Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  We stop chatting once we pass the last of the souvenir shops. On Sundays, everyone in about a block and a half radius of the church is quiet before Mass. It’s an unofficial rule. I guess the idea is to clear our minds so we can think about God.

  Just when I am trying to do that, Colette nudges me. “I don’t see him. Do you see him?” she whispers. I shrug and pretend not to understand who she’s talking about.

  Closer to the basilica grounds, I notice a little girl walking between her parents. She is wearing a gauzy pink dress, a straw hat with a pink bow, and white gloves. That’s how Mom dressed us for church when we were little. I wonder if in ten years the little girl will be wearing a skimpy tank top like Colette’s, or if she’ll be a more modest dresser like me.

  We’re about to pass the water fountain with the bronze statue of Saint Anne and baby Mary in the middle. Water shoots up from openings in the ground and more water drips down from the giant basin that holds Saint Anne and Mary. On hot summer Sundays when we were little, Colette always wanted to take off her gloves and good shoes and run through the water. Of course, even then I knew we couldn’t.

  Colette pulls me closer to the fountain. She closes her eyes and grins as the mist sprays her face. I pull away. I don’t want to get wet.

  Once we’re past the fountain, Colette stands on her tiptoes to peer over the railroad tracks into the parking lot. She’s forgotten the No talking rule. “There’s Armand, and, oh, there’s—” She’s waving like mad now.

  “Stop it,” I tell her.

  A woman walking in the other direction wags her finger at me.

  Colette covers her mouth so she won’t laugh.

  We follow Mom into the basilica. There’s traffic here too, especially by the wheelchair ramp. Because I know it’s important to be kind to disabled people, I smile at a woman waiting by the ramp. She’s in a wheelchair, with a plaid blanket over her legs. I try to concentrate on her face, not her withered legs.

  There are three arched entrances, and we pass through the center one, which is the biggest. Mom and I stop to dip our fingers in the holy water in one of the granite fonts at the back of the basilica, then make the sign of the cross over our hearts. Colette does the same; Mom pats her elbow.

  Colette says what she hates most about church is the rules. How we have to dip our fingers in the font, genuflect when we pass the tabernacle, walk down the center aisle before we receive Communion and use a side aisle when we return to our pews.

  I like the rules. It’s not the sort of thing I can explain to Colette, but with so much changing around me all the time—the way my friends have suddenly gotten interested in sex, my feelings about life in this town—there’s something comforting about rules. As if there’s a solid place to rest in the middle of the chaos that comes from all the changes.

  I take a deep breath as I walk into the oratory. Though Mom and I come here every Sunday, its beauty also takes me a little by surprise. The vaulted ceiling seems to go up and up forever like a golden sky. I even love the smell— musty and sweet at the same time.

  We take our seats in the fifth row. In the pews in front of us are clergymen, the mayor and his wife, the city councilors and their families. We always sit in the fifth row. When Mom’s parents were alive, they sat here too. I guess it’s a little like always sitting in the same booth at McDonald’s.

  The Dandurands, who own the L’Église restaurant, are in our row too. Monsieur Dandurand nods when he sees us. I think it bugs him that Dad isn’t here. I don’t know if it’s because Monsieur Dandurand disapproves of nonbelievers, or because he wishes his wife would let him stay home and read the paper on Sunday morning too.

  Colette makes a tunnel with one hand and brings it to her eye. I know what she’s doing: looking at the stained glass windows and pretending her hand is a kaleidoscope. It’s another thing we did when we were little. We’d look, then blink, then look again. The yellows, oranges, blues and greens would come together, then separate, then come together again. The parts were most beautiful when they made a whole. “C’mon,” Colette whispers. “Do it.”

  “I’m too old for games,” I whisper back.

  Someone coughs and then clears his throat, a baby cries at the back of the basilica and his mother shushes him. Otherwise, the basilica is quiet.

  Madame Dandurand pokes her husband with her purse and tips her head toward a priest who is about to sit down in the front row. Mom is watching him too. It’s the handsome dark-haired priest—the one Mom was talking to last week. Madame Dandurand whispers, “I didn’t know he was back from Africa,” to her husband.

