The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel by Stephanie Knipper

Going to school had been his reason for ending their relationship. Why didn’t he try to resume it once he was no longer in school?
    She drew the inevitable conclusion: his feelings for her were not as strong as her feelings for him. At the thought, her knees wobbled.
    Stop it , she told herself. Focus on Rose. Coming home is complicated enough without dwelling on the past.
    The pansies in the truck bed caught her eye. Getting her hands dirty always helped her calm down. “Need some help?” She pointed at the flowers.
    Seth raised his eyebrows as if he had expected her to say something else. “Sure,” he said. “We can set these out, and then I’ll ride back to the farm with you.” He paused as if he had misspoke. “That is, if you want me to.”
    Lily took a deep breath and counted to eight. You can handle running into an old boyfriend , she told herself. Seth was just someone she used to know. Nothing more. Besides, seeing Rose again would be easier if she wasn’t alone.
    At her nod, he dropped the tailgate and took a pair of gloves from his back pocket. She shook her head when he offered them to her. “You know what to do?” he asked.
    “I haven’t been gone that long.” She grabbed a flat of yellow pansies. Dirt spilled over the edge, coating her hands. She slid the flat onto a metal rack behind the counter and wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving behind a smear of mud.
    Seth worked fast. There was a rhythm to the way he walked over the curb and grabbed flats from the truck, as if he moved to music Lily didn’t hear. They didn’t speak as they worked, but then, they never had. Between the three of them, Rose was the one who always had something to say. Without her, a soft silence stood between them.
    When they shoved the last of the pansies into place, Seth tugged his gloves off and stuffed them in his back pocket. “I’ll drive you back to the farm if you’d like,” he said.
    His tone was formal, and despite her resolve to ignore their past, she felt something small and bruiselike form in the center of her chest. She looked down at her hands so he wouldn’t see the hurt in her eyes. Dirt from unloading the pansies was trapped under her nails. She focused on it as she climbed into his truck. They could return for her car later.
    Seth took a deep breath, then blew it out. “I should have handled things between us differently,” he said as if reading her mind. He started the truck and drove out of the market. “I didn’t want to hurt—”
    Lily held up her hand, cutting him off. “Tell me about Antoinette,” she said as she rubbed her hands together. Dirt was everywhere. Under her nails. In the creases of her palms. “Is it bad?”
    For a long moment he didn’t respond. They drove a mile before he said, “It’s not bad. She’s different. She can’t speak. She communicates by touching or pointing to what she wants. But she’s smart. Rose taught her about art. I play for her. Mozart and Handel mostly.”
    “You still play?” Seth’s father had taught him how to play the violin. It was one of the few things they shared. Lily remembered summers in the flower fields, sitting at Seth’s feet as he played. Even scales were beautiful in his hands.
    Seth nodded. “Antoinette connects with music and art. She spends hours staring at Rose’s art books. If you ask her to find a certain painting, she’ll page through the books and locate it in seconds.”
    The image he described didn’t match the child Lily remembered. Antoinette had been almost four years old when Lily last saw her. It was during the funeral for their parents. Antoinette flapped her hands in front of her face the entire time. Then she bounced up to the rosewood coffins and banged her hands against them until Rose pulled her away.
    “Did the doctors ever diagnose her?” Lily asked.
    “No. At first, they thought it was autism, but that never fit. She’s affectionate. Sometimes when Rose holds her, Antoinette sinks into her