Miracleville

by Monique Polak

“I wouldn’t call it shouting. But yes, I heard you raise your voice with Colette. You’re the big sister, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That must be hard sometimes. Especially in times like these when you’re under tremendous stress.”

  “She’s got adhd. That makes it even harder.” For a moment, I feel guilty for mentioning Colette’s condition. It’s not something we usually talk about with other people. Mom thinks people have prejudices against kids with learning disabilities. She says it’s better they get to know Colette and appreciate her for who she is before we tell them she has adhd.

  “I wondered about that,” Father Francoeur says. “She’s certainly high-energy. She reminds me of a puppy.

  You’re more like a colt.”

  A colt. I’m trying to decide whether that’s a compliment. “Can I ask you something?”

  Father Francoeur nods. “Anything.”

  I take a deep breath. “Do you ever feel angry? Or sad?” I pause for a moment. “Or jealous?”

  When Father Francoeur chuckles, the sound fills the whole car, and for some reason, my body feels lighter than it’s felt all day, lighter than it’s felt since Mom’s accident. “Of course I do. I sometimes feel angry and sad and jealous. And sometimes all three at the same time.”

  “You do?” I feel as if Father Francoeur has just confessed to being a serial killer. “But you’re a priest.”

  “I’m also a human being. Which, in the end, probably makes me a better priest.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Fire away.”

  “This might sound weird, but is it hard for you to be good? Or does it come…naturally?”

  Father Francoeur chuckles again. “So you think I’m a good person, do you?”

  “Well, you’re a priest. Priests have to be good.” As soon as I say that, I realize how dumb I must sound. Everyone knows there are priests who abuse kids. “Or else they shouldn’t be priests.”

  “I have to work at being good,” Father Francoeur says. “I’d say that’s the human condition—whether or not you’re a priest.”

  I like that. The human condition. So maybe I’m not as bad as I thought. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Wasn’t that the one more thing?”

  “I thought of another one.”

  “Well, go ahead. You know, Ani, I like your questions. They show you’re a searcher.”

  I like the idea of being a searcher too. It makes it easier for me to ask my next question. “What was Mom like before—when you knew her?” I think about the old pictures I’ve seen of Mom. In them, she hardly ever looks directly at the camera.

  Father Francoeur lifts one hand to his neck as if he wants to adjust his priest’s collar, only when he realizes he isn’t wearing the collar, he puts his hand back on the wheel.

  “She was…she was beautiful and fun…and a little… well, a little wild.”

  “Wild? You’ve got to be kidding. Not my mom.” I’m thinking how Father Francoeur’s definition of wild is probably skipping church on Sunday or forgetting to say your prayers before you go to bed.

  “Yes, your mom. She’s the one who taught me how to smoke.”

  “No way. Mom never smoked.”

  Father Francoeur rubs his mouth. I think he’s smiling underneath. “Oops,” he says. “I guess that was supposed to be a secret.”

  “Mom smoked?” I can’t picture it. “Where? Where did you guys used to go to smoke?” I think about how some of the kids from school smoke on the bench outside the McDonald’s.

  “Behind the Scala Santa. She knew how to make smoke rings. I could never do it.”

  “The Scala Santa?” The Scala Santa is an old wooden chapel across the road from the basilica. It’s got holy stairs—that’s what Scala Santa means—that are supposed to represent Jesus’ agony before the crucifixion. The Scala Santa is one of the holiest places in town.

  “But she had a spiritual side too. When I made the decision to enroll in the seminary, she was the most supportive of all our friends. Even though it was hard for her.”

  I’m still trying to picture Mom smoking behind the Scala Santa—Mom being wild. But in my mind, all I can see is Mom showing me a new crucifix, or coming in from a hike with her cheeks flushed, or—and this is the picture I wish I didn’t have to see—using her elbows to try to pull herself up in her hospital bed. No, I just can’t see Mom acting wild.

  The next thought that goes through my head takes me a little by surprise. I’m thinking that if Mom ever did act wild—if she really did blow smoke rings behind the Scala Santa—well then, I’m glad.

