The petite red head carefully counted the pills spilled onto the handmade quilt covering her bed. One, two, three....thirty in all. On the night stand by the bed sat a full can of cold cola, in front of her senior picture. She appeared more sophisticated than her sixteen years in the photograph. Nearby lay an address book, small and pink, filled with names of "friends." She hadn't opened the book in two weeks, perhaps more.

On the wall a photograph of her parents smiled at her with frozen memories. Mom's hair was pulled up high and clipped in a big barrette at the top of her head, thick and raven colored. Her smiling, even white teeth reminded Delia of a grimace. Dad's arm curled protectively around his wife, hand cupping her slender hip. Vacation 1992, Niagra Falls, Canada. Delia noticed the mist of the falls in the background on the "Maid of the Mist" boat that took visitors under the mighty falls. Did either know that it would be their last vacation together before the divorce?

Delia doubted it, they appeared so happy there.

She scooped the pills into her palm. They were smooth and cool to the touch. There is power in these pills, she thought.

Delia sat, one leg under her on the edge of the bed. The radio playing the newest love song. She mouthed the words while studying the pills, they'd be easy to swallow. It could all be over, in just a matter of hours.

She glanced over at the phone, willing it to ring.

"Just one person, if just one would call," she said out loud.

But it sat silent on the hook, sole witness to the proceedings.

Delia leaned over and picked up a long, white envelope from the floor; a summons from the court house requesting her presence before the court on Monday at nine a.m. sharp. The last stage in her protection from abuse order filed against David. The father of her unborn child, the same young man six months ago told her he loved her madly and planned to run away with her to get married. He said they'd go to Mexico because it didn't matter how young you were there. David was seventeen, but she'd need a parent's signature to get hitched.

Friday he beat her until her screaming caused the neighbor to call 911 and the police came to haul David away. In Florida it was mandatory that the offender spend a night in jail, more repercussions would follow. David managed to slip out the back door of her parent's home. He escaped to the adjoining county and stayed with his older brother Phil, a crack dealer who fixed up motorcycles and resold them as a cover for his drug business. He was good at the motorcycle business too, Delia told him, he should make a living doing that, at least, she argued, it is legal.

She tapped the envelope, her face studied, she knew David wouldn't be pleased to see her on Monday. Delia's mother insisted she file for this protection order, her father never returned her phone calls since the night of the beating. Delia felt a prickle of fear down her back. She tossed the envelope off the bed into the corner of her room.

A clock ticked the seconds out, the sound unusually loud in the temporary quiet due to a between commercials mishap at the pop radio station. Delia picked up and popped the tab of the can of warming cola, a loud whoosh followed, she swabbed the wet ring of sweat it left on the oak dresser with a T shirt from the pile on the floor. A radio announcer apologized for the break in tunes and an alternative song thumped into the airwaves.

The pills lay, momentarily forgotten, dotting the hand sewn quilt.

Delia reached over, opening the night stand drawer she pulled out a tablet of Victorian stationary, decorated with roses and little blonde cherubs. A gift from David, purchased before he'd left for California with his brother, Phil, to pick up a new cycle, he said.

"Dear David," she began writing, then the tears began to well and spill onto the paper leaving wet circles on the beige paper.

"I'm leaving only one note before I take these pills. There's a box under my bed with everything you ever gave me, and any letter you ever wrote, plus letters I wrote that you sent back, unread, after you dumped me for Lonnie.. The ticket stubs to all the movies you took me to last summer are in there too. Good for a few memories, anyway."

Coda, her two year old Doberman Pincher, moved by the door, distracting her from her writing. He stretched and walked over to the bed and lay his muzzle near her hand looking beseechingly at her face.

"Lay down, Coda."

She pushed his muzzle off the bed to emphasize her words. He moved slowly away from the bed, back his spot by the door, head hanging low. Her eyes followed him as he circled a couple of times, eased down with a disgruntled groan, then lay his muzzle on his paws and watched her a safe distance away. Her eyes began to tear again.

"Stop it Coda," she commanded, an edge to her usually soothing voice toward him.

He whined and covered his nose with a forepaw.

Delia picked up the pen once more and resumed writing the letter. Finished, she folded it in neat folds and placed it in a matching envelope, licked, then sealed the contents. Her last will and testament. With long strokes of the pen she addressed the envelope to simply; "David."

Her attention returned to the pills puddled next to her on the bed. She scooped them up in her hand. It was time.

The radio station was half way through a thirty minute straight run of popular singles. Delia picked up two of the pills and swallowed them with a drink of the cola. Her throat involuntarily revolted with a spasm and she choked at first, but they went down. The next set was easier, and soon she took handfuls like they were candy, not life takers. There remained just one more handful of the thirty orange tablets.

"Are you pregnant and alone?" A warm woman's voice inquired.

The radio played the public service announcement.

"Do you believe no one cares for you and your unborn child? Are you considering abortion as the only way to cope with your crisis pregnancy? Call now, and one of our experienced counselors are on duty waiting to speak with and assist you. We'll listen, and offer alternative solutions and practical help to get you on your feet again and help you through this difficult time in your life. Don't make a permanant choice for a temporary problem. Call, we'll help. 1-800-644-9999."

Delia's hand holding the remaining pills began to shake violently, the pills fell off the bed and onto the floor in a colored stream, bouncing on the pile carpet.

