Miracleville (6 page)

If only the accident turns out to be nothing—or at least nothing too serious. Like a broken arm or leg. That'd be bad, but not the end of the world. Why did Colette use the word
terrible
? She could have said
bad
, but she said
terrible
. Terrible is worse than bad. Way worse.

There isn't time to get down on my knees and pray, but inside my head I'm praying like crazy. Please, God, protect Mom. Don't let her die. Please. I'll do anything you want me to—if only Mom's okay.

Dad turns around to check that I'm still behind him. He nods and gives me a tight smile. I'm panting now too.

“Dad,” I say in a small voice when we're finally in the van and heading down the steep stretch of highway that leads from the canyon into the town of Beaupré, one town east of ours. “I didn't tell you, but when Colette phoned, I heard an ambulance.”

Dad sucks in his breath. “Dear God,” he whispers. In all my life, I don't think I've ever heard Dad use the word
God
before.

There's a thick crowd of people where we park the car behind Saintly Souvenirs. “What in God's name happened?” Dad shouts as we push our way through.

That's twice, I think. My world is now officially upside down.

I see Monsieur and Madame Dandurand and Maxim. Their faces look very serious. Clara's there too, the skin around her eyes looking pink and puffy. A group of tourists is standing beside a nearby car. They're putting on sunscreen, but I can sense their curiosity.

“Why don't you give me your keys, Robert?” Monsieur Dandurand says to Dad. “It's better if I drive you and Ani to Quebec City—to the hospital. Colette went in the ambulance. With Thérèse.” His voice drops when he says Mom's name.

Dad's face has turned to stone. Gray stone. He hands Monsieur Dandurand the keys.

If we're going to the hospital, then Mom isn't dead. If she was dead, someone would have told us, right?

Clara grabs Dad's arm. “I'm so sorry,” she says, gulping back tears. At first, Dad can hardly look at her.

The doors to the van click when Monsieur Dandurand unlocks them.

Clara won't let go of Dad's arm. “What happened, Clara?” Dad is asking her. “Why isn't anyone telling me anything?”

Clara is still clutching Dad's arm. “She told me to go home and relax—that she was closing up early. She wanted to surprise you and get back to your pic—” Clara's voice breaks. She swallows and starts again. “I stopped at L'Église for ice tea. That's when we heard the ambulance. It was the garage door…She got caught under it.”

Clara releases Dad's arm.

“Shit,” Dad says, punching the van door. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Monsieur Dandurand winces. I can't tell if it's because of Mom's accident or Dad's swearing.

I tug on Dad's sleeve. “We have to go.”

Dad lets me buckle his seatbelt. He looks out the window, but I get the feeling he's not seeing anything. Is he as scared as I am?

Monsieur Dandurand doesn't wait for the light on Avenue Royale to turn green. When we reach the on-ramp for the 138, he checks for oncoming cars—and guns it. I bet he doesn't usually drive like this. From my spot in the backseat, I can see fat round beads of sweat on Dad's cheeks and nose and over his lips. “Did you see her?” he asks Monsieur Dandurand. “Could she speak?”

Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for Monsieur Dandurand's answer. Even my toes feel tense.

Monsieur Dandurand doesn't lift his eyes from the road. He's talking to the windshield. “I ran over when we heard the siren. She could speak,” he says, and now I notice he is tightening his grip on the steering wheel. There are wispy black hairs on his knuckles. “But she couldn't move her legs.”

After that, none of us says anything. We whiz by other cars and trucks. All I see are flashes of color—green grass, blue sky, green road signs with white lettering—and about twenty minutes later, the narrow gray streets of old Quebec City.

Monsieur Dandurand pulls up in front of the emergency room at L'Hôtel-Dieu Hospital. “I'll meet you two inside and bring you the keys,” he tells Dad. “Constance said she'd pick me up.”

Dad takes hold of Monsieur Dandurand's elbow. Saintly Souvenirs and L'Église are next door to each other, but before today, I doubt whether Dad and Monsieur Dandurand have ever discussed anything except the weather or how business is in town. “Thanks,” Dad tells him. “Thanks for everything.”

“We'll pray for her,” Monsieur Dandurand says in a quiet voice.

“Thanks for that too.”

Everything about the emergency-room waiting area is beige—the walls, chairs, even the doors. It's packed with people. One man's arm is in a makeshift sling; a woman holds an icepack over her cheek; someone else—I can't tell if it's a man or a woman—is snoring. Some people are reading newspapers and books. A kid is sitting on the floor, building a block castle.

Just as Dad and I are about to line up at the registration desk, a set of steel doors swings open and Colette runs out. Her dark eyes have a wild look.

“Daddy!” she wails, and everyone in the waiting room turns around—even the kid building the castle and the person who was asleep. Dad catches Colette in his arms like she's a football. She's weeping harder than she did when she was little and kids at school teased her for bouncing too much or calling out when it wasn't her turn.

“How is she?” Dad asks, wiping the tears from Colette's face with the back of his hand.

“Is she paralyzed?” I ask.

Colette's voice comes out muffled. “The doctors are examining her now. They told me to wait out here. They told me to tell you to wait too.”

Dad lets go of Colette. “To hell with that!” he shouts, and now people are looking at him like he's some crazy person who needs to be restrained. “Ani,” he says, grabbing my shoulder, “look after your sister. I'm going in there! Now!”