  Ten

  Father Francoeur scribbles his phone number on a slip of paper (somehow I expected a priest to have neater handwriting), folds it in two and hands it to me. “Call me,” he says, “the next time you go see her, and if I can, I’ll give you a ride. In the mean time, be gentle with yourself. And pray. I’ll be praying too—for all of you.”

  I tell Father Francoeur he can leave me at the basilica. I should stop at Saintly Souvenirs, but I’m not sure how Dad would feel about my getting a lift home from Father Francoeur. I wonder if Dad knows Mom used to smoke and that she and Father Francoeur hung out together.

  Father Francoeur gives my hand another squeeze before we say goodbye. This time, I squeeze back. I can’t help thinking again how handsome he is. I like his profile best. His nose is straight and not too long, and his nostrils flare a little. From the side, his face looks chiseled, as if someone had sculpted him from marble.

  When Father Francoeur drops me off and I’m standing alone on Avenue Royale, I start feeling sad and overwhelmed and tired all over again. I need to sleep. I’ll feel better once I get some rest. First I should see how Dad and Clara are managing at the shop. But the idea of facing Dad and Clara makes me feel even more tired. So tired I could collapse here on the sidewalk— and never get up. If Father Francoeur knew how I was feeling right now, what would he say?

  He’d tell me to go to the basilica. Even just for a few minutes—to help me find my calm place. So that’s what I do.

  Usually, no matter what time I go, there’s always someone there, kneeling in one of the pews, palms pressed together, whispering a prayer. But today, for the first time ever, I am alone. I have the entire basilica to myself.

  I go straight to our pew.

  I can practically feel the holiness soaking into my pores. Father Francoeur would be impressed if he knew. There I go again—thinking of him.

  I bring my thoughts back to the Lord and to Mom. After all, that’s why I’m here. “Please, Lord,” I say as I kneel down, “please let Mom walk again. And give us the strength we need to help her.”

  Then instead of leaving, I stay a few more minutes. I’m not praying now; I’m just letting the sacred air fill me up. Something tells me I’m going to need it.

  Clara is straightening the crucifixes on the wall behind the cash register. But she rushes over when I come in. “Is there any news?” I can see the worry in her eyes.

  Because it helped when Father Francoeur squeezed my hand, I pat Clara’s elbow. “No news. But we have to hope—and pray. Where’s my dad?”

  “He said he had things to do at home.” Clara’s eyes are getting moist. I know it’s because she feels responsible for Mom’s accident too. If she’d been able to fix the alarm or if she hadn’t freaked out, Mom would never have left the picnic. But there’s no point in going over all the what-ifs.

  I wonder whether Father Francoeur would say Mom’s accident was God’s will. Now I’m sorry I didn’t ask him that when we were in the car. Maybe he thinks all bad things that happen are God’s will—poverty and homelessness and tsunamis and war. Maybe he thinks they’re some kind of test.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell Clara.

  I can tell from the look in her eyes she doesn’t believe me.

  The tiredness comes back as I trudge along Avenue Royale toward our house. I hear hammering fro
m down the street. What’s going on? For as long as I can remember, Mom has been bugging Dad to repair the wood fence around our property. Maybe he’s finally getting around to it. Maybe it’s his way of telling Mom how bad he feels about the accident.

  “Dad!” I call out. “I’m home!”

  “Ani!” he calls back. “I just phoned your sister. She says there’s still no change. Come see what I’ve been up to!” His voice sounds proud. I must be right about the fence. It’s something he can do for Mom while she is trapped in the hospital. Though I’m tired, I speed up. I feel as if a repaired and freshly painted fence will make me feel better too.

  But the wobbly fence posts are still wobbly and the one that is missing—knocked out during a snowstorm— is still missing. Dad is hard at work all right, but on another project altogether.

  He’s building a wheelchair ramp. It’s made of plywood and it starts at our front door and goes almost to our gravel driveway. Dad is on his hands and knees, and I see giant sweat stains on his T-shirt. There’s a nail between his lips.

