's no time to think.  She's already halfway gone, so I call out the first thing that pops into my head.

          "You're a miracle to me!"  She doesn't turn around.  She's far enough away that I can't even tell if she heard me, and a few seconds later she turns the corner and is gone.  I stand there a while longer before my legs remember themselves and begin to walk away, cursing my choice of words.  "You're a miracle to me?"  What a weird thing to say to somebody.  My phone vibrates and I pull it out.  It's a text from Lydia.   Where are you?  

          Are the presentations over already?  I glance down at my watch and find that not only did I miss the anatomy presentation, I'm not going to make it to the job orientation either.  I've given up a job, a potential girlfriend, and my career plans in one fell swoop.  The thought stings sharply, especially the memory of the look on Mara's face, but the pain is completely swallowed up in the fierce desire for Mercedes' welfare.  Next to that, what is medical school?  Absolutely nothing.  I tell Lydia where I am and a minute or so later she's there.  She's all apology.

          "I tried to get her to give you credit anyway, but she wouldn't listen.  I told her it was an emergency, but she just said that if it was a big enough emergency to miss the presentation you should have let the paramedics handle it.  I'm sorry I really--"

          "I doesn't matter," I say.  She nods and falls silent.  She looks at me pensively, not daring to ask the question burning on her lips.  So I don't make her ask.  I tell her everything.  I start at the very beginning and talk until I get to the very end, leaving out only the details Mercedes told me that I feel are too personal.  I tell her about meeting Mercedes in the library, about the sociology assignment, my repeated attempts to turn my friendship with Mercedes into a miracle, everything right up until the anatomy fiasco and everything that just happened.  I look up at her after I finish, trying to gauge her reaction.  Does she think I'm weird for getting so crazy about everything?  A little.  But she tries to be understanding, and there's something else there too, something that I can't quite identify.

          On the way home I figure out what it is.

The Epilogue will be posted on Monday