Denali in Hiding

August 30

I have only two choices: I can stir and pace and fret while walking around Eli's hospital bed, prompting him to be a little annoyed when my head crosses in front of the TV, or I can take a deep breath and write it all out. After I finished writing about the voice, I put my journal back in my bag and watched TV. Six a.m. local news isn't that entertaining. They covered a cat fashion show and then a woman tested a stain remover. (She seemed a little too eager to mess up the sample clothes with ketchup and red wine and such, but I guess whatever floats your boat.) The anchor's honey-like voice thanked the stain-making lady and told me to stay tuned to see a video of a miraculous event at a local fair.

My heart stopped.

For a moment I thought about creating a diversion, or casually changing the channel. I had to remind myself that the TV didn't just broadcast to the hospital waiting room. And, of course, whatever video they were about to show was probably already online.

I flopped my head into my hands. Everyone would see it. Would they keep believing in miracles?

The commentators burst back on to the screen. They were far too jolly describing an incident involving the near-death of an eleven-year-old. My heart tugged as the image of Eli dangling from the tree came into focus. The shot jiggled as they showed Eli trying to swing his leg up. I saw myself on the left bottom of the screen as the view zoomed out. Eli was in the top right corner. As Eli lost his grip, my hand sprang up, pointing at the clown, drawing it to the ground. There were so many people around, so much buzzing. Had they really missed it? They didn't notice the girl with the raised arm in the corner?

"It was a miracle," a woman said as she clutched her young son, who looked rather bored despite being on TV.

"Yes, indeed," the reporter agreed.

I laughed. I wasn't being condescending of people who believe in miracles. I was laughing because I felt like I had just gotten away with cheating on a test. I was in the clear.

I was wrong.

The well-dressed man in the waiting room turned to me, lowering his magazine. He had neat, dark hair and looked like he should be at a cocktail party or important business meeting. His black suit fit him perfectly, and his black tie hung against a stiff, white shirt.

"Sorry," I said. "I wasn't laughing at that. Actually, it's my brother. He's fine now. I just...." His expression was so somber, his blue eyes so piercing "It's been a weird day," I said.

The corners of his lips turned up slightly. "I'm sure."

He turned to the screen. They were showing the phone video again--Eli falling, the clown dropping perfectly into place under him, buffering his fall. The reporter said, "Witnesses say it wasn't windy, the clown just fell right when it needed to. The clown saved the boy."

Then a really crazy thing happened. The well-dressed man laughed. And when he laughed, I laughed.

He turned back to me, his smile fully realized. His left hand rested on his knee so that his shoulders were twisted to me, like we were old friends. "I see it so often, I shouldn't be amused anymore. But I always am." He shook his head. "People are so blind. It's right there in front of them."

"What is?" I wasn't laughing anymore. Something in his tone bothered me.

His smile was broad. "I doubt we will even have to cover this one up. The video has been on the Internet for hours, but people see what they want to see. They won't see what really happened because it's beyond their scope of how the world works." His smile didn't quite disappear, but it softened into something more solemn. "But it's obvious to me."