  Even the baby stops crying when the choir begins to sing in the balcony and Father Lanctot and the altar boys proceed from the back of the oratory down the center aisle to the altar. The altar boys go first. They’re dressed in white satin robes. The one in the middle carries a golden cross with a crucified Jesus on it. The other two are carrying tall wooden candlesticks. They press the candlesticks to their chests and walk slowly so the flames won’t go out.

  I hear the swish of Father Lanctot’s black cassock. “Where’s his Kleenex?” Colette whispers. My eyes move to Father Lanctot’s sleeve and sure enough, like always, a piece of balled up Kleenex is poking out. Father Lanctot has a permanently runny nose and a gross habit of reusing his old Kleenex.

  Mom’s got the look on her face she always gets at church—as if she has been transported someplace wonderful. She hasn’t noticed Colette whispering. I’d like to go someplace wonderful too. Only it’s hard with Colette shifting in her seat next to me and whispering about Kleenex.

  Father Lanctot genuflects before the altar. His eyes are watery and his face is as lined as a map. “It’s lucky he only has to go down on one knee,” Colette whispers. “If he used both knees, he might not be able to get back up.”

  I don’t want to giggle. But there’s something about being in a place where I’m not supposed to giggle that makes me more prone to giggling. And Colette knows it. Monsieur Dandurand gives us a steely look.

  I force myself to concentrate on Father Lanctot’s face. He has turned toward us. “May the Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you,” the congregation responds. Everyone is watching Father Lanctot—except Colette. She’s looking to the right. I turn a little too, to see what’s distracting her. I should have guessed: Maxim is standing inside the arched doorway, his orange security vest slung over his arm.

  When I look back at Colette, she’s got the same look on her face as Mom.

  As soon as it’s time for Communion, Colette needs to pee. At least that’s what she tells Mom.

  Communion is my favorite part of Mass. I love the feeling I get when the Host—the thin round wafer Catholics believe is miraculously transformed into the body of Christ—is melting on my tongue. That’s when I’m most sure the Lord’s spirit is alive in me and in all living creatures. Even Colette.

  The dark-haired priest is at the altar now, holding a gold chalice with extra wafers. When it’s Mom’s turn to receive Communion, I watch him, but he shows no sign of recognizing her. It’s as if he’s making a point of looking over her head and out at the congregation.

  Father Lanctot hands Mom the Host, and she puts it on her tongue. In the old days, you’d open your mouth and the priest would pop the Host right in. That was before people worried so much about germs and disease.

  When it’s my turn, I feel the handsome priest’s eyes on me. On my face, my hair and especially on my eyes. I get this weird feeling he’s looking inside me. He smiles, and when he does, his face softens and he looks even more handsome. I can’t decide if I should smile back. Can he see I’m blushing?

  Then, just like that, the moment is over and I’m following Mom back to our pew. My hands and feet feel tingly. I was so busy thinking about the handsome priest I forgot to think about our Savior. The Host has melted on my tongue without my even noticing it. All that’s left is a papery taste.

  “You shouldn’t have taken off
like that,” I say, wagging my finger at Colette after we file out of the basilica. “You missed Communion. And I bet you didn’t even have to pee. I bet you were busy flirting.”

  Colette puts her hands on her hips. “Can I ask you something? Why are you always trying to ruin my fun?”

  “Who says Sunday Mass is supposed to be fun?”

  Of course, Colette has an answer to that. “If it was fun, more people would come.”

  I take a deep breath. “It’s just not right to miss Communion,” I tell her.

  “I’m not like you. I’m not obsessed with what’s right. Besides, the last thing I want—the very last thing—is to take a stale wafer from some decrepit old priest.” Colette has started to rock from one foot to the other.

  “And would you quit doing that?” I tell her. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Quit what?”

  “The rocking!” I try not to shout, but my voice comes out louder than I want it to. People are turning to look at us.

  Colette is still rocking, like a swing that keeps going even when no one’s on it. “I can’t help it,” she says in a small voice that only makes me feel angrier with her.

