Murder
Page 24
That day as we walked, we came to a long pathway leading down to a village in the sun. The pathway was covered—with thousands upon thousands of white stones—the very shape and size of the white stone I had stepped over in my dream when I was nine years old.
LOURDES
I was kicked off the Camino. Yes, I was. Not by the law, or religious edict, but by a nice doctor:
“No camino no más—por uno año,” she said. And she pointed her finger at me sternly and wagged it. Then her assistant poured some yellow liquid over my feet and wrapped them.
She said I would begin to lose them if I kept going. Or at least part of them—perhaps starting with my toes and working back so by the end of the trip I would be walking on my ankles.
I felt bad, because Peg was coming into her own. I had cut back my sneakers so my toes stuck out, yet to no avail.
“If it was only one or two toes,” I said to Peg, “then you know—well, I would continue—but as you heard—all my toes—I would have probably zero toes.”
The clinic was going to charge me ninety euros, but the doctor came out to reception and said, “No, señor, it is on España—good luck.”
* * *
—
I guess everything happens for a reason. I took a picture of Peg at the arch over the pathway where we would continue to walk if and when we got back. Then, since it was Holy Week, we headed to Lourdes. The place of Saint Bernadette, of the Immaculate Conception, of the Virgin in the Grotto. Who believes that silly stuff? I do. At least at times. There are days I miss, but most days I do. So curse me. But there was a moment when you realized how the corporate world always takes over—everything in Lourdes was for sale. All was glitter and gloss, and the message was lost in lights and dazzle.
We walked down to the grotto, and that is where in that little place we were at peace. There were no Lourdes lighters, or prayer beads, or candle holders. There was just the place where the little girl knelt when she saw the vision. And what horrible trouble she got into when everyone told her she did not see it. That she was a liar. That her family was disreputable. Her father in jail.
Just like the children in Fatima in 1917, she was harassed and mocked. Yet she kept going back to the grotto by the stream, listening to the beautiful lady no one else could see. Now there is a magnificent church above the grotto, built by those religious men and women who had first tormented and mocked her. Seems that happens quite a bit.
You see, I dedicated a book to her—not to Saint Bernadette, but to Her—when I was fighting opioids and I said to her, “If you help me get off these damn things, because it was a prescription that got me on them, so unlike my booze years, it wasn’t my fault (I was very careful not to say “it was your fault”) and it is causing havoc with those I love and would give my life for, and everything so—why, if you do—well then—okay, I will dedicate this book to you.”
I said that kind of on the spur of the moment. But I knew she wouldn’t forget. So I did dedicate the book to her. I suppose it was like Nowlan dedicating a book to Saint Jude when he was going through his cancer operations.
We walked back to our hotel later. Peg asked me if there were miracles anymore. For it seemed the world didn’t believe in them. I thought of the men with their friend with Tourette’s. I thought of the hundreds of men and women we met along the Camino. I saw a young boy pushing his younger sister in a wheelchair up toward the grotto in the late afternoon. Yes, one could lessen themselves and mock it.
“Oh yes,” I said. “There must be—the miracle of belief. And what do we know of miracles—they might happen every day.”
When we came into our hotel, one of the hotel clerks motioned to me and said the CBC from Toronto was trying to contact me.
We went to our room, and the phone rang. A producer from As It Happens said that Carol Off wanted to speak with me, because my good friend Alistair MacLeod had died that day.
It was Easter Sunday. The book I had dedicated to her I had also dedicated to him, to Alistair.
The dedication reads: “For Alistair MacLeod, and for Our Lady of Light.”
Ten minutes before, we were sitting near the grotto where Bernadette told at first her parents and then the world that SHE had appeared.
I am sure Alistair never knew I would be at Lourdes the day he died. Of course neither did I. Not in my wildest dreams.
I am almost positive someone else probably did.
2017
THANKS TO
My wife Peggy, my sons John and Anton, my editor Tim Rostron.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID ADAMS RICHARDS is one of Canada’s preeminent writers. His recent novels include Mary Cyr and Principles to Live By, as well as Crimes Against My Brother and Incidents in the Life of Markus Paul, both of which were longlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize. Among his other novels, Mercy Among the Children won the Giller Prize and was shortlisted for the Governor General’s Literary Award and the Trillium Award. Richards has written four bestselling books of nonfiction: Lines on the Water, God Is, Facing the Hunter and Hockey Dreams. In 2017, David Adams Richards was appointed to the Senate of Canada on the advice of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.