Milagro Means Miracle

       Milagro stared at the giant tubs of ice cream stacked in the case in front of her. It was all she could do to keep from covering her nose and gagging. This ice cream made her sick. She hated the texture. She hated how artificial the flavors were. She blinked back tears as she thought of her mother’s homemade chocolate ice cream made from fresh cacao beans grown on their farm in Antigua, Guatemala with milk from their cow Flor.

But this gooey sugared substance? She swallowed, trying to hide her distaste as she noticed the first customers of the day trickle in. This goo didn’t even deserve to be called ice cream. She glanced anxiously at the clock: 12:00pm. She sighed, shifting from one foot to the other, 9pm felt so far away; she needed to get home on time.

“Hello, would you like to sample any flavors?”

Her first customer was an elderly man with someone she could only assume was his grandson. The little boy looked sheepishly at Milagro and then pointed excitedly at the mountain of Rocky Road ice cream towards the front. His grandfather smiled, nudging the boy, “Good choice, son. Two cones with a scoop of Rocky Road each, please.”

Milagro put on her plastic gloves and raised her mask over her nose, it was all that kept her from being sick to her stomach with this slush. She scooped the Rocky Road ice cream into two separate cones and rang up the order. The man shuffled through his pockets awkwardly before finding his wallet and counted out the crumpled bills, completely oblivious to Milagro’s consistent glances at the clock.

As Milagro began tending to a cluster of women in their late 20s in running gear, she heard the door jangle and saw that the little boy had run back inside. He dashed past the group of women and got as close to the counter as he could, holding up a small bright green plastic ring. He smiled a toothy grin and whispered, “My Poppy gave me this at my first baseball game and we won. It’s for good luck!”

Milagro reached for it and when she tried to say thank you, she realized he’d already fled the shop. She smiled as she tucked it into her purse before rushing back to the impatient group of women. She glanced at the clock again nervously as she filled their orders and tallied up the cost. None of them left her a tip; she sighed, scrubbing at the counters and thinking about 9:30pm tonight. The thought of not getting home on time tonight made her pause, feeling suddenly sick and dizzy.

She was so lost in her anxieties that she hadn’t noticed a petite woman with wrinkled milk chocolate skin and long white locs. The woman cleared her throat and Milagro jumped.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Welcome to—“

“That’s okay,” the woman said, waving her hand, “I’d like two scoops of pistachio ice cream in a bowl please.”

Milagro nodded and began filling the order. The woman continued talking, wiping her brow with a handkerchief, “They’re saying that today is the hottest day of the year, you know, it’s no wonder. Just walking from my car to your shop had me melting!”

     Milagro smiled but hardly heard what the woman was saying, she was preoccupied thinking about tonight. The woman fell short $1 on her bill; Milagro told her not to worry about it and covered the difference for her. Milagro was busy with the next customer before she noticed something else was in the tip jar besides coins and small bills. After saying goodbye to the young man who’d ordered four scoops of brownie extreme ice cream, she managed to examine the tip jar and saw that a small, folded piece of paper was inside. She fished it out, catching a quick glance of the small cursive words inside, “Thank you for showing such kindness to an old woman like me. My wish for you is that someone shows you the same kindness when you need it most.” She didn’t have time to think about the words as a line of customers entered the door. She stuffed the paper in her purse and set to tending to the family of four.

        Milagro chastised herself every time she glanced at the clock because it only made the time go by slower. After all that, it was only 2pm. She sighed, deciding to ignore the clock and then maybe, just maybe it would go by faster. All the customers coming in were beaded with sweat, complaining about the heat, craving something cold. The line got steadily longer until she was also sweating, running back and forth with orders and samples and keeping everyone’s bills straight. 

       Her stomach began growling by 6pm and she still hadn’t had a minute’s rest. She switched masks because it was covered in sweat despite the air conditioning in the shop. She sighed during a small break at 7pm, wiping her brow. She blinked back tears as she returned to the counter, surprised to see a small line had started to form again. She did her best to welcome everyone, trying to ignore the pressure in her head and the weighty fear that was building in her chest.

         A couple stepped to the front, the man ordering for both himself and his apparent wife. Milagro felt a pang of annoyance as she observed that the man ignored the woman’s wishes and got her a small scoop of vanilla instead of the bubblegum ice cream she’d asked him for.

     “Is there anything else you’d like, ma’am?” she said pointedly to the woman.