  Five

  Maybe I was too hard on Colette. I shouldn’t have bawled her out in public. She can’t help the rocking. It’s a symptom of her adhd. So I decide to make it up to her by asking Mom if it’s okay to invite Maxim and his grandmother to our picnic.

  “It’s a lovely idea,” Mom says. “I’ve always liked Tante Hélène. It isn’t right that people in town call her crazy. She’s just a free spirit.”

  Mom’s taking her own car to the canyon. She wants to stop in first at Saintly Souvenirs to check on Clara Bergeron, who works in the shop on Sundays. “You know how nervous Clara gets. I’ll just pop by and make sure things are under control.”

  When Colette hears that Maxim and his grandmother are coming and that it was all my idea, she is too excited to accuse me of acting saintly. She rushes upstairs, disappearing into her side of our closet. The hangers start clattering, and soon there’s a mountain of clothes on her bed. “Too warm. Too fancy for a hike,” she says, tossing more clothes onto the pile. Finally she settles on a pair of khaki short-shorts and a tank top with a skull and crossbones on it.

  When Colette puts on her matching skull and crossbones earrings, I decide to put on my earrings with the gold crosses. One of us has to look respectable.

  The Ste-Anne Canyon is east of town on the 138. We take Dad’s van, stopping to get Maxim and his grandmother. Iza is coming too, but she’s taking the Mini Cooper she got when she turned sixteen. Iza’s dad is the richest person in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. He owns most of the buildings on Avenue Royale, and his company is also behind a new condo complex on the edge of the cliff.

  “Will you ask Iza if she’ll give Maxim and me a ride home in the convertible? Please!” Colette asked, jumping up and down next to me while I was on the phone with Iza. And because I wanted to make things up to Colette, I asked Iza, who said yes. Colette was so excited, she danced around our room.

  Tante Hélène is watering her dandelions when we drive up. She’s wearing a floppy faded sunhat and a flowery apron over denim overalls. She does look kind of crazy.

  I offer her my spot in front, next to Dad, but Tante Hélène refuses it. “Don’t go treating me like an old woman! I’m only seventy-five,” she says as she hops up into the backseat.

  Maxim’s got a jug of lemonade. “Gramma’s special recipe,” he says.

  “I added some mint from my herb garden,” Tante Hélène explains. I must say that for someone her age, Tante Hélène’s in pretty good shape. Maybe it’s all those herbs. “The combination of lemon and mint has a wonderful purifying effect on the digestive system,” she says.

  “And thank god there’s no garlic in it,” Maxim says, winking at Colette and me.

  Tante Hélène ruffles Maxim’s hair. “You’ve got your grandfather’s sense of humor. He used to tease me too, though he never complained about my throat tonic.”

  Colette is sitting next to Maxim, who is balancing the lemonade between his feet. She rattles off all the food Mom’s packed in the picnic basket. “Tuna salad and egg salad sandwiches on whole wheat. Which do you like better, Maxim—tuna or egg? Most people like tuna better. Mom also made sandwiches with cream cheese and Dad’s crabapple jelly. Then there’s Dad’s homemade coleslaw, potato salad from the IGA, fruit salad—but there aren’t any mangoes in it, in case you like mangoes. Ani’s allergic. She once ate some mango ice cream and her lips got swollen. Then her throat started to close up. She was choking and everything! There’s another dessert too, but I’m not saying what. And don’t you try to make me!”

  Colette moves in so close to Maxim their thighs are touching. I think she likes being pressed up against him. I can’t imagine behaving that way or feeling so free.

  “C’mon, tell me,” Maxim says.

  Colette doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight. “Okay then, I’ll tell you. Dad made strawberry bars—with strawberries from Île d’Orléans. They taste like heaven.”

  “Are you giving away family secrets again?” Dad asks from behind the wheel.

  Iza is waiting in the parking lot when we get there, and Mom drives up five minutes later. There are a lot of tourists here today, judging from the license plates. In the ticket line, we hear people speaking Dutch and Italian and Spanish.

  “¿Cómo estás?” Maxim asks a pretty girl with thick black hair and turquoise sneakers. She has the smallest waist I’ve ever seen.

