Miracles Read Free

. have somebody really listen . . . be heard . . .”
    Sam looked up again, starting to get angry. What was this guy’s problem? Why did he insist on pouring his heart out to Sam? But the man wasn’t looking at him—he was staring down at his plate. The words were still coming, but his mouth wasn’t moving.
    â€œEverybody’s always in a hurry. Nobody has time.”
    Slowly, Sam began to realize that the man wasn’t speaking. Neither had the woman or Janie . . . He wasn’t hearing audible words or voices, although they sure sounded that way to him.
    He sat back hard in his booth. What was happening to him? He knew he wasn’t still dreaming. He was wide awake— the coffee even burned his tongue. Everything was normal, except for those voices.
    Abandoning his plate, he rushed out of the diner and headed back to his car. A woman with a long red braid was standing near it, waiting to cross the street. His hands trembled as he sorted through his key chain for the key to open his car door.
    â€œI am my past,” the woman said.
    He turned around. Once again, he realized she hadn’t spoken the words aloud.
    â€œI’ll always be what he turned me into. I’ll never escape it.”
    He stood there for a moment, stunned, listening to the voice that seemed to come from nowhere. He saw tears glistening in her eyes as she watched the cars whiz by, and he knew that what he’d heard was something inside her—deep down.
    Was he losing his mind?
    â€œAbuse is such a clean, sterile word,” she went on, and he realized that the preoccupation she seemed to have with waiting for a break in the traffic was really the despair she thought no one could hear.
    She glanced his way, and he thought of approaching her, saying something like, Your past hasn’t set your future. There’s Jesus Christ. He can change everything.
    But instead, he panicked and got into his car. What if he botched it up? What if she looked at him as one of those Bible-thumping fanatics who went around shoving their beliefs down people’s throats? What if he made himself look stupid? Or worse, crazy?
    Finally, she crossed the street, hurrying between cars, no longer waiting for a break in the traffic. He heard tires screech and a cab driver cursing, but the woman vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk. Sam sat frozen behind the wheel, marveling at her lack of regard for life . . . or death. The next time she crossed the street, would her desperation plunge her into even greater danger? Would her death wish be granted?
    And how had he heard her desperate thoughts?
    He sat, paralyzed, behind the wheel. His head was beginning to ache, and tears filled his eyes. His hands were trembling too badly to get the key into the ignition.
    He looked at the clock. It was time for him to head for work. If he could just get behind his desk and bury himself in business, he could forget this bizarre morning.
    Finally managing to start the car, he pulled out into the traffic and drove the three blocks over to his office building. He turned into the parking garage and found his own space with the sign that read “Sam Bennett, VP, Simpson Advertising.” He got out and breathed in the crisp morning air, hoping it would cleanse his brain of this insanity and enable him to function.
    He got onto the elevator and spoke to Jimmy, a young man with Down’s Syndrome who ran the elevator nine hours a day. “Hi, Jimmy,” he said.
    â€œHi, Mitter Bennett. How are you today?”
    He looked down at the floor, waiting for Jimmy to push the button. “Fine. Just fine.” As they rose to the thirteenth floor, he heard Jimmy’s voice again.
    â€œWish I’s a real person.”
    He looked up and saw that Jimmy was sitting on the stool, staring at the numbers as they changed. Sam’s heart ached at the simple words he had heard. “Jimmy?” he asked.
    â€œYes sir, Mitter Bennett,”