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 wonde
r 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
Emil—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.
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.
Miracleville Page 5