Her hand reached protectively to her stomach, still flat, but she knew. She counted three months that she'd missed her cycle. David told her she was a fool for quitting the birth control pills after she'd grown nauseated from taking them. Friday she went over with the news that she believed she was pregnant and he'd growled, "Then get rid of it, Delia. It's not mine anyway."

"I hate you, David."

His hand snaked with lightening speed and struck her across the cheek, after that she forgot what happened until the police showed up and David fled the house.

Now her mind howled the accusation, "Murderer, murderer! You're not just taking your own life, your taking that of an innocent child." Delia began to sob inconsolably.

"God, Oh God! Don't let my baby die."

She grabbed for the phone and through her tears picked out the numbers of her mother's home, wrong number. The second time the call went through. Her mother's recorded voice picked up after four rings, and the beep sounded. Delia didn't leave a message.

She closed her eyes. What was the number that was just on the radio?

With trembling fingers she dialed once more, praying it was the right number. Her eyes felt so heavy.

"Hello, Marti speaking, Crisis Pregnancy Assistance."

"Hi." Delia's voice was near a whisper.

"Can I help you Miss?"

The voice on the other end was soothing, interested.

"Are you there?" She gently prompted.

"Please... save my baby," Delia replied, her tongue felt thick in her mouth.

"Miss, where are you?" Delia could hear the chair on rollers the woman was sitting in roll swiftly. She could picture her standing on the other end of the line, face tense and concerned. Delia let out a deep sigh and it made a brushing sound in the receiver.

"Miss, I need your address."

"One, two, zero, nine, Westland Boulevard," came the fading reply.

Waves of exhaustion flowed over Delia and she felt as though she were sinking into blackness.

"We'll be right there, hold on, don't go anywhere, stay on the line."

Delia lay back on the pillow, red hair spilling onto the floral pillow cover in shining loose waves, her breathing now shallow and coming in labored droughts. Her hand relaxed on the phone receiver and it fell off the side of the bed landing with a plastic thud on the floor.

"Miss, are you still there, Miss?"

One year later:

Delia crooned to her infant son, admiring the red waves curling around his peach complected face. The small room in the shelter was clean, it housed her few possessions, a twin bed and crib and the array of items for baby Michael adequately. She ran a finger lightly down his cheek and leaned to kiss him on the forehead as he nursed hungrily.

She turned the radio on. It had been six months since she even turned on a radio. The memories flashed like a home movie of that night in swift succession. Then to those days in the hospital and later the unwed mother's home. A lot had transpired since that night. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Delia, it's me Marti."

"Oh, hi Marti. I was just thinking of you... and that night."

Delia ran her hand over the curls on Michael's head, he squirmed to be lifted to her shoulder. He needed to be burped.

"I'm stopping over, if you'll be home in a bit. I have something for Michael."

"Sure Marti, come on over, I have a something to share with you, too."

Delia said a prayer of thanksgiving for Marti while patting Michael's back. She marveled at the timing of that public service announcement that night and the fact that she even remembered the number through the fog of chemicals spilling into her blood stream. Doctors were skeptical about her chances of survival in the emergency room, and even more doubtful of the health of her unborn baby. Marti stood by her while she struggled for her life that night. She contacted relatives and physicians and drew a force of caring people together to pray and meet the pressing needs that she knew from experience Delia would require as an unwed mother. Delia owed her a great deal. But most of all, Delia owed her for hope to keep persevering. At Marti's urging, she would go back to school in the fall because Marti had helped her enroll in a local college. Delia had unusual talent for art and drama. Marti helped her get government funding to attend this fall. Marti, by example, proved to her that what Delia needed to do, could be done. She shared a faith with her that, until then, Delia had never heard of. Marti's God was a living God, who answered prayers for her, and was willing to do the same for Delia, she confided. Delia watched one prayer after the other on her behalf get answered. Marti was sure to relay to Delia her prayer requests and when the answers flooded in, Marti prayed in thanksgiving.

Yesterday, Delia prayed to Marti's God, her first prayer since that suicide attempt, asking for forgiveness for attempting to take the life of her unborn child, and her own. She asked for the salvation that Marti told her was available to everyone who would call out in faith and receive him as Savior. A peace washed over her that took her completely by surprise.

The door bell rang. Delia opened it and was immediately swallowed up in Marti's embrace. She held a gift wrapped box in her hand.

"This is for Michael."

Delia sat the baby in his bassinet and opened the box. She moved the tissue and pulled out a silver plaque, she read the inscription. "To Michael, The Miracle Baby, from Marti"

In the corner of the plaque was the first photograph she'd taken of Michael and Delia in the hospital. On the back of the plaque was inscribed a scripture verse; " For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end." Jer 29:11

"Thank you Marti. I don't know what else to say. You've saved my life, and my baby's and given me reason to live. What can I ever do to repay you? I prayed last night too, Marti. I asked the Lord to save me. I can't tell you how good it feels."

Marti reached over and hugged her, eyes shining bright with unshed tears.

"Delia, this is what I've hoped and prayed for since you first dialed the Crisis Center."

"You and Michael living are reward enough for me, Delia. All I ask is for you to keep the love flowing."

Delia smiled through her tears and squeezed her new soul sister. "

"Delia," Marti smiled into her face, "You are my miracle baby, the spiritual fruit of prayer and faith that will perpetuate a cycle of love."

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