The woman seemed surprised and glanced nervously at her husband who had plastered a fake smile over his obvious displeasure. The woman shook her head quickly, hugging a baby bag closer to her person. Just as Milagro turned to scoop their orders, a little girl slipped through the crowd to get to her father who was sitting at a table further in the shop. The girl bumped the woman and her bag went flying, sending diapers and ointments skittering across the tile floor.

“Idiot,” the man muttered under his breath, “Clean it up! Hurry!”

Appalled by his words and treatment of his wife, Milagro ignored the line of customers and went around, helping the woman pick up the things. She helped the blonde haired woman to her feet. The man rushed to her side, suddenly pretending to be concerned, “Are you okay, honey? You’ve gotta be more careful.”

      Milagro did her best not to roll her eyes and rang up their order. The man gave her a greasy grin and left a generous tip in the jar, still holding his wife with feigned concern, “Thank you, she’s very weak you know.”

      Milagro gave him a tight-lipped smile and nod, trying to make eye contact with the woman and failing. She had the desire to throw the bills back and scream at him, but she refrained and tended to the next few customers.

She started glancing at the clock religiously, anxiety and fear rising in her gut at each 15-minute interval.

7:45pm.

8pm.

8:15pm. 

When the line finally did let up at 8:30pm, her only customer kept trying to hit on her and she wished for the first time all day that the line would fill up again. A man in his late 70’s entered and raised an eyebrow at Milagro, “He bothering you?” The other man left wordlessly.

Milagro winced and the new customer nodded, “Thought so.” He went ahead and ordered his ice cream, remarking on the heat like everyone had today. Milagro noticed he was wearing a dapper black suit with a wilted rose on his lapel. He noticed her staring and smiled sadly, “Today would’ve been me and my dear Juanita’s anniversary,” he motioned at his attire, “So I put it on today for her.”

Milagro smiled, “You look very handsome, sir.”

He grinned at her, a touch of moisture in his eyes, “Thank you, young lady.”

Milagro added when he went to pay, “On the house today, sir.”

He kept trying to pay, but she insisted. He finally gave in and simply removed the rose from his lapel, “Here,” he handed the wilted flower to her, shrugging, “It was nicer when I picked it. Thank you for brightening my day, Milagro” he said, glancing at her name tag.

With that, he turned and left, already diving into his ice cream. Milagro smiled at the rose and tucked it into her purse. She glanced anxiously at the clock: 8:45pm. She began cleaning up the station. She needed to be out the door by 9pm, she could not be late.

She tended to a group of noisy teenagers who couldn’t figure out what they wanted or how to pay. But once they were gone, it was 8:55pm and she rushed to put the CLOSED sign on. She finished wiping off the counters, washing the different scoopers and machines she’d used throughout the day. It was 9:10pm when she finally got out the door.

As she began to lock up, she heard pounding feet on the pavement and turned to see a teenage boy from the group from earlier dashing towards her.

“You’ve…you’ve… got…to…help…” he said between panting breaths.

Milagro checked her phone time impatiently: 9:12pm, she had to get home, she didn’t have time for this. “Where are your parents?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the parking lot. She nearly dropped her keys and stumbled a bit, but managed to follow as he pulled her towards a beat up silver car. She focused her eyes on his pointing finger and gasped when she saw the baby strapped in the car seat in the back with the windows up. Not an adult in sight. She felt the window and found that it burned her fingers. She yelped and looked closer inside; the baby was asleep, arms limp, face red. She tried tapping on the window to wake the baby, but the baby was unresponsive.

       She grabbed her phone to call the police when she saw the time: 9:17pm. She took a deep breath, swallowing the distressed knot in her throat. With the boy’s help using a rock, they managed to break the driver’s window and unlock the door. She scrambled inside, cursing at the burning heat of the leather seats. She unlocked the back door, all while telling the police who she was and what was happening. She jumped to the back, handing the boy the phone, just barely glimpsing that the time was now 9:21pm. She bit back a scream; I can still make it home by 9:30. I just need to get the baby out.

         She found her hands were shaking as she fumbled with the car seat buckles. The baby’s skin was hot to her touch. Beads of perspiration cascaded down her back as she finally got the baby free. She could hear sirens and watched as an ambulance and two police cars pulled into the parking lot. A few passersby stopped to watch the scene unfold. A first responder jumped out of the ambulance and took the baby from her hands as the police rushed to the car to gather information. Milagro grabbed her phone back from the boy who was mesmerized by the commotion, concern etched on his face as the EMS team tried to revive the baby. She checked her phone and cursed; it was 9:25pm. She had to go now.

