text: Trigger warning: This story deals with themes of mental health, suicide, and substance abuse. There's a secret stage of grief at which you accept something so bitterly that you dare the universe to make a fool out of you with a miracle. It's a stage that's diametrically opposed to bargaining. Imagine that anger and acceptance had a kid and that kid went off and beat bargaining up on the playground. But it's not reverse psychology. It's not muttering, "I wish I didn't have a million dollars right now" as a kindergartener because you're realizing that the powers-that-be always seem to give you the opposite of what you want. It's not pretending you aren't watching the pot to see if it will boil faster. It's turning off the lights, skipping town without even bothering to lock the door, and letting the stupid pot boil until the power company cuts the gas. "He could still wake up," my sister insists hollowly as she shifts her weight on the unyielding plastic seat. "If he makes it, I'll eat my hat," I retort. I refuse to acknowledge the pallid glow of the lights above and the way my insolent inner child won't give up the hope that one of them is an angel. Hospitals exist because angels and miracles don't. But they keep a chapel open for those who still need to pretend. Speaking of which, I need to talk to my mother and see if she found his keys. The last time any of us spoke to him, he said that he was going to look for them at work on his next shift -- today -- but he never showed up. My mother was supposed to stop by, but I get the feeling she isn't going to leave her knees anytime soon. The truth is, I've mourned Jack a thousand times before this moment. Every time I've talked him off the ledge, he's been fine, but I haven't. I've lived on that ledge for decades, from his first attempt at age fourteen to his last overdose (until now) two years ago. Once you hit your thirties, if you're lucky enough to make it that far, your body isn't as resilient as it used to be. That's what he told me last time, when he said that he'd found what he was looking for and didn't need to chase it anymore. I always took that with a grain of salt, and even as months and years passed, I never let myself fully believe him. Like I said, I don't buy into miracles, and I've spent enough time bargaining for them. I don't need his keys -- I don't need to open the door into his final moments -- but I know that over time, his home will become its own kind of chapel for those who still find solace in supplication. So I'll bring his keys to my mother and my sister, and then I'll find something else to do while we wait for the inevitable. The streets are warm despite the hour, and this afternoon's rain is still returning to the sky. I feel like I'm rolling over expanses of glass that could break open at any moment, and yet there's a strange sense of serenity in this glittering minefield. The bar where Jack worked is on the other side of town, and I don't mind when the lights turn red or the car in front of me makes a turn at a snail's pace. It's just nice to be on the way there. I've only met one of his coworkers, Brian, who isn't on shift today. As far as Jack told me, the place should only be open for another fifteen minutes -- they close at 3am on Saturdays -- but it's surprisingly packed inside. No, not packed, and not crowded, either. More like cozy. Everyone looks unbearably comfortable, like they've always been here and they don't ever plan on leaving. None of the staff are making moves to hurry them up or kick them out. It's a bit of a wonder to me that Jack worked here for two and a half years, since he always seemed to have sought disquiet whenever pleasantness was an option, and was never anything less than desperate to avoid delaying "the next thing." I find an open seat at the end of the bar, and one of the two men behind the counter offers me a disarming smile. Before he can ask, I tell him, "I'm not here to drink. I'm just looking for my brother's keys." He cocks his head, and I add, "My brother is Jack Baker. He works--worked here." The man nods. His smile doesn't change, but seems to land on me differently. "Yes, he does," he murmurs, and he beckons me toward a dark violet door to the left of the bar. "There are a few things here of his," he tells me. "I really just need the keys," I say. And then it strikes me that I know something. That I asked Jack if he was going to be able to watch my dog today, back when I had some silly, now-forgotten plans, and he'd said no, that he was going to be at work. That was his plan up until today, as far as any of us know. But this guy doesn't seem at all curious about why Jack isn't here. "Did my brother tell you he wasn't going to make it in today?" I blurt out, embarrassed at the way my voice tumbles up to a higher pitch. "Yes, we knew," the man replies, and since he's leading me down a hallway now, I can't see his face. I feel suddenly dizzy and focus on the back of his neck, where the clasps of a gold chain cling tightly to each other. Jack knew he wasn't going to be here today. It wasn't an accident. It seemed so much like one ... and I feel foolish. I'm the one who always says I don't believe in miracles, and that includes accidents. "Here is Jack's room." The man has stopped in front of another door in this hallway that seems to stretch onward forever. I feel so out of sorts that I almost don't even think to ask, "Wait -- room?" Wordlessly, the man opens the door and ushers me in. The first thing I notice is that there is no bed. Instead, there's a wide wooden platform in the center of the room, like the stump of an ancient tree, and scattered on top of it are several items, some familiar, some not. A ladle, a rocks glass, a bottle of rum. A cast-iron pot, a baby's sock, a jar of red jelly. An herb I don't recognize (and I'm a professional chef), the limp tail of a rodent, a glistening stone of indeterminate color. My eyes sweep the walls, which are lined with hooks and ledges and shelves upon which rest all manner of at once delicious- and poisonous-looking things. In the corner -- no, the room is round -- at the furthest point from me there is a woven basket full of clothes that I know don't belong to Jack. I see the frilly sleeves of a dress, and hanging from a hook behind the basket I see a smaller scrap of the same fabric, though it appears to be wet and dripping from one edge with a dark, viscous