We stopped and bought chocolate in the shape of gladiators for the plane ride. We bought American magazines. Then, finally, we were at the gate.
It was crowded, and I searched for my mother among the people waiting to board the plane. I searched and searched but I could not find her.
Then, I heard her call my name—my mother who knew exactly how to hold me when I cried, how to comfort me when I was sick. “Madeline!” I heard. “Cody!” And I saw our mother running toward us, with her arms already outstretched to take us in.
“Mommy!” Cody shouted, and we both ran into her waiting arms.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the simple smell of my mother.
Without letting go of us, she looked at our father.
“Thank you, Scott,” she said, “for getting them back safely.”
We kissed our father good-bye. Then, arm in arm with our mother, we walked toward the plane that would take the three of us home. Just once, I glanced back, where my father stood watching. This time, he was the one left behind. But I knew that in my lifetime that role would change from one parent to the other, and that I, Madeline, would always be kissing one of them good-bye, and one of them hello.
This was my life now. It wasn’t a life that would get me into sainthood, but I decided that maybe I should concentrate on being a ballerina for now. I would never understand why I got that miracle. Maybe it wasn’t for me to understand.
“Hey,” my mother said as she settled into the seat between Cody and me, “look what got forwarded to you.” She handed me a letter.
While I opened it, she did mother things—tightened Cody’s seat belt, made sure my bag was safe under the seat in front of me.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The return address on the envelope said Papa Benedetto XVI, Città del Vaticano, ITALIA.
“How in the world did you get the Pope to write to you?” my mother asked me.
I opened the letter and laughed. It was written in Italian. I couldn’t understand a word.
I looked out the window and watched as the plane lifted into the air. Somewhere below us my father stood, waiting. I lifted my hand and waved good-bye to him as the familiar ache that comes when you leave someone behind settled in. My mother squeezed my hand.
“I missed you,” she said. “I missed you like crazy.”
“Me, too,” I told her. Then I closed my eyes and began to make a list of all the miracles I’d had in my life.
The first one, I thought, was my mother. Of course.
Acknowledgments
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK SAM AND ARIANE ADRAIN, THE YOUNG ADULTS IN MY LIFE, FOR INSPIRING ME TO WRITE A BOOK THAT THEY WOULD WANT TO READ; LINDSAY WALLER FOR READING THE MANUSCRIPT EARLY ON AND BRAINSTORMING TITLES FOR ME; MY AGENT, GAIL HOCHMAN, FOR ENCOURAGING ME TO WRITE THIS; MY MOST FABULOUS EDITOR, FRANCESCO SEDITA, WHO ACTUALLY MADE THE EDITING PROCESS FUN AND WHOSE ENTHUSIASM IS BOUNDLESS; AND MY DARLING HUSBAND, LORNE ADRAIN, WHO LETS ME DISAPPEAR INTO MY STUDY FOR HOURS ON END AND DO WHAT I LOVE TO DO—WRITE.