Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  Sixteen

  I nearly say something right then and there to Maxim. I nearly go over, tap him on the shoulder and tell him what an irresponsible jerk he is and how, even if he can fool everyone else in Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, including his grandmother, he can’t fool me! That I can see right through his smarmy act!

  But in the end, I decide Maxim isn’t the person I need to talk to—Colette is. So I wait for Maxim and Armand to leave the store. Besides, it takes a while for my heart to stop racing.

  Maxim doesn’t buy the light. I guess he’s not as concerned about safety as he says!

  My hands shake as I pay for the pale blue weightlifting gloves. I’m a little afraid that every time I see them I’m going to remember the disgusting conversation I just overheard. Man, that girl’s wild!

  Biking helps calm me down. As I pedal, I plan what I’ll say to Colette. She can’t keep having sex without a condom. And who knows? It may already be too late! What if she’s pregnant—or Maxim has given her an STD? Judging from the way he talked, he’s been with other girls, besides Colette.

  The road into town is busier than usual. It’s already the beginning of July and Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré is getting more crowded every day. Still, it’s nothing compared to how busy it’s going to be on July 25, Saint Anne’s feast day.

  When I burst through the door at Saintly Souvenirs, I see there are customers in the store. Two women, wearing matching pink sweater sets and carrying the same pale pink purses. Maybe it’s a good thing Colette isn’t alone—otherwise, I might strangle her.

  “I want twenty vials of your miracle oil,” one of the women tells Colette. The other one is looking at postcards of the basilica. They both have fine reddish hair and freckled arms. Sisters, probably, or two women who’ve been friends so long they’ve started to look alike.

  “Coming right up,” Colette says, smiling. Somehow, I expect Colette to look different. More grown up. Sinful. Like a person who