Miracleville (7 page)

Dad's words hang in the air.
We could have lost her
. I know everybody has to die one day, but somehow, this is the first time I've ever really understood that one day Mom will die, and Dad too. The thought makes me go panicky inside. I feel little and lost and like I want to run away, but there's no place to go. How will Colette and I ever manage without them? I push the thought away. It's too sad and scary to imagine a world without my parents in it.

But at least now we know something. And we have something to hope for.

Colette is rocking again. “What's going to happen?” she cries out. “Is Mom going to be okay—or is she going to be a cripple for the rest of her life?”

Dad shakes his head. I dig my nails into the armrest. The nosy lady sighs.

Eight

I
won't take my eyes off Mom. Even if I'm having trouble keeping them open. No way. I'm watching Mom's sleeping face and the scratchy yellow blanket that covers her lower body. I keep hoping for some sign of movement—anything—but there is none.

One of us has been with her round the clock since the accident happened two days ago. I came up with the idea of making a schedule. I stuck it on the refrigerator, next to a photo of Mom and Dad posing by the waterfall, their faces young and happy-looking. Colette is coming by bus to relieve me, and Dad will take over from her after he closes the shop. Clara is working extra hours, so that helps too.

There's a ripple in the blanket and I nearly call out, but it's just a breeze coming in through the window.

My stomach is rumbling—all I had for breakfast was an Egg McMuffin—but I won't let myself sleep or eat or even pee. All I want to do is be here at Mom's bedside. Part of me hopes that by keeping such close watch over her I'll help make her better.

Hope. It's what we've been living on since Sunday. We're breathing, eating, even dreaming hope. Hope is light and airy, hope feels kind, but there are heavier, darker, unkind thoughts and feelings in me too. Like this one: Mom could be paraplegic—paralyzed from the waist down—for the rest of her life. She might never walk again, never hike, or even use the bathroom on her own. She might have to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. Like Marco Leblanc. And then what will happen to us?

Mom's on an intravenous muscle relaxant that makes her sleepy. The doctors stapled up the wound on her lower back where the door hit. “There's no need for painkillers,” the neurosurgeon explained to us, “since she can't feel the pain. For now.”

“Are you saying it would be a good thing if she felt pain?” Dad asked.

“Exactly.”

I keep thinking about that. How pain's something we all fear and try to avoid, and now we're hoping, praying even, for Mom to feel pain.

The doctor said the first few days following a spinal-cord injury are critical.

But how many days is a few? It's already Tuesday. I count out the days on my fingers. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. But if I count from the time of the accident, well then, it's just two days. A few days must be more than two.

The hospital room smells of cut flowers. Everyone has sent bouquets—old friends, longtime customers, the Dandurands, even the mayor and his wife. I notice the water in one of the vases is turning brown. I should change it, but that would mean leaving Mom. And I won't—not even for the time it would take to flush the old water down the toilet.

I hear Colette's voice from down the hall. She must be saying hi to everyone in the icu. A moment later, she bursts into Mom's room. “How is she?”

“The same.”

Colette slides off her backpack and dumps it at the bottom of Mom's bed, near her feet. Then Colette leans over to take out something she's wrapped in a dish towel. It's the crucifix Mom wanted to hang in the dining room. The one Dad said made him lose his appetite. I guess Mom never got around to finding another spot for it.

“Mom'll like that,” I say, and Colette's face brightens. “Leave it on her nightstand so she'll see it when she wakes up.”

“I've got a better idea.” Colette reaches inside the backpack and fishes out a hammer and a small folded piece of paper. A nail falls out, landing somewhere on the yellow blanket.

“You can't do that!” I hiss.

“Oh yes I can.”

“Colette!”

“Saint Ani strikes again,” Colette mutters.

“Don't call me that.”

Colette sighs. She finds the nail, wraps it back inside the paper and stashes it together with the hammer under Mom's blanket. Colette is hoping I'll forget about her plan.

“Put the hammer back in your backpack,” I tell Colette. “And the nail too.”

She shakes her head.

When Colette lifts the edge of the blanket, we see Mom's feet. They look pale and veiny and both her baby toes are calloused, probably from hiking. Colette runs her hand over one of Mom's feet. I know she is watching for some sign that Mom can feel her. But nothing registers.

“I'll take the hammer home,” I tell Colette. I use my firmest voice—the one Colette sometimes listens to.

“No way,” Colette says. “I want to hang the crucifix right there.” She fixes her eyes on the wall opposite Mom's bed.

“You could get in a lot of trouble, for…for”—I search for the right words, something that will scare Colette into giving me the hammer—“for defacing public property.”

I try to reach under the blanket and grab the hammer, but Colette pushes me away.

“Okay, then. I give up. But I don't want to be here when you do it. I'm going home to sleep. Phone right away if there's news. Any news at all.” I lean over to kiss Mom goodbye. Her breath smells sour and her beautiful hair is so greasy it looks like it's glued to her head.

“Are you gonna be all right?” I ask Colette. Sitting still for six hours is about the hardest thing you can ask Colette to do. “Did you bring something to do—and something to eat?”

“I've got an
Elle
magazine. And Dad gave me money for the cafeteria. Look, I'm sorry I called you Saint Ani before. It's just…just…you're always acting so…well, so good. You make me feel like I'm bad.” Colette makes a strange blubbering noise, something between a sneeze and a sob. “The thing is”—Colette can hardly get the words out now—“I am bad. I know I am. I shouldn't have left Mom alone in the shop. I was being selfish.”

I know Colette wants me to tell her Mom's accident wasn't her fault, that Mom is going to be okay, that she'll regain movement in her legs and that all our lives will go back to what they were like before.

