Miracleville (8 page)

All I can think is: what sins? Mom's always kind to everyone. Sure, she can be strict, but I don't think I've ever heard her shout or get angry or swear. Somehow, that makes what's happened to her even worse, even more senseless.

On our way out, Father Francoeur pats Colette's shoulder. “Pray for her,” he whispers.

Colette's eyes meet mine, but she doesn't say anything—or roll her eyes.

Almost as soon as we leave Mom's room, some of my tiredness begins to lift. I even feel kind of proud to be walking down the hallway and taking the elevator with Father Francoeur. Several women—one is a doctor— turn to look when he goes by, though he doesn't seem to notice. I wonder how they'd feel if they knew they were checking out a priest.

Father Francoeur's car is parked in the hospital lot, and he lets me in first, the way Dad does for Mom on her birthday or when they're going out on one of their Friday night “dates.” How long, I wonder, will it be till Mom and Dad have another date? And will Mom have to be transported in a wheelchair?

Father Francoeur's car has that plasticky new-car smell. Mom says the smell comes from toxic chemicals, so I lower my window, just in case.

I wonder if the car—a Toyota—belongs to the church. Aren't priests supposed to take a vow of poverty? If Colette was here, she'd ask. One advantage to having Colette for a sister is I find out a lot of interesting stuff without having to be the one asking embarrassing questions.

Father Francoeur must've forgotten to turn off the radio, because it starts to blare when he puts the key in the ignition. “We were born, born to be wi-i-i-ld!” some guy half sings, half screams.

“Oops,” Father Francoeur says as he hits the Off button. He must know I'm surprised, because he says, “Hey, just because I'm a priest doesn't mean I don't like rock music. Especially Canadian rock.”

He waits for me to buckle up before he backs out of the parking spot. “So tell me, Ani”—I can feel his eyes on my face—“how are you doing?”

It isn't until he asks that I realize I've been so worried about Mom these last few days I haven't thought much about my other emotions. And now, I'm not sure where to begin. I'm sad. I'm angry. I'm hopeful. I'm not sure hope can help. But for some reason I don't quite understand, I feel like I can say all that to Father Francoeur—maybe because he's a priest, and because he's Mom's old friend, and because when he's alone in his car he listens to rock and roll.

I run my hands over my thighs and sigh. Even sighing feels good. It's as if I haven't really breathed since Sunday. “To tell you the truth, I don't even know how I'm doing.”

Father Francoeur nods. He's thinking about what I just said. “You haven't had much time to process what's happened.” The way he says it—like he understands exactly what I mean—makes me want to tell him more.

“I'm scared,” I say in a small voice.

“Of course you are. And that's okay.” Father Francoeur slips one hand off the wheel and gives my hand a squeeze. There are freckles on the back of his hand. I remember how he stroked Mom's hair before and, though it doesn't make sense, for a second I'm jealous. “Tell me what you're scared of.”

“I'm scared”—I can feel my top lip quiver—“Mom'll be a paraplegic.”

“Being scared is normal in a situation like this,” Father Francoeur says. “Faith can help us overcome our fears.”

“Do you think if I have faith—if I pray hard enough— that Mom will walk again?”

We've come to a stop sign and now Father Francoeur is looking at his hands. “Faith,” he says slowly, “is believing God knows best. Even if we don't always understand His ways.”

Father Francoeur must know that's not the answer I wanted. “I want a guarantee…,” I say, hesitating a little before I go on, “that everything's is going to be all right.”

“That's just it,” Father Francoeur says, smiling. “Everything is going to be all right. No matter what happens.”

“But Mom could end up like Marco Leblanc.”

Father Francoeur turns to look at me. “Marco Leblanc? Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. I thought Marco left Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré years ago. After the accident.”

“He lives across the street from us.”

“He does? Well then, I'd better go and see him one of these days.”

“Were you and Marco Leblanc friends?”

“We were all friends. In those days, no one got left out.”

We drive along in silence for a while. The sky is as blue as the Saint Lawrence River in La Malbaie, where it widens to meet up with the Atlantic Ocean. Somehow, it feels wrong for the sky to be so blue when Mom is trapped in a hospital bed. “It feels like it should be a gray day, doesn't it? A day with giant storm clouds?”

I turn to look at Father Francoeur when he says that. That was spooky. It's as if he read my thoughts. The only other person that ever happens with is Colette…

Colette. By now, she's probably hammered the nail into the wall and hung up the crucifix. I wonder if the nurses came running when they heard the banging. She should have let me take the hammer home. But
should
doesn't mean much to Colette. And though she frustrates me more than anyone else on earth, I know she has a good heart. A pure heart.

All Colette wanted was for Mom to see that crucifix when she woke up. Again I get the feeling I was too hard on Colette. I shouldn't have shouted at her. I should have been more sympathetic when she told me she felt responsible for Mom's accident. I should be a better person. It's just that sometimes being better feels like such hard work.

“Did you hear me shouting at Colette before?” I hope Father Francoeur will say he didn't.

“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

F
ather 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.