Miracleville (2 page)

Colette winks at me. Yeah, right, I think, you're some angel!

Now Colette is stuffing the vacuum cleaner back into the closet behind the counter. She doesn't wrap the electrical cord into a neat bundle the way she should, but I don't say anything. How many times have Mom and Dad told me that what Colette needs most is encouragement? And that we must love her exuberant personality. If you ask me, exuberant is code for annoying.

I hand Mom the cash from the register and the list of purchases made on credit and debit cards.

“Who's that priest you were talking to?” Colette asks Mom.

Mom unsnaps her purse and ignores Colette's question. “I'll see you two at home then. I'll set the alarm inside the store. You're on your bikes, aren't you? So you'll be leaving by the garage anyway. No fooling around, okay, Colette?”

Colette throws her arms up in the air. “Why do I always get blamed for fooling around, even when I haven't done anything?”

“Because you are always fooling around,” I mutter under my breath.

Mom is by the front door, arming the alarm. She gives me a sharp look. “Look out for her. Remember, you're the big sister.”

Aargh.

Most of the shops on Avenue Royale have garages and parking spots out back to make deliveries easier. Even though our garage door is electric, it's ancient, and it makes a loud humming sound as it opens.

“Ready?” I ask Colette. The air is warm, and from where we are standing, we can see all the way down to Highway 138. Cars and trucks zip along in both directions. Somewhere in the distance, to the west of us, is the bridge to Île d'Orléans, and beyond that, about twenty miles away, is Quebec City.

Once I hit the switch, we'll have ninety seconds to get outside.

“Guillotine!” Colette calls out. Since we were little, Colette and I have made a game of running out while the garage door closes. She came up with the name Guillotine because if that door ever closed on us, it'd probably take off our heads. As we get bigger, the game's become harder. There is more of us that has to slip out before the door closes.

“Ready!” Colette says.

I hit the switch, and we take off.

I reach the end of the driveway first. I hear Colette panting behind me. She's running so hard I worry she'll crash into our bikes, which are chained together to a telephone pole. But Colette slides to a stop in front of the bikes. “That was fun,” she says, “even if you beat me!”

Mom has already put out the recycling. My eyes land on a giant cardboard box with a picture of a two-foot-tall Jesus figurine on one side.

Then a really weird thing happens.

Jesus' eyes flash, as if he's alive and possibly angry at me.

For a second, I wonder if He is trying to send me a message. My shoulders stiffen.

Colette grabs my arm. “C'mon,” she says, “let's go!”

When I look back at the box, Jesus' eyes are flat and dead.

Two

“B
less us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts…” Mom bows her head as she prays.

I bow my head and say grace with Mom. I should be thinking about the Lord and His gifts, but Colette is distracting me. Again. She keeps tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. Even Dad is playing with his napkin.

Colette looks like Dad. She has his stocky build, dark laughing eyes and curly chestnut hair. I'm more like Mom. We're slim, with pale blue eyes, straight blond hair (although mine is thicker) and the same heart-shaped face. The women on Mom's side go gray early. Mom's only thirty-four, but her hair's already got gray streaks. I guess it'll happen to me too.

Mom's friend Lise—my friend Iza's mother—is always after Mom to dye her hair, but Mom won't. She's kind of an eco-freak. It started when Colette was four, after she was diagnosed with adhd—Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. Mom read online that eliminating household chemicals might help Colette. Of course, there's no way of knowing if it worked. All I know is the bottom of our bathtub's gray—a problem eco-cleanser won't fix—and Colette is still a royal pain.

Colette has one thing I wish I had. Boobs. Even though I'm sixteen, my chest is almost as flat as the dining-room table. Sometimes, when we're getting dressed in the upstairs bedroom we share, I sneak a peek at Colette's chest—her breasts are the size of grapefruits—and I feel a tug of jealousy. I know it isn't right, but I still do. What if I stay flat-chested forever?

Colette's moving her lips, but she isn't saying the words to the prayer out loud.

Dad is still playing with his napkin. Sometimes I wonder if he has a touch of adhd too. When Mom looks up and catches Dad's eye, he stops.

Other than Dad's office behind the kitchen, the dining room is the only crucifix-free zone in our house. Dad freaked out a couple of weeks ago when Mom came home with another crucifix (a sample from a supplier) and tried to hang it on the wall across from the table. Her plan might have worked if she hadn't hung it right in Dad's line of vision.

“If there's one thing that spoils my appetite, Thérèse,” Dad had said, shaking his head, “it's the sight of Jesus bleeding on the cross!” Then Dad closed his eyes, refusing to open them until Mom took down the crucifix.

The crucifix was made of resin, and Jesus was wearing a tan loincloth that looked like a diaper. “But this is such a lovely crucifix. See how lifelike our Savior's skin looks,”

Mom had said, stroking the resin as if it were flesh.

Dad banged his fist on the table. “My point exactly!”

“Calm down, Robert,” Mom told him, patting his arm. “I'll find another place for it.”

Dad shook his head again. “I'm sure you will.”

When Dad gets upset, it's a lightning flash—over quickly and leaving the air feeling crisper afterward. “Let's kiss and make up,” he'll say to Mom, puckering up his lips in a way that always makes Colette hoot.

“Not in front of the girls,” Mom will say, blushing.

When Mom and Dad argue, it's usually about religion. She believes; he doesn't. They compromise when it comes to home décor. No crucifixes in Dad's office or the dining room. But there is a crucifix over the kitchen sink, one on either side of the blue velvet couch in the living room and one over every bed in our house. I wonder if Dad has to close his eyes when he and Mom have sex too. Not that I ever like to think about my parents having sex. What kid does?