But right now, I can't give Colette what she wants. Right now, I'm too sad and too drained to be anyone's big sister. And I'm bone tired of always having to do the right thing, and say the right thing, and look after Colette and her special needs and her feelings.

“You know, Colette, everything isn't always about you. This”—for a second, my hands fly up into the air— “this is about Mom. She's the one who may never be able to walk again. Not you.”

Colette's mouth forms an O. She reaches for my hand, but I shake it away. I don't care if I've let Colette down or hurt her feelings. I've had it with caring, with being good. It's too much work.

There is a knock at the door. I figure it's a doctor or a nurse. I hope whoever it is hasn't heard us arguing.

Someone clears his throat. “May I come in?” a man's voice asks.

A doctor or a nurse wouldn't bother asking.

The man isn't wearing scrubs and he doesn't have a stethoscope around his neck. He has thick dark hair. And then I realize how I know him. It's the handsome priest who was talking to Mom outside the shop, the one who was assisting Father Lanctot at Sunday Mass. Only he isn't wearing his priest's collar now.

“I came as soon as I could,” he says as he walks into the room. Then he stops to introduce himself. “I'm Father Francoeur. Your mom and I knew each other when we were kids. I saw you at church,” he says when our eyes meet. “It's uncanny how much you look like she did then.”

“It's good of you to come,” I say.

Colette shoots me a look. I know I sound prissy, but I can't help it. I'm not used to making conversation with priests.

I extend my hand. My cheeks are hot. I feel his eyes land on my earrings—the ones with the crosses. I've worn them every day since the accident. I even wear them in the shower and when I go to sleep. “I'm Ani. This is my sister Colette.”

Father Francoeur clasps my hands and then Colette's. His fingers feel dry and cool. He steps closer to Mom's bedside. I watch him watching Mom's face. He looks as peaceful as she does. Then he closes his eyes. I wonder if he's remembering back to when he and Mom were kids. I wonder what kind of stuff they used to do together.

Father Francoeur opens his eyes. “The Lord cured the paralytic woman, for she had faith.” His voice is gentle and calm. I wonder if that's something he learned at seminary school—or if having that kind of voice is a prerequisite for getting in. Then he closes his eyes again. I know it's because he's praying now. I close my eyes too.

“Where's your priest's collar?” Colette asks Father Francoeur.

“Colette!” I say. “Can't you see Father Francoeur is praying?”

When Father Francoeur smiles, I can suddenly picture him as a teenager. I'll bet he was a little nerdy but already handsome. There's a dimple in his chin. “Sometimes that collar gets a little tight around my neck. Besides, I'm here today as a friend, not as a priest.”

Though we have all been whispering, Mom is waking up. Her eyelids have begun to flutter. If only her legs and feet would flutter too!

“My girls!” she says, smiling when she sees us. Her voice is so weak we have to lean in to hear her. “Emil!”

His first name is Emil.

Mom tries to use her elbows to hoist herself up, but even that one simple movement is too much for her.

Colette slides her arm behind Mom's back and props her up a little. I press the button that raises the head of the bed.

Mom nods. I think she's too tired to thank us.

Now Mom reaches for Father Francoeur's hand, using it to pull herself up a little higher. “Emil,” she says, looking right at him. “I have to get out of here.”

“Thérèse, it isn't time yet for that,” he tells her. “But soon. When you are a little stronger.”

“You don't understand,” Mom says, and for the first time since the accident, she is crying. Fat round tears dribble down her cheeks. “I need to go to the basilica. I need to ask for Sainte Anne's intercession.”

Nine

E
mil—Father Francoeur—doesn't want to stay too long. He says he's afraid of tiring Mom out and that she needs all the rest she can get. I'm glad he's there. Even his short visit has changed the mood in the hospital room. It's calmer now, and the electricity that was in the air when Colette and I were arguing is gone.

When Father Francoeur finds out I'm taking the bus back to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, he offers to drive me. “It's the least I can do. Besides, I'm afraid that after being up all night you'll fall asleep on the bus and miss your stop. You might wake up in Baie-Saint-Paul! No, no, we can't have that.”

Mom doesn't like the idea. “Emil, you must have church business here in Quebec City. And Ani will be fine on the bus, won't you, dear?”

But Father Francoeur insists. “I need to get back to town. Besides, I'd enjoy the company.”

Mom's too weak to argue.

“I almost forgot,” Father Francoeur says, reaching into his jacket pocket, “I brought you something.” It's a miniature Bible, the kind you need a magnifying glass to read. We carry them at Saintly Souvenirs, but this one looks ancient; the edges of its black cover are frayed.

“Emil,” Mom says, her voice cracking a little, “is that the one I gave you?”

“The very one. I've kept it with me always. I even took it to Africa. Now it's time to return it.”

He hands Mom the tiny Bible. She leafs through the pages, so thin they are almost transparent, then presses it to her heart. “I can't believe you kept it all this time.”

Father Francoeur smiles. “That Bible,” he says, “was my favorite souvenir.” The way he drags out each syllable makes me think about what the word
souvenir
means in French—a memory. It's weird knowing Mom has shared memories with this man, who, until Colette and I saw him on Avenue Royale two weeks ago, we never knew existed.

By the time Father Francoeur and I are ready to go, Mom's chin has dropped to her chest. She has dozed off, the tiny Bible still pressed to her heart.

I'm a little shocked when Father Francoeur leans over and strokes Mom's hair. The gesture seems so…so intimate. Especially for a priest. I feel more comfortable when, before we leave Mom's room, he makes the sign of the cross and says a prayer for her. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, I bless you and I absolve you from your sins.” Mom sighs in her sleep.