  The wheelchair ramp is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Dad’s nose is sunburned and his forehead is shiny with sweat. If Mom were here, she’d have reminded him to use sunscreen. Who’s going to take care of all that now?

  “What do you think?” Dad asks, watching my face for my reaction.

  That’s when I start to bawl.

  Dad throws up his arms. The nail falls out of his mouth and I hear it rolling along the ramp. “I don’t understand,” he says. “It’s for her. For your mom. For when she comes home.”

  As if I couldn’t figure that out. “Maybe she won’t need it,” I manage to say between sobs.

  Dad rushes over to where I’m standing and tries to wrap his arms around my shoulders. But he is making me sweaty too, and I push him away. I haven’t cried since the accident and now I can’t stop.

  “Ani,” Dad says, putting his fingers under my chin and lifting my face so he can look into my eyes, “I know this is hard. But we have to start dealing with it.”

  I try pushing him away again, but Dad keeps looking into my eyes and talking to me in his steady voice. “Your mother is going to need a wheelchair to get around. Maybe just for a while, maybe forever. The doctor thinks there is very little chance she will regain movement in her lower body.” This time Dad’s voice breaks and I’m the one who has to hug him—sweaty T-shirt and all.

  “Maybe,” I whisper, and my voice is hoarse from crying, “maybe there’ll be a miracle. If we pray.”

  I feel Dad’s shoulders tense up.

  There is balled-up Kleenex in my pocket. I hand a piece to Dad. He blows his nose so loud he sounds like a loon.

  I hear a creaking noise from the balcony across the street. It bothers me to know Marco Leblanc has been watching us from his blackbird’s nest—that he’s seen me crying and Dad and me hugging each other. Marco will know from the wheelchair ramp Dad is building that something bad has happened.

  This town is way too small for me.

  Eleven

  There are a couple of things I really want to know, but I’m too embarrassed to ask anybody. The first is this: If Mom stays paralyzed, how will she go to the bathroom? In the hospital these last two weeks, she’s been hooked up to a catheter that’s attached to a thick plastic bag where her pee collects. I don’t know how the other part works. And I don’t dare ask. What worries me is how it’s going to work at home. Will one of us have to bring her to the bathroom—and will we have to wipe her bum the way she did ours when we were babies? Because if we do, I’m not sure I can handle it. Wiping a one-year-old’s bum is one thing, but wiping your mother’s…no, as much as I love Mom and as much as I want to be able to do the right thing, I don’t think I can do it.

  The other thing I’m wondering about is whether Mom and Dad will still be able to have sex. Though the idea of them doing it has always grossed me out, the idea of them not being able to do it ever again makes me even more upset. I mean, in a loving relationship, sex is supposed to strengthen the bond between two people. At least that’s what they told us in Moral and Religious Ed, and it made sense—well, sort of, anyhow. So if Mom and Dad can’t have sex anymore—and how could they if Mom is paralyzed below the waist?—what’s going to happen to their bond? Maybe Dad’ll want to leave Mom for somebody healthier. And then what would happen to us?

  I could look online for answers, but to be honest, I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I google paraplegics + bodily wastes, or paraplegics + sex. There’s so much sick stuff on the web, and if the search leads me to some paraplegic porn site, I swear I’ll be scarred for life.

  No, there’s an easier way to find out.

  I’ll get Colette to ask.

  Too bad she’s sleeping.

  Except for when she was on Ritalin, Colette has always been a way better sleeper than me. Maybe it’s because she uses up so much energy fidgeting and yakking all day.

  At night, all she has to do is put her cheek on the pillow and she’s out cold.

  Not me. Sleep’s always been a struggle for me. Especially if there’s something on my mind—the way there is tonight.

  I try telling my body to relax, but my body isn’t taking orders. I try counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Colette and I stuck on the ceiling in our bedroom, but that doesn’t help either. I try focusing on the music the crickets are making outside, but instead, I think I hear the creak of Marco Leblanc’s wheelchair. Maybe he’s as bad a sleeper as I am.

