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

her mother who often sat at the table with them, going over the farm’s financial records.
    “No, silly,” Jenna would say as if Antoinette were two years old. “On the card. Show me which card says ‘Mommy.’ I’ll give you an animal cracker if you get it right.”
    Antoinette was not a baby, and she was not a dog. She didn’t want an animal cracker.
    They’d continue this way until Antoinette either randomly tapped a card and by chance landed on the correct choice or, more often, started screaming.
    That was usually when her mother would intervene and suggest that they were finished for the day.
    But not today. Today they were up early, and her mother had already told her that Jenna wasn’t coming.
    Plus, they had company. Cora Jenkins sat at the large oak table, across from Antoinette’s mother, their heads bowed toward each other, their voices rising and falling.
    Antoinette didn’t like the morning therapy sessions with Jenna, but disruptions in her schedule made her feel like there were ants crawling over her. She twisted on the ground, trying to calm the itchy feeling. Everything had felt off since last night’s storm. Even her seizure had been worse than normal, and her body still didn’t work right.
    “Lily’s the only family Antoinette will have when I’m gone,” her mother was saying.
    I don’t need any family except you. Antoinette shoved her feet against the floor and tried to push herself out of the room, but her knees were locked. She couldn’t move.
    “Lily hasn’t acted like family,” Cora said. She stood up and walked to the counter. “I can’t just sit here waiting. I need to do something. Your mother always brewed a pitcher of hibiscus tea for company.”
    “Lily’s not company,” Antoinette’s mother said.
    Antoinette squirmed. Her skin still itched. She wanted to leave the room. If she tapped on her mother’s leg, she would understand. She would pick Antoinette up and carry her away.
    Cora shrugged as she opened the blue canisters on the counter. “She hasn’t been home in years. That makes her company.” She measured out a cup of dried hibiscus petals and one-half cup of fresh lavender. She emptied the petals into a large saucepan, filled it with water, and then added one-third cup of sugar. She found a glass pitcher in the cabinet beside the sink and set it next to the stove. “I’ll make enough to last several days,” she said.
    “Family isn’t company,” Antoinette’s mother said, but she didn’t tell Cora to stop brewing the tea.
    Antoinette closed her eyes and focused. Everything would be better once she left the room. Her feet were bare and the floor was slick. Move. She willed the muscles in her legs to contract.
    Nothing.
    She groaned in frustration.
    At the sound, her mother said, “I know. This isn’t a normal Tuesday. Cora, turn on my iPod. It’s docked in the speakers next to the stove.”
    Cora hit a button and Vivaldi’s “Spring” rolled out of the speakers. Still, the familiar music didn’t help Antoinette.
    If Seth were here, he would play for her. His music was alive. He would slide the bow across his violin, and she would move.
    “Better?” her mother asked.
    Antoinette groaned. The violins soared, but they didn’t mask the whir of the refrigerator or the sound of water dripping from the faucet. They didn’t mask the sadness in her mother’s voice.
    “What should I do?” Her mother had turned back to Cora. “Pretend I don’t have a sister?”
    Cora took two white mugs from the cabinets by the stove. While she waited for the water to heat, she put a spoon of raw brown sugar in each mug. “You could ask Seth,” Cora said. “Or me, for God’s sake. Either of us would help with Antoinette. She probably doesn’t even remember Lily.”
    That wasn’t true. Antoinette remembered a woman with dark hair and moss-green eyes. A woman who looked like something that bloomed at night.
    Cora put the lid back on the canister. “Have you