Seven

I
take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. It's up to me to be the strong one. Dad's gone berserk; Colette is crumpled in the seat next to me, looking like one of our old stuffed dolls after Eeyore tried to eat her. And Mom—I'm afraid to think about what shape Mom's in.

A nurse from the registration desk goes storming into the er after Dad. “Sir, excuse me, Sir, but I'm afraid you have to follow the rules like everybody else.”

We can hear Dad's voice through the steel doors. “To hell with rules! I need to see my wife!”

The nurse comes back out, looking flushed and shaking her head, but Dad's still in there.

Colette isn't saying a word. And she's not moving either—not tapping her feet or her hands, not wriggling in her seat.

“Should I get you some water?”

No answer. I get the water because I don't know what else to do for her. I bring the water in one of those disposable cups they use for mouthwash at the dentist's. I can just imagine Mom debating the pros and cons of paper cups. Please, God, let her be all right.

Colette sips the water. She's acting so out of it, you'd think she'd had the accident, not Mom. But I don't say so. I promised Dad I'd look after her. Still, that doesn't mean I can't ask questions. And I can't wait any longer.

I squeeze her elbow. “Tell me what happened.” I make sure to keep my voice gentle. Colette can't be pushed.

She shakes her head.

A lady with frizzy blond hair sitting across from us puts down the book she's reading. I can tell it's some trashy romance novel because there's a half-naked woman on the cover drooling over a half-naked guy carrying a sword. The lady could at least try to pretend she's not eavesdropping. Why can't people mind their own business? And what makes other people's troubles so interesting anyhow?

I run my fingers through Colette's curls the way I used to when we were little. Her hair is just as soft as it was then. “C'mon, Colette.” I whisper so the snoopy lady won't hear.

Colette is staring at her feet. “Maxim fixed the alarm. There was something wrong with the sensor. Clara was such a mess, Mom told her to go right home. Then Mom got the idea we should go back to the falls and surprise you guys. She told me and Maxim to go out and wait by car—that she'd close up and meet us out back. Maxim said we should help her close up. I told him no.”

Colette hasn't taken her eyes off her feet. Now she's starting to rock in her seat. She rocks when she's really upset. Mom says Colette even did it in her crib sometimes. Something about the rocking motion comforts her.

I pat Colette's arm. “Then what happened?”

“I didn't want to help Mom close.” I can barely hear her. “I wanted to be alone with Maxim.” Colette is rocking faster, leaning all the way into the back of the seat, then dropping her head as she moves forward. Watching her is making me dizzy.

“We were out on the street. I heard Mom calling, but I pretended not to hear. Then she called again, and Maxim said we had to go back. I didn't see her at first. I thought she'd be standing up.” Colette is crying now. “But I heard her. She was whimpering, Ani. And then I saw her—under the garage door. Her eyes were open. You know what she said?”

I'm digging my fingernails into the plastic armrests. I don't want to picture Mom pinned under the garage door, but the image is already taking shape in my mind.

“She said, ‘Thank God. I thought you were going to leave me here.'”

I put my arms around Colette and hold her until she finally stops rocking. I think she needed to tell someone.

The woman with the frizzy hair sighs and picks up her book.

“Dad?” I say when I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. But it's Monsieur Dandurand with Dad's keys. “You should get back to L'Église,” I tell him. “We're so grateful for everything you've done.” But when Monsieur Dandurand insists on waiting till Dad comes out of the er with some news, I'm kind of glad. It's not easy being the strong one.

Monsieur Dandurand takes a seat across from us, next to the nosy lady. He laces his fingers together on his lap and eyes the newspaper on the table between us, but he doesn't pick it up.

Colette has dozed off; her chin is poking into the back of my arm. I don't have the heart to push her away. Hôtel Dieu is French for God's Hotel. It's a terrible name for a hospital. If God had a hotel, I hope it would be a lot nicer than this. It would smell of coconut oil or roses, not pee and antiseptic. There'd be angels singing instead of machines beeping. And Mom…well, why did God let her get caught under the garage door in the first place? Father Lanctot says God has a plan for us, but I can't believe God would want this to happen to Mom.

I keep my eyes on the metal doors. More people go in than come out, and the ones who come out look grim and tired. Only one, a nurse with a tiny diamond stud in her nose, smiles at me.

“Girls!” I hear Dad's voice before I see him.

The nurse who tried to stop him before hears him too, because she looks up from behind the registration desk and scowls.

Maybe it's the fluorescent lighting, but I've never noticed before how big the bags under Dad's eyes are or how his sideburns are speckled with gray.

“Léonard,” Dad says to Monsieur Dandurand. “You're still here.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on the girls. And hear how Thérèse is.”

“That's awfully kind of you,” Dad says.

Monsieur Dandurand shrugs. “Whatever I can do to help.”

The nosy lady peers over the top of her book and checks Dad out. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with her. Maybe she sits in the er waiting room all day, listening in on other people's conversations. I try glaring at her, but that's the one thing she doesn't seem to notice.

Colette uncurls herself and rubs her eyes. She's not leaning on me now, but I can still feel her weight on my arm. “How's Mom?” she asks.

Dad kneels on the floor in front of us. “The neurosurgeon just finished examining her. He can't tell for sure yet how seriously she's injured.” Dad sucks in his breath. “She still has no feeling below the waist. But that could be temporary. When the inflammation subsides, she may get sensation back. That's what we're hoping for. And we have to remember, things could have been a lot worse.” He sucks in his breath again. “We could have lost her.”