The little girl’s eyes were too big in her face, the sharp curve of her jaw jutting out. Could it be the same girl? Surely not. Surely this was a figment of Vicky’s overactive imagination.
The crowds were closing in. Vicky snatched the precious doll from the shelf, tried to ignore the little girl standing so quietly beside her. Mission complete, she hesitated for another moment. The girl from the pictures would be nine now. Kidnapped on her second birthday, assumed dead. The age looked right.
No, Vicky decided. There was no way. That little girl had gone missing from Minnesota. How would she possibly get to Valdosta, Georgia?
The speakers poured out the Nutcracker, and Vicky felt a pounding in her temples. She needed to go—she had the doll, there was nothing keeping her here. But something pulled at her stomach, so she stooped and faced the little girl.
“Are you—”
The girl’s face contorted in fear and she dashed away.
Well. That was that. Vicky took the doll for her sweet dying daughter and forced her way to the checkout. They were celebrating Christmas tomorrow night. Vicky swallowed hard. Her daughter wouldn’t make it until the actual day. She’d be lucky to make it through the weekend.
She sighed deeply. What kind of woman would she be if she didn’t at least mention to the Walmart security guard that she thought she’d seen little Jessica Scott?
***
Lauren was mesmerized by the glittery tinsel dancing on the edges of the tree. Her mom was so sweet, trying hard to make this a nice Christmas. Lauren heard her slip out before dawn; she wasn’t supposed to know that Mom had run to Walmart to buy her the Mercy doll. But every noise, every conversation, echoed through the living room. The hospital bed, with its tubes and wires and beeps, wouldn’t fit upstairs. This way, she could see the fancy tree and the window with its view to the street.
She was sorry to see her parents in so much pain. She’d been trying to help prepare them, so they would know she’d love them always. Dad rushed around with a haunted look on his face; Lauren knew that he felt guilty living. She didn’t know how to tell him that it was okay. Her mom was resigned and surged forward. Lauren sometimes felt it would be easier if she were gone; it seemed everyone was just waiting for her heart to stop beating. It wouldn’t be long now.
She ran her hand over her bare head, still pained at losing the deep black hair. Mom promised that when she got to heaven, her hair would be back, but Lauren didn’t believe. Not really.
She turned on the television with her remote. Mom must have been watching that Scottish comedian before she turned over the night shift to the nurse—the morning news was on. A big red banner flashed across the screen: BREAKING NEWS.
Her mother was on the television. People were smiling, laughing, excited. Lauren felt the happiness flow into her. She was feeling so sleepy suddenly. She thought to call to Dad, to tell him Mommy was on the television, but her breath hitched in her throat.
So tired.
She watched instead, heard her mother talking about the little girl she’d seen. Another red sign came on the screen: JESSICA SCOTT FOUND!
The newscaster said that Jessica had been missing for over seven years. That was longer than Lauren had been alive. Her mom had found the lost girl. They both looked so happy.
It filled Lauren’s heart with joy. Her breath caught once more, and her mother’s smile shepherded her away.
MADONNA IN THE GRASS
Flash Pan Alley 2007; Translated to Finnish as “Ruohikon Madonna” ASSA, No. 2, 2008, Edited and Published by Juri Nummelin.
“There she is.”
Papillion muttered the words, breathing deeply. His eye was pressed hard to the scope of his rifle, the fine cross lines breaking the scene below into quadrants. Upper left, a grassy field. Bottom left, parking lot. Bottom right, a line of people, sweating, stinking masses gathered to pay homage. Upper right, the prize. Nestled deep on a hard wooden table, surrounded by bleeding flowers, a sheet of metal imprinted with the image of the Virgin Mary.
A scam, he thought, then instinctively lifted his right hand off the trigger and crossed himself. Papillion may be a heathen, but he was a respectful heathen. What if it wasn’t? What if somehow, the hand of God had come down and touched the slab of iron, imprinting the face of the mother of the Lord into the very molecules? Who was he to say that it couldn’t have happened?
A realist, that’s who. A man who knew it was a falsehood, a lie perpetrated to force the means to an end.
He settled his finger back on the pull and used his falcon sight to follow her progress.
Long, wavy black hair cascaded down her back, a subdued headband held the unruly mess off her forehead. She was dressed in a white skirt with eyelet lace along the hem that just skimmed her knees, a white button down oxford cloth shirt with a yellow scarf tied around her waist. The straps of espadrilles wound around her slim ankles, and Papillion licked his lips. He’d always been a leg-man. And the sister was a beautiful example of what a woman’s legs were supposed to look like.
He watched her move through the crowd, saw their deference to her. Lucia. She was a powerful woman. A woman that more than one faction wanted dead.
Papillion could retire after this hit. But it was a delicate operation. He needed to wait for Sister Lucia to announce the hoax. Then the shooting could be blamed on one of the faithful on the ground, someone so overcome with the emotion of the appearance of their holy mother that a declaration of foolery would tip them over the edge.
Fatima, this was not.
***
Lucia stared at the face of the holy Mother. She waited, tuning out the noise, the heat, the fetid stench of the unwashed. Was she in the presence of a miracle? Had a great secret been revealed, a battle for good won? She waited, and felt nothing. Disappointment filled her. Another hoax. The last time she’d felt the presence of God was in a field, with no attendance other than a small rabbit. There was nothing holy here.
She rose, shaking her head. The faithful moaned with hatred, denials were shouted. She simply ignored them, walked back to her Jeep. A flash caught her eye, high on the cliff rising to the heavens to her right. Papillion, she assumed. He’d been waiting for a chance to take her out for months now.
Lucia stopped. She spread her legs, spread her arms, threw her head back. Presented herself to him, a target. Waited to feel the slam of the bullet in her chest. When it didn’t come, she smiled. An honest assassin, Papillion. Or smart enough to know that when she found the real miracle, she wouldn’t be able to hide her joy.
She climbed into the Jeep, closed the door on another falsehood. One day, she prayed. One day.
***
One day, Papillion prayed. One day she will find God, and I will help her meet him. His eyes were closed; he felt the flash, the burn from below instinctively. When he could finally pry his eyelids apart, the Jeep was gone. Lucia too. There was only a deep crater in the dirt, blackened and smoking. Pilgrims were scattered carelessly in the brush. Red and black mingled with the desert browns, painting the sands with raucous color.