  Colette sighs. This could be my chance. “Are you awake?” I whisper.

  Colette doesn’t answer. So I lie there a little longer, to see if she wakes up on her own. Our bedroom door is half open and I see a pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark. I move over to the side of my bed and tap the spot next to me. Eeyore jumps up, landing with a soft thud. I stroke the fur behind his ears the way he likes. Sometimes, petting Eeyore helps me fall asleep.

  It’s Eeyore’s purring that wakes Colette up. She shifts on her bed, then yawns. “What are you doing to that cat?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Nothing. Just petting him. I can’t sleep.”

  “Did you try counting the stars?”

  “It didn’t help.”

  “Do you want me to make you a cup of warm milk?”

  I know Colette means it. That she’d actually get up and warm up some milk for me. And because Mom got rid of the microwave—she thinks microwaves give off dangerous electrical waves—Colette would have stood by the stove and warmed the milk in a small pot. “Nah, but thanks for offering.”

  I hear Colette shift onto her other side. “Colette—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There’s some stuff I’m wondering about. About Mom.” I’m almost too shy to talk about it.

  “Is it about sex?”

  I’m glad Colette said the word, not me. And she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about it either. “Well, yeah, and about going to the bathroom. How’s that gonna work exactly?”

  “I think she’ll have to keep wearing a diaper. You know—for number two’s. And I’m pretty sure she’ll still have the catheter for peeing.”

  “Mom wears a diaper?”

  “You haven’t noticed?”

  “I guess not. I didn’t really think about it till now.” I suck in my breath. “Will we have to wipe her? Or change the diaper?”

  “She changed plenty of ours.”

  “Yeah, but we were babies. Our poops were baby-size.”

  “We can’t expect Dad to do everything,” Colette says. I know she’s right. “The diapers might just be temporary,” Colette continues. “I read online that, over time, people who are paraplegic get to recognize the rhythms of their bodies. She’ll be able to tell us when she has to go. Then one of us will have to help her onto the toilet.”

  “And off,” I add, trying to picture how it’ll work.

  After that, neither of us says anything for a while. The Saint Anne nightlight
on the bottom of the wall opposite our beds casts a pale white light.

  Colette yawns again, and now I yawn too. It feels like some of the tension from not sleeping is beginning to drain out of me. Maybe I’ll be able to doze off after all.

  I’m turning my pillow over when Colette starts talking again. “I’m pretty sure they can still have sex.” She pauses for a moment as if she’s thinking of something. “I’ll ask Dad if you want.”

  “You’d ask him that?”

  “Sure, why not? Or we could ask the social worker at the hospital. She’s supposed to help us make the transition when Mom comes home. Besides, there’s more to sex than—you know—intercourse.”

  I can feel my ears heat up. I can’t believe Colette just used the word intercourse. Eeyore jumps down to the floor. I think he’s embarrassed too.

  “How do you know?” It bothers me that Colette is so comfortable talking about sex. It should be the other way around. After all, I’m the big sister.

  Colette giggles in the darkness. “I know because.”

  I sit up in my bed. So much for dozing off. “Because what?”

  “Because I’m learning.”

  “You mean from Moral and Religious Ed?”

  “No, not from MRE.” Colette giggles again.

  “From what then?”

  At first, Colette won’t tell me.

  “Colette!”

  “From Maxim. We’re going out. Well, sort of.”

  I can’t believe Colette has kept a secret from me. Colette can’t keep secrets. I think it’s part of her condition. And I can’t believe Colette and Maxim have been fooling around! It’s bad enough that Josianne and Armand can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s like everyone is turning into some kind of sex maniac. Everyone except me.

  Good Catholics are supposed to wait until they’re married to have sex. I know not everybody follows that rule, but I want to. Besides, maybe by the time I get married, my breasts’ll be bigger, and the idea of letting a boy see me naked won’t seem so awful. “When do you see him?” It’s all I can manage to say.

  “He comes by sometimes. When you’re at the hospital and Dad’s at the store.”