Miracle Season

1
AT THE POST OFFICE
Persephone Pearl Clark sat on her porch step one morning in June, the spring sun warm against her back, watching the tendrils of a small vine slowly twist around her finger. A heart-­shaped leaf uncurled, colors and textures shifting, catching the light as it opened right before her eyes. She studied it, wishing she knew how it worked. She had never met a plant that wouldn’t sprout or leaf, bud or bloom for her. The gardens that sprawled across the yard and around her small brick house were proof.
“You stay here,” she whispered to the vine, smiling as she unwound it from her finger. It clung to her, like it didn’t want her to go. She had no idea what kind it was. She could make things grow, but that didn’t mean she always knew what was growing.
Persephone patted her pocket, feeling for the envelopes her mother had handed her that morning. Mom had painstakingly written three checks, carefully tearing them from the checkbook and slipping them inside the envelopes. Payments for medical bills. Bills that never quit arriving in their mailbox.
Too bad money was one thing Persephone couldn’t make grow on trees.
The little bell over the post office door jingled as Persephone pushed it open. Mrs. Rosalyn Howard poked her overly large, bespectacled nose from behind the front counter. She was fanning herself with an empty manila envelope. Her freshly permed hair curled damply against her forehead. It was shaping up to be a hot summer.
“Hello, Persephone!” Mrs. Howard exclaimed. “How’s your family today?” The woman emphasized certain words as if she were afraid Persephone would miss the important ones. Then she clucked her tongue and waved her envelope-­fan, creating a miniature breeze behind the counter. “Your poor mother,” she said to the post office ceiling. “That poor beautiful boy!”
Persephone cleared her throat and slid the bills across the counter.
“We’re all fine.” She offered a smile.
“Any changes?” Mrs. Howard pried. Persephone shook her head and continued smiling. But she clamped her teeth together. She wasn’t about to say a single word to Mrs. Howard about seizures or treatments or bills. Everyone in town already knew more about her brother than she liked, mostly because Mrs. Howard was very good at sharing things. The woman’s fan rustled the edges of Persephone’s envelopes on the counter. She clucked her tongue again and then set her fan down, smoothing her hand across the counter like she was sweeping invisible troubles away. “Well. Enough of that,” she said. “What can I help you with this morning?” She adjusted her glasses and examined the envelopes Persephone had laid on the counter. Two other customers had come in behind Persephone and they leaned in, listening.
Small towns have big ears, her father always said.
“Just stamps,” Persephone said stiffly. Her smile was gone. “Whatever you have is fine.” Mrs. Howard usually offered her several options, and Persephone usually loved looking through each newly released collection of stamps. But not today. Today she just wanted to slap a plain old stamp on the corner of each of those hateful bills and be done with them.
Mrs. Howard arched an eyebrow, noting Persephone’s scowl.
“Why, Persephone,” she asked, “whatever has you all prickly this morning?”
“That’s none of your business, Rosalyn,” Mr. Bartholomew Grove interrupted, glancing up from where he sat at his computer behind the counter. The postmaster was almost invisible behind the stacks of mail. Mr. Grove’s gravelly voice somehow complemented his large handlebar mustache, and he gave Persephone a wink. She felt her smile returning. Mrs. Howard huffed and picked up her envelope-­fan again, pressing her lips together so that no other nosy questions could escape.
“One book of stamps,” she said politely, sliding them across the counter to Persephone before glancing at the two other customers waiting in line.
“Thank you,” Persephone said. She smiled again and tried to sound as unprickly as possible. Then she stepped away from the counter and Mrs. Howard’s breeze, and hurried over to her family’s post office box.
Each morning the mail was filed into the boxes that lined the post office wall. Mrs. Howard or Mr. Grove filled them with letters from friends, packages, paychecks, fliers, newspapers, and of course, bills. Getting the mail every day was Persephone’s job, and it used to be miraculous. So much possibility! So much hope! You just never knew what might be waiting. But that had all changed Last Year’s June.
Persephone turned the little gold mail key in the lock and peered inside. She stared at the slim white envelopes and sighed miserably. It would have been so much better if the box were empty. Because there was nothing miraculous or hopeful about medical bills. Two of them waited for her today, and one was stamped with the word overdue in bright red letters across the front for everyone to see. She snatched the mail out of the box and shoved it under her arm. Mrs. Howard gave her a small sympathetic look from across the room as Persephone left the post office.
She stood outside in the warm sunshine, staring at the planter that sat beside the post office door, blinking back tears. It was filled with red geraniums, sweet alyssum, and a peculiar little vine. It reached for her—­one small heart-­shaped leaf and then another—­as she stood there with the weight of the world tucked under her arm. Persephone ignored the outstretched leaves. Maybe that did make her prickly. But right now, it felt too hard to be anything else.