Mom believes we need to be constantly reminded that Jesus sacrificed His life for us.

I'm not so sure that's necessary.

One thing Mom and Dad agree about, though, is raising us. They're both too strict, especially now that we're teenagers. I don't understand why they worry so much. I've never caused them any trouble and, except for her adhd, Colette's not a bad kid either. Besides, it's hard to make trouble in a town this size, where everybody knows each other. Not to mention that we've got good Saint Anne watching out from every statue, key chain and nightlight.

Colette pops up from her chair when I ask her to help me clear the dishes. I know it's because she wants to see Maxim.

“Don't tell me you're going to McDonald's again,” Mom says to us.

I know it's pathetic, but McDonald's is the coolest place in town to hang out. Other than the basilica (not exactly a hot spot for teens) and the other religious monuments, all we've got is the Sweet Heaven Candy Store and a couple of restaurants with names like L'Église and Pilgrims' Café.

I guess Mom wishes her two angels would spend less time at McDonald's and more time at home reading the Bible, the way she says she did when she was our age.

Mom runs Saintly Souvenirs, the souvenir shop she inherited after her parents died. Dad does the accounting—and the grocery shopping and cooking. He's always testing new recipes he finds online. Tonight we had braided asparagus spears with cranberry chicken over steamed rice.

“That's exactly where we're going.” Colette answers for both of us. “Again.”

Dad clears his throat. “We want the two of you home by ten thirty.”

“Not a moment later,” Mom adds, wiping her chin with her napkin.

“That's right,” Dad says. The two of them exchange small smiles. Maybe it's because they disagree so much about religion that Mom and Dad seem extra-pleased when they agree about something.

Colette groans. “Ten thirty is so too early! Can't we—?”

“We'll be back on time,” I say, catching Colette's eye and giving her a sharp look.

Colette mouths the words “Saint Ani” at me.

I glare at her, but she just smiles back at me.

It's almost completely dark when Colette and I leave. Our house is on a winding stretch of Avenue Royale, a quarter of a mile past the basilica and the souvenir shops. Because we're on the north side, the back of our house faces the rocky cliff that borders Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré on one side. From our bedroom window at the front of the house, we can look out at the basilica's green roof and silver spires and the 138.

There's only one street in town where you can't see the cliff behind you. That's Côte Ste-Anne, where Iza lives, past the farmhouse with the old stone well. When I was little, I used to like the feeling of living sandwiched between the cliff and the highway. It made me feel safe. But I'm starting to feel different. Sometimes this town makes me claustrophobic. Trapped in a too-small town with too-strict parents and a super-annoying little sister.

One day I'll be old enough to live on my own. I like imagining myself in Quebec City or Montreal, someplace where my neighbors won't know anything about me. Where I won't always have to look out for Colette. That's what I'm thinking when she taps my shoulder to offer me some of her new chocolate lip gloss.

That's the thing about Colette: just when you think you've had it with her, she does something sweet. Colette's got a good heart. She really does. I need to try and be nicer to her.When Colette and I walk out to the street, we hear a sudden creaking, followed by the sound of someone's raspy breathing. It's coming from the upstairs balcony of the white clapboard house across the street, just a little down the hill from where we live. The house is small, but the balcony is as big as our living room.

Colette steps a little closer to me. “It's him,” she says.

“Not so loud,” I say. “He'll hear you.”

“Why's he always spying on us?” At least now she's whispering.

“Maybe he just wants some fresh air. Besides, we used to spy on him.”

“Yeah, but we were little. He's a grown man.”

I take bigger steps to keep up with Colette. Though I would never admit it to her, I think Marco Leblanc is creepy too. In all the years we've lived across the street from him, he has never said more than “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” to us. Not even when we were little and Mom forced us to wish him a good day or ask him how he was whenever we passed him.

Eventually, even Mom gave up on trying to be friends with Marco. Which is unusual since Mom can make friends with a lamppost. Mom and Marco grew up together, but she says he pushed her away—that he pushed a lot of people away—over the years, and that even if it hurts, you've got to respect a person's feelings.

Marco owns the whole house. He inherited it from his parents. He lives upstairs—probably because the balcony is good for spying on his neighbors. The downstairs is rented out. He must have one of those electric stair lifts to get downstairs, but he sure doesn't use it much. Colette and I have never seen him leave his apartment. Not even once.

Marco gets his food delivered from the IGA, and once a week a nurse from the clinic comes to check on him. Once in a while he has other visitors. Mostly guys. I guess he hasn't gotten around to pushing them away yet.

We hear more creaking as Marco's wheelchair creeps along the edge of the balcony. I've heard how prisoners on death row pace in their cells. Marco “paces” back and forth in his wheelchair along the edge of his balcony. He paces all day and sometimes at night too.

He also lifts weights. In summer, most people here line their balconies with pots of geraniums; Marco lines his with free weights—dozens of chrome dumbbells that glimmer when the sun lands on them. Often, when we're biking to Saintly Souvenirs, Colette and I see Marco on his balcony. Then all at once, his head will disappear as he leans down to grab a weight in each hand and press it slowly to his chest.

Marco's lower body must be shriveled. I get grossed out if I even try to picture it. He got run over by a train when he was seventeen; Mom says it was because he had been drinking. But Marco's upper body looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger's, with muscles in places you didn't even know had muscles. In summer, Marco wears tight white undershirts that make the disproportion even creepier.

Marco has a rickety old wheelchair with thin worn tires—which explains the creaking. Because it's nearly dark, it's hard to make out the exact shape of the wheelchair, or of Marco sitting hunched in it. From where we are on the sidewalk, it's as if Marco is a giant bird of prey waiting for the right moment to pounce on us.