substance. No, it is becoming the substance, I intuitively understand. I whirl around to face the man who brought me here. There are so many questions that I don't even know which one to ask first. "Did Jack live here?" I demand, my voice still quivering. "Jack is more alive here than anywhere else, I imagine." Does he mean to be patronizing? "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Some people convince themselves so, but no," the man responds, to a question I didn't ask. "What?" "When people see miracles, he's the first person they think of," he explains (if you can call it explaining), "but there are all kinds of miracle workers in the world. Too many to count. In fact, almost everyone becomes one eventually, if they allow themselves to." I stare at him. "Like me. Hale. Or like your brother, Jack." This is truly too much for me to take. "The only miracle Jack ever worked was staying alive as long as he did, despite his own best fucking efforts," I spit. Hale laughs. "That wasn't a miracle," he says, "that was just luck." "Well, if anyone can be a miracle worker, how is a miracle any different from the random tragedies and strokes of good luck that happen every day?" I hate that I'm even entertaining this line of thinking. "No wonder you rarely encounter a 'miracle' that makes any difference," I add sarcastically, and yes, it does make me feel better. "He came here, broken, with the last bit of luck he had, and I myself helped him to find what he was looking for. More than good fortune, I helped him find a resting place. Has anything ever made a bigger difference in his life, or in yours?" The man's words chill me. They remind me of Jack's own words two years ago, just a few months after he'd begun working here and supposedly stopped chasing whatever he'd always been after. "You helped him ... end his life?" I'm struggling to get the words out. Okay, maybe I didn't entirely bypass the denial stage. Hale doesn't answer, but instead makes his way over to the little cauldron and, seemingly without a match or a lighter, starts a fire beneath it. Somewhere to my right, I suddenly become aware of the incessant thrum of dance music. I suppose it's been going on this whole time. The bar is right next to a nightclub, I vaguely recall seeing when I parked down the street. He takes the frilly fabric off its hook on the wall and tosses it into the pot with a few herbs, the rat's tail, and the entire bottle of rum. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask him. "Just finishing up something Jack was working on," he answers casually, as if I know exactly what he's talking about. The pot bubbles seemingly in slow motion, the solution inside lazily oscillating between the deep violet of the door we first came through and a brooding but idyllic green. Hale abruptly extinguishes the flame and ladles the mixture, which doesn't appear to be hot, into the rocks glass. Still silent, he moves toward the door and opens it. On the other side is the man who was working with him behind the bar when I came in. "For Sylvia," Hale says, and the other man smiles, nods, and departs. Hale shuts the door again. "What happens if I drink this?" I ask, gesturing to the leftovers in the cauldron. For some reason, when I look at it, I feel like a child with her face pressed up against the window of a candy store. Hale chuckles. "Nothing. It's powerless on you, to help or to harm." I frown. "To help?" "That's what we do." "For Jack." A defeated question is still a question. "For Jack, yes. And he did it for many others." He turns abruptly and pulls a book down from one of the shelves. When he opens the book, I feel my blood rush through me like wind. No, I feel the wind penetrate my blood, even though there are no windows. The pages flutter to a halt, and I am faced with a familiarity that I refuse to comprehend. "Jack?" "This is what he was looking for," Hale says, "and what he created. These are recipes. Those who need healing bring items of personal significance -- a daughter's wedding gown; baby shoes, never worn; you get the idea -- and a recipe appears for then. We mix the items into a cocktail and with a little magic, they find what they're looking for, too." He pauses as if to allow me to ask a question, but I remain silent. "After we did it for Jack," he continues, "he knew he had to become a healer himself. But the thing is ... each recipe is unique -- both to the healer and the person being healed. And they are complicated; some have as many as a dozen steps, none of them easy. Jack could only help so many individual people himself, but he had the desire, and the intuition, to help countless others. So he created one final cocktail for himself. The last two ingredients were his body -- its act of drinking the brew -- and this book. Now his soul is bound to these pages the way it once was bound to his body. He surrendered himself to something greater so that others could more easily find what he did. And in that way, he found himself." He hands me something: Jack's keys. Then he tucks the book under his arm, leads me out of the room before I can protest, and starts down the hallway toward the door. I turn back and grasp at the cool, leathery handle, which to my surprise feels more like skin than metal. I just want to see his room one more time, to get one last glimpse at the place where he thought he found peace. It won't budge. I know there is no key to the one place I actually want to go. A fleeting, agonizing distress passes over me, through me, and is gone. The handle lets go of me. I storm back down the hallway, which seems to only take me a few steps, whip my baseball cap off my head, and slam it onto the bar. I gaze around briefly; everyone from before is still here, and no one looks up at the noise. Outside the window, it looks like the moon has emerged from the clouds. I look back at my hat, at Hale standing before me, and feel like I'm breathing air for the first time after being trapped under ice. He gives me an inquiring look. I slide my hat closer to him and I ask, "Can you make me something with this?" He smiles, picks it up, and lays the book down on the bar. It opens automatically without a touch -- again, no one around me seems to notice -- but I don't wait to see what it says on my page. When Hale turns around to grab a bottle of gin from the shelf behind him, I slip off my seat and out the door. No one watches me go.