  “¿Hablas español?” she asks, smiling, but it turns out ¿Cómo estás? is all Maxim can say in Spanish. Still, using sign language, Maxim offers to take a photo of the girl and her family using their camera. They want to pose by the giant plastic woodpecker near the front entrance.

  “His grandfather was a ladies’ man too,” Tante Hélène says as Maxim snaps the photo. She makes it sound like a compliment.

  Colette tugs on Maxim’s sleeve before he can ask for the Spanish girl’s email address. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s go see the falls!”

  The woods are dense, and we have to hike to reach the waterfall.

  “Doesn’t the air smell divine?” Tante Hélène sniffs at the air as if she wants to eat it.

  Mom turns her face up to the sky, closes her eyes and smiles. She has the same look on her face she gets at Sunday Mass.

  Maxim makes a show of taking his grandmother’s arm. Tante Hélène giggles as if she’s in high school too. Colette is on her other side, asking her all about herbal cures.

  “You see those birch trees?” Tante Hélène says. “Birch bark tea is excellent for treating arthritis. And you can make a paste with it that helps fight warts.”

  At this rate, it’s going to take forever to get to our picnic spot. Especially if Tante Hélène keeps stopping to inspect flora (“What a splendid patch of coltsfoot!”) and fauna (“Did you see that remarkable ladybug? She’s orange, not red. Quite unusual in these parts, really.”).

  The canyon has three suspended bridges, and we have to cross the highest one to see the falls. Already I can feel the dewy spray from the waterfall on my face.

  The cable bridge lists a little to one side when we cross it. One hundred and eighty feet below us, the Ste-Anne-du-Nord River plunges into a rocky gorge. Looking down makes me queasy, so I focus on the thick woods at the other side.

  And there’s the waterfall!

  “It’s higher than Niagara Falls!” Colette tells Maxim. Because she’s bouncing again, Colette makes the whole bridge sway.

  “Colette!” Dad says sternly. “You’re going to make the rest of us seasick!”

  Colette stops bouncing, but the bridge keeps swaying.

  Once we make it over the bridge, we leave the path. Dad leads us to a spot where the ground is flat, and spreads out our checkered tablecloth. Iza helps Mom and me unpack sandwiches. Maxim fills reusable plastic cups (Mom won’t buy any other kind) with lemonade. Tant
e Hélène keeps offering to help, but Mom and Dad won’t let her. “My goodness,” Tante Hélène says, looking down at her lap, “why didn’t someone tell me I was still wearing my apron?”

  Dad laughs. “We thought it was part of your outfit.”

  “No wonder people call me crazy!”

  Colette has disappeared—she has a habit of disappearing whenever there’s work to do—but now she’s back, with a handful of birch bark she’s peeled off a yellow birch tree.

  “That’s very kind, my dear,” Tante Hélène says when Colette gives her the birch bark. “I just hope you didn’t peel off too much and scar the tree.”

  “Oh no.” Colette covers her mouth with her hand.

  “I’m sure the tree is fine,” Tante Hélène tells her, “but it’s good to know. For the next time. Now will you pass me some of that lovely coleslaw?”

  Maxim hands Iza and me each a cup of lemonade.

  Tante Hélène has stretched out and is resting on her elbows. She sure doesn’t act like an old lady. And with the sun shining on her face, you can hardly see the wrinkles. “Ahh,” she says, looking up at the falls, “this is what I call a miracle.”

  Mom looks at the falls and the forest and our picnic lunch. “It’s the Lord’s work,” she says. “All of it.”

  Dad takes a bite of his tuna sandwich.

  In science class we learned that the canyon and the falls were created by Precambrian rock, the river and millions of years of erosion. But I know what Mom would say to that: “Who do you think created Precambrian rock, the river and erosion?” It’s hard to argue with someone who’s religious.

  Tante Hélène sighs. “Whoever’s work it is, it’s still a miracle.”

  Dad groans when Mom’s cell phone buzzes and she fishes it out of her backpack. Though we’ve got a family cell-phone plan, Dad refuses to get a phone. “I suppose you think cell phones are the Lord’s work too,” he mutters under his breath.