      She mumbled to herself, “If I just run home, I can make it---“

      The squealing of tires beside the parking lot turned her attention to a red truck with the passenger door swung open; she watched in horror as a person tumbled out of the moving vehicle. The red truck accelerated into passing traffic. One of the officers called it in on the radio, requesting back up as she took off in pursuit. Milagro saw the crowd gather and lift the woman up from the ground where she’d fallen from the truck, the baby bag Milagro had seen earlier in the shop was at the woman’s side. A hand flew to her mouth in shock as she recognized the blonde woman screaming, “MY BABY! MY BABY!”

Milagro, torn between running home and the injured woman, tried to dodge the onslaught of people but an officer grabbed her, asking for her statement. She tried to give it as quickly as she could before continuing through the crowd.

“The baby’s breathing!” a woman’s voice screamed in relief. The whole crowd exhaled in unison. The police began pushing people back. Milagro managed to find an opening and cut through until a hand pulled her into a tight embrace. She tried to break free and then realized that the blonde hair under her chin belonged to the baby’s mother.

She sobbed into Milagro’s shirt, “Thank you, thank you! You saved my baby’s life, my husband was trying to kill him and me.”

Milagro tried to explain that it was really the teenager who saved the baby, but he’d already been picked up by his parents and taken away from the chaos. The woman thanked her profusely, before finally running back to the ambulance. Milagro was dazed from the heat and the crowd and glanced at her phone to see the time: 9:30pm. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks as she realized she was too late. Through blurred vision, she saw the mother get into the ambulance with her baby and disappear with the wailing sirens.

She began running home, maybe she could still make it. Just as she rounded the corner, she heard someone calling from behind, “Milagro! Milagro?”

She slowed, still crying, “I-I already gave you guys all I know and my information, I have to go!” 

The officer shrugged, eying her a little suspiciously, “Sorry, ma’am. The baby’s mother was trying to give this to you.”

Milagro stared at the crumpled envelope in his hand, wondering how in the world she could’ve been so unlucky. All she had to do was get home by 9:30pm. And she couldn’t even do that.

She grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in her purse, tears still pouring down her face as she took off running again. When she finally made it into her apartment, she threw her purse on the kitchen table as she pulled out the old landline and set it on the table. This old landline for whatever reason could send and receive phone calls for free in Guatemala as if it was a local number in her village. She made sure it was plugged in, still panting wildly from her run in this heatwave with mascara stains down her cheeks from crying.

She glanced at her phone and saw that the time was now 9:37pm. She was too late. 10pm came and went, she knew it’d been too late: she’d missed her mother’s call. She crashed into a chair and bawled with her face on her arms. Her mother had been admitted to the ICU outside of Antigua last week because her cancer had come back. It was a small hospital, and her mother was old-fashioned and had refused to touch a smartphone. And so, the little hospital had promised to set it up so Milagro’s mother could call her every day at 9:30pm on the dot. Every day, her health had been declining and each call had been more and more critical, where the hospital staff were urging Milagro to come quickly. She’d saved up every penny she could and still didn’t have enough for the trip. Just one more week of work and she could have enough, but the doctors said it would be too late.

She tried using the landline and her smartphone separately to call the hospital, just to know if her mother was still alive, but no one responded. She finally gave up, her hair standing up from pulling it, sweat drenching her body, and her eyes swollen from crying.

She reached towards her purse and dumped out the contents impulsively. Out tumbled the: “good luck” ring, note, rose, tips, and lastly, the crumpled envelope. 

She smiled sadly at the ring, wondering if maybe the lucky ring had had the reverse effect on her, but she still stuck it on her pinky. As she tore open the envelope, she guessed there might be a 5- or 10-dollar bill. Her fingers touched folded paper inside, and she decided it must be a note.

She unfolded it to find an unnamed airline voucher with enough on it to get someone an international roundtrip. She sat back in wonder as she read the scrawled writing on the bottom, “We were going to Cancun but I ain’t taking that alcoholic husband of mine anywhere but divorce and criminal court. You saved my baby, go somewhere nice on me! Thank you. –Cindy.”

Milagro sat back in amazement, absolutely stunned. A deep well of warmth and light overwhelmed her as she snatched her laptop and booked a flight to Guatemala at dawn.

Milagro kissed the voucher, the "good luck" ring, the note, the rose, and the envelope and she smiled in relief. “Thank you,” she whispered to each item in turn.