Miracleville (14 page)

But Tante Hélène only pats my hair and sighs. “One day, when you care for somebody, and when your body's ready, you won't mind thinking about it,” she says. “You probably won't be able to stop thinking about it! And one day, when you're an old woman like me, you'll be able to explain things to a young woman like you. And that way, we make things a little better. For all of us.”

The two of us rock for a while on the swing. I lift my feet as the swing rises. One of my sandals falls off. I let the other one fall off too. The summer air tickles the skin between my toes.

“So you'll talk to Maxim and Colette—and you'll call your friend at the clinic?” I ask Tante Hélène before I go.

“Of course I will. You know, Ani”—for a moment Tante Hélène's eyes sparkle—“you aren't the only take-charge person in this town.”

Seventeen

D
id all the peonies just burst into bloom in the last half hour?

Because I hadn't noticed them before—not on my bike ride to Beaupré, and not on the way back into town. Now I see them everywhere. Pink ones, white ones, fuchsia ones so dark they're almost black. It's as if they've all opened at the same time. The blooms are already heavy and lush-looking, drooping from their stems. When I get off my bike at the top of our street, I catch a whiff of peony that reminds me of all my summers in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. I bend down to admire the soft pink petals. Tante Hélène was right when she said nature is a miracle.

I'm careful not to let my nose touch the flower. Peonies are full of ants. I know because Mom used to hold them upside down and shake them out like a mop after she picked them. Colette would scour the grass afterward, trying to find the ants so she could return them to their anthill in the flowerbed.

“They'll find a new anthill,” Mom would tell her.

Colette would shake her head. “No, they'll want to go home. To their own anthill.”

Oh my. Father Francoeur is across the street. I see him on Marco Leblanc's balcony, and now I see his Toyota parked on the street. I remember how Father Francoeur told me he'd drop by sometime to see Marco. That they're old friends, though that's still hard to imagine.

I try not to stare. But I do notice Father Francoeur is wearing his priest's collar. He's on Marco's balcony, squatting in front of Marco's wheelchair, his hands on Marco's giant forearms. The two of them are talking. I wonder about what. Old times? Father Francoeur's work at the Liberian leper colony? Weight lifting?

I straighten my shoulders and flip my hair so it hangs long and straight against my back. I know my hair is my best feature. Too bad I'm not wearing Colette's lip gloss. I lick my lips to make them shiny. And I take my time walking up to our front door. There, they've seen me!

Marco nods (which is a lot for him). Father Francoeur lifts his hand and smiles. It's a small wave and a small smile, but still my heart beats a little faster.

Father Francoeur still has one hand on Marco's forearm. “God be with you,” I hear him tell Marco. Then he puts his arms around Marco and hugs him. Hard. I guess there is a way of hugging someone in a wheelchair. I wonder if I should try it on Mom.

The old green plastic watering can is out on our front steps. Dad must've filled it with water a few days ago, because there's a thin layer of oily black scum at the top. I figure the flowers won't mind a bit of scum, so I take the can—it's heavier than I expect—and start watering the pots of geraniums by our door. Mom and Dad planted them on Victoria Day weekend. Before things went crazy.

Please, Dad, don't pop out of the house and ask why I've taken a sudden interest in plants. How could I tell Dad I'm hoping to talk to a priest? About religion, of course.

When Father Francoeur comes down Marco's staircase, he's wiping his cheek. Was he crying? After Mom's accident, Dad got angry but he didn't cry. Except for in movies or on tv, I don't think I've ever seen a man cry, so I don't know what to do. Am I supposed to turn away to give Father Francoeur privacy—or do I say something kind? It's hard to know and I don't have much time to decide. But I want to do the right thing. I want to be there for Father Francoeur. The way he was there for me after Mom's accident.

In the end, it's Father Francoeur who comes over and speaks to me. I've stretched my arm way out to water one of the hanging pots. Father Francoeur touches the back of my shoulder and I get that tingle again, the kind I get after my foot falls asleep, only better, and now the tingle is in my shoulder exactly where he touched me. For a moment, I'm afraid I'll spill the water that's left in the can on Father Francoeur's shiny loafers. “How are things, Ani?” he asks. His voice is even gentler than I remember.

“They're okay, I guess. So you went to see Marco—like you said you would.” I want Father Francoeur to know I admire him for keeping his promises. Lots of people don't.

Father Francoeur nods. “It's been a long time,” he says. “Too long. Marco and I had a lot to tell each other.”

Father Francoeur must be able to tell I'm surprised. “Marco and I used to be pretty tight,” he says. Then Father Francoeur looks right at me, and it takes all my courage not to look away. “I was with Marco the night he got hit by the train.”

I don't say anything at first. I'm picturing the accident, Marco's body trapped under the train. I'm imagining the sound of Marco's scream. Did he see the train coming?

“I never knew,” I say. “About who was with him, I mean. Only that Marco was drunk. Were you drunk too?” It's a Colette-type question. But if Mom and Father Francoeur smoked behind the Scala Santa, maybe Father Francoeur also used to drink.

“No, not really. Marco drank too much in those days. Drinking helped him forget.” Father Francoeur takes a deep breath. “But I shouldn't have let him go home alone that night. He shouldn't have been anywhere near the tracks.

Not in the condition he was in.” Father Francoeur sighs.

For a moment, I get this strange dizzy feeling, the kind of feeling I used to get when I was little and I spun myself round and round, and suddenly stopped. How odd is it that a priest is confessing to me? Because that's what this feels like. As if Father Francoeur is confessing and he wants me to absolve him. Except that he can see my face and there isn't a mesh window separating us the way there is in a confession booth. And I'm not a priest.

Father Francoeur shakes his head. “I haven't thought about that night for a long time, Ani. It changed Marco's life. And mine too.” Father Francoeur tilts his neck back and looks up at the sky.

I know he's talking about his decision to become a priest. And I know, too, that Father Francoeur is sharing something important with me. Something he thinks I'll understand. I can practically feel my heart opening in my chest. Like one of those peonies.

Leave it to Colette to ruin the moment. She comes bouncing up Avenue Royale just then. I hope she won't say anything about our latest fight. I don't want Father Francoeur to think I'm mean. But Colette is smiling and though her cheek is still a little red, you can't really tell I slapped her.

Colette doesn't bear grudges. Maybe it's part of her adhd but she can't seem to concentrate long enough to stay upset with someone. It's kind of nice.

“Hey, Father Francoeur,” Colette says. Her head is going up and down like one of those bobblehead dolls we used to collect. “What's up?”

I can't believe Colette just said “What's up?” to a priest. But Father Francoeur doesn't seem to mind. He smiles at Colette like she's a frisky puppy, like she's another miracle. I wonder what he'd say if he knew about her and Maxim. I'll bet he wouldn't smile so much. “Did you come to see Mom?” Colette asks him.

“Actually, I came to see Marco. And I've just had a good chat with your big sister here.” Again, Father Francoeur touches my shoulder. Even when he takes his hand away, I still feel his touch. Then Father Francoeur checks his watch. I notice the fine brown hairs on his wrist.

“It looks like I'll need to come back another time to visit your mom. I'm due at the Blessings Office. Last week, a woman wanted me to bless her new toaster. And someone else wanted me to bless their canary.” That makes Colette and me both laugh. “But tell your mom I'm praying for her. For all of you. Every day.”

I watch Father Francoeur as he walks down the wheelchair ramp. Before he gets into his car, Father Francoeur looks up at Marco Leblanc's balcony. But Marco's not there; he must have wheeled himself inside while I was talking to Father Francoeur.

“You know you could be a little less obvious about it,” Colette says.

“About what?” I'm still watching the back of Father Francoeur's head as he drives off.

“About your crush on him.”

“What crush?”

“Your crush on Father Francoeur.”

“I don't have a crush on him!” I say quickly. “We've just got a…a”—I'm looking for the right word—“a connection.”

“A crush is a crush,” Colette says. “But you hafta admit, Ani, it is pretty gross.” She wrinkles up her nose. “I mean, the guy's old enough to be your father.”

Eighteen

I
hear a car door slam. Who's out at this hour? Another insomniac, I guess.

Tante Hélène says chamomile tea helps when you can't sleep. Only we don't have any in the house. Colette is sound asleep. Sometimes I think I do all her worrying for her.

Colette had a fit when I told her I'd talked to Tante Hélène. Her eyes narrowed, just like Eeyore's do when he's mad. “I'm never going to speak to you again. Ever.”

The silent treatment didn't last long. I knew it wouldn't. Not coming from someone who likes talking as much as Colette does.

She wouldn't look at me for fifteen minutes, which made me feel awful. But then she punched my arm and told me, “I know you meant well. But sometimes you can be a bit of an idiot.”

“Look who's talking!” I said, and that was pretty much the end of that argument.

Tante Hélène got Colette an appointment at the clinic. She also talked to her and Maxim about safe sex. “She's pretty cool—for an old lady,” Colette told me, “so you can stop worrying now.”

But worrying isn't some switch I can just turn off.

And it's worse at night when the only light comes from the green glow of the numbers on our clock radio.

Even though it's 2:00 am (I know because I just checked), Mom and Dad are talking in the living room, where their bed is set up. All I can hear are whispers, then silence, then more whispers. Dad is doing more talking than Mom, and the rhythm of their conversation—what sounds like a question, then a long pause, then another more urgent question—makes me think they're talking about something important.

When Colette and I were little, and Mom and Dad had Iza's parents over, Colette and I used to sit at the bottom of the back stairs and listen in to the adults' conversation. It was Colette's idea. If Iza's dad made a joke, I'd give Colette a stern look so she'd know not to laugh and give us away. Colette would cover her mouth to hold the laugh in. I don't think Mom and Dad ever knew about our hiding spot.

Because I'm wondering what's so important that Mom and Dad have to talk about it now, I slip out of our room and down the hallway to the back stairway. I stop on the fifth stair from the bottom—our old listening place. When I sit down, the wood feels worn under my nightgown. The stairway is so narrow it's hard to imagine Colette and me ever fitting together on one step.

“I never asked you before,” I can hear Dad saying. His voice sounds sad and tense and worn out all at the same time.

“I've always appreciated that,” Mom tells him. “You always said it didn't matter. Why should it matter now— after so long?”

“I'm not sure, Thérèse. It just does.”

Neither of them says anything now, and I stay in my spot, trying not to move a muscle. I have no idea what “it” is. I figured they'd be talking about Mom's condition, but “it” seems to be something else altogether. Something that happened long ago and that's got nothing to do with Mom's accident.

“This is hard for me too, Thérèse,” I hear Dad say.

Mom makes a snorting sound. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now? Because you're married to a cripple.” Mom sounds more angry than sad.

“You're not a cripple. You're you. You've always been you. The you I fell in love with.”

Now I hear their bed creak—then nothing for a long time. Dad's voice breaks the silence. “Would you like another pillow for under your legs, Thérèse?”

“I'm fine like this.”

Dad sighs. It's pretty obvious Mom's not going to tell him whatever it is he wants to know.

It feels like I'll never fall asleep again. Like I'll spend the rest of my nights sitting on this staircase. Being inside isn't helping. Maybe it's the narrow staircase, but the walls feel like they're pressing in on me.