Miracle Beach by Erin Celello

when it hit her like a freight train. Hit her and ran her over and backed up to do it again.
    She had been so busy grieving for the son no longer here that she’d clean forgotten about the kids he’d never have. She’d never be able to celebrate Grandparents’ Day, never get one of those cheesy “World’s Greatest Grandma” mugs. And after seeing the woman with her grandbaby in the coffee shop—a woman she’d never be—that had become the only thing she could think about. There had been only one other time in her life when she had felt unluckier than she felt today.
    When Ginny added, “To have someone like Jack,” Magda stopped and thought about it a second. Jack. She did still have him. He’d never pull a Frank. He’d always be there for her. Her rock. She was lucky in that, at least—lucky to have him. She really was. And every last part of her missed him just then.
     
    “Magda, are you drunk?”
    Jack’s voice floated over the phone lines. Across thousands and thousands of miles of phone lines. To her. Just for her. Her Jack.
    “What do you mean?” she asked coyly, and then hiccuped.
    “Lit. Blitzed. Bombed. Crocked. Are you, Magda?”
    “I’m allowed to have one little glass of wine now and then.”
    “I didn’t say you weren’t allowed,” Jack said, laughing. “I just asked if you were drunk.”
    “I’m not drunk , Jack,” said Magda. “I’m a little tipsy, but I’m not drunk .” She hiccuped again and sat down at the kitchen table. She wished she could lie down on the couch at the moment. Must look into getting one of those cordless phones , she thought.
    “So what’s going on there?” Jack asked.
    “What do you mean, ‘What’s going on here’?” Magda shot back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She was feeling less lucky to have him by the minute, even though, rationally, Magda knew Jack hadn’t said one thing that should have made her feel that way.
    Jack exhaled audibly. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Magda. I was just wondering what you’ve been doing. I haven’t talked to you in a while.”
    “This phone rings, too, you know. Why didn’t you call this weekend?”
    Magda hated herself for the way she was acting, but couldn’t seem to do a thing about it. She felt possessed—of loneliness and heartache and too much white zinfandel.
    Jack told her about the horse show—about the trailers and motor homes and the horses, about how well Macy did, and about how well she rode.
    “You should see it, Magda. These horses—we could sell everything we own and still not afford one. It’s another world.”
    Magda fought the urge to remind Jack that she had seen it. With him. They had flown to Las Vegas years back to watch Macy. She wrapped the phone cord around her hand and then let it unwind. “So, when are you coming home?”
    “I don’t know,” Jack said.
    “You don’t know ?”
    “No. I don’t know,” Jack said more firmly.
    “I want you to come home.”
    “I will, Magda.”
    “When?”
    “I don’t know yet, Magda. Not yet.”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “No. How about now instead? Or tomorrow. I miss you,” she said, and she really did.
    “I miss you, too.”
    “So why don’t you just come back, then? There’s a scramble we could golf in this coming weekend at the country club. I could call and sign us up. It’s a little last-minute, but I’m sure Jerry could—”
    “Magda, I can’t come home this week.”
    “—get us in. Yes, you can,” said Magda. “You have an open-ended ticket. It’s not like you’re not going to be able to get a flight back, middle of the week and all.”
    “I know I can, Magda,” Jack said. “But I’m not quite ready. Not yet. Being here feels so good for me.”
    “And being here with me isn’t good for you?” Magda asked.
    “Magda, that’s not fair. You know it’s not. You’re comparing completely different things. Apples and oranges.”
    Hot tears smarted at the corners of her eyes. When she