Miracle Season
By Fewthistle
Author's Note:I played with the balloon order for the Macy's Parade. Forgive me. There may be other errors. Forgive those as well. This is for my dear friend Erin for her birthday. All good things to you, my friend. All good things. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.
The giant bird floated above her, its feathers a garish yellow in the morning light, its beak open in an ingratiating smile that did little to improve her already bad humor. Tethered to the ground only by wide ropes held by the balloon walkers who moved slowly down Broadway, the bird hung weightless against the brittle blue of a November sky. Trust Jared to drag her here on Thanksgiving morning. If anyone had asked Miss Parker to describe Hell, it would have borne a remarkable resemblance to 45 th and Broadway on the last Thursday in November.
She had lost him in the crowd twenty minutes ago, hemmed in as she was by the seething masses of people lining the wide swath of Broadway. For all she knew, Jared could be in the crowd, in one of the plethora of stores lining the route, on a float, dancing with the fucking Rockettes; hell, it was entirely possible that he was this year's Santa, a thought that sent a jagged thread of pain from her temple down the back of neck. It wasn't that she had been expecting to sit down to a warm and fuzzy family dinner for Thanksgiving, but she had been hoping for a single day of peace; a holiday from chasing Jared through every hamlet and metropolis in the country, always one step behind, her outstretched hand left grasping thin air.
Just like now. Gazing up at the monstrous Sesame Street character wafting gently through the city, a flash of memory blurred her vision, stopping her already stymied movement along the sidewalk. Her mother, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, the Oriental carpet all but hidden under the layer of picture books and building blocks strewn across it, the television a low, comforting hum behind her, Big Bird's face laughing from the screen. The memory quickly dissolved into nothing more than black and white static, leaving Ms. Parker standing, separated by twenty-five years from the crowd around her.
She clenched her jaw, shaking her head sharply to erase any lingering traces of her past, a childhood stolen from her as ruthlessly as Jared's had been from him. Prisons had little to do with bars and fences; she had learned that a long time ago. Glancing up, she saw that Big Bird had been replaced with an enormous pink rabbit, its drum held smartly before it. How perfect, she thought wryly. If there was ever an appropriate symbol for Jared, in his constant motion, in his never-ending quest to right all the world's wrongs, it was that damned annoying rabbit.
With a sigh of pure exasperation, Miss Parker pushed through a small opening in the crowd and emerged in the relative quiet of 45 th street, where the thronging crowd thinned out just enough to allow for forward motion. Ducking into the indented front of a theater, Miss Parker leaned back against the rough brick of the wall and closed her eyes for an instant, the steady hum of the crowd dimmed enough to allow her to think. She opened them to one of the nicer visions she had seen since barreling full-steam into NYC. Blonde hair lay along the shoulders of a cashmere camel hair coat, a white scarf wrapped loosely along a slender length of neck, and crystal blue eyes, as bright and piercing as her own, held a distinct twinkle as they regarded her. The withering words that would have met just about anyone else caught staring with such clear intent died instantly on her tongue.
“I've often thought that if they really want to prepare Marines for combat, they should skip Parris Island and send them to Manhattan for the holiday season. If they can make it from one end of the Macy's parade route to the other, then they're ready to face anything.” The voice that accompanied the lovely face seemed to slip along all the jagged edges of Parker's mind, soothing, smoothing out.
Parker found the corners of her mouth lifting of their own accord, her body relaxing back against the brick, her head tilting to the side to regard her new companion. The sound of Christmas music blared forth on the crisp November air, echoing off the tall buildings of the city, and the sound of children shouting and laughing, and the rhythmic footfalls of marching bands all gelled into one soul vibrating hum that Miss Parker could feel tingling up and down the length of her body. Or maybe it was just the arc of connection from two pairs of eyes that mirrored the winter sky.
Either way, suddenly Miss Parker wasn't feeling so annoyed at being in New York; even the thought of Jared riding down Broadway in a Santa suit seemed vaguely appropriate, funny even. Her companion was still smiling at her, the scent of funnel cakes and hot dogs and coffee filled her senses, and for the first time in more years than she could count, Miss Parker felt a rush of good will and contentment slide over her. Pushing off from the wall, she offered her leather clad arm to the Christmas angel standing in front of her, efficiently maneuvering them down 45 th , towards the dimly lit warmth of the Algonquin and a nice hot toddy.
As a general rule, Miss Parker didn't believe in miracles of any shape or form. But just for today, she was willing to give the whole idea a try. After all, it was the season for it.