Page 8 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
Then it just felt weird. She extricated herself. “Thought you couldn’t touch me.”
“Eh. I’ve already felt the worst from you. Now, a drink,” said Winnie. “Down at the bar. I’m buying.”
Beatrice’s voice shook. “I need to get a couple of things from the store, and it’s time to check in, I think. At my hotel.”I need to lie down.
“Rain check, then. You’ve got one more miracle coming today, don’t forget. Later, a drink, yeah?”
She nodded, although there wouldn’t be a later. Her legs wobbled slightly, but she straightened her back as she walked away from the group. It took another two blocks to realize that she’d passed the general store.
Turning around, she heaved in a breath of the salty air.
Alive. She was alive. Even without believing in miracles, Beatrice was allowed to feel relief, wasn’t she? Was it gratitude that fluttered up her throat as she reached the market’s door and grabbed a basket?
You are afraid, said a voice deep inside her mind.
Shut up. I am not.Her own voice seemed just a little less sure, which was annoying as fuck, really.
CHAPTER FIVE
When in doubt, take a few deep breaths in and out. Imagine light filling you from the top down, until you warm from the inside. If that fails, get in the tub with a whole Lush bath bomb and try again later.
—Evie Oxby, “How I Survive My Own Life,”Medium
Trying to ignore her jackrabbiting heart, Beatrice found the antacid she suddenly needed, then forced herself to wander the aisles like a tourist would, inspecting the locally made bread and homemade jams. Out of nowhere, she wasravenousand wanted some of everything. Isn’t that what they said happened when you had a narrow escape from death? Fight, fuck, or feast? She didn’t want to fight anyone on her birthday, and fucking was obviously right out.
So feast it would be.
She chose three kinds of marbled cheese, a loaf of still-warm olive bread, and a bottle of red from an island winery. Tooimpatient to wait, needing to chew something rightnow, she tore off a piece of the bread and shoved it into her mouth. It was so good, she had another bite, then another, as she continued to add treats to her basket: chocolate caramels wrapped in cellophane, green olives packed in oil, one tiny red velvet cupcake.
In line, the woman in front of her chatted with the checker as though they had nothing better to do all day. Beatrice gritted her teeth and took a breath. This was a small town, after all.
Finally, she checked out, only slightly embarrassed that a third of the bread was gone. On her way to the exit, she passed an old-fashioned message board hanging next to the manager’s desk. A little box on the desk held the three-by-five cards that the board was covered with. The charming level climbed to eleven.
Perusing the board, Beatrice learned that Mrs. Muggins was selling tomatoes. Someone named Jax wanted to give saxophone lessons, and a drummer was willing to trade grass for gas for a ride up to Vancouver. Were these cards left over from 1987? They were piled two and three deep, push-pinned on top of each other, so she moved some aside to peek underneath.
She uncovered a card that read,Room for Rent, daily, weekly, monthly.The handwriting was spidery and the email address had AOL in it, so the owner must be more than a hundred.
“Oh, my freaking god. Whoareyou?” exclaimed a voice at her elbow.
Beatrice jumped.
The voice was attached to a girl who looked like she’d fallen out of a manga book about a haunted candy factory. Thin and very pale, she wore a black dress, pink-and-white-striped stockings, and heavy black shoes decorated with cat faces. Her dyed-black hair was pulled back in two messy side braids, and her winged eyeliner, while professionally applied, was so thick it made herblue eyes look smaller than they were. She was trying to look about eighteen, so she was probably quite a bit younger than that.
“Pardon?”
The girl blinked. “Holy shit. This is—wow.”
“I’m guessing I have a look-alike in town.”
“Wow. Yeah. What do I do here?” She looked at the card Beatrice had just uncovered. “Oh, you don’t want to stay at that place.”
“No?” Beatrice turned the card over in her fingers. Nothing on the back. “Serial killer?”
“Worse.”
“There’s a worse?”
“She has birds. Like, seventy of them, all in her living room.” The girl picked up a pen attached to the desk below the board and fiddled with the chain. She darted a look up at Beatrice and back down at the pen. She frowned, as if trying to decide something, and then spoke all in a rush. “I mean, I can get behind a myna or a crow. I’d just about die to see a sandhill crane. Or a spoonbill! But people keeping that many birds in a house? Honestly, it doesn’t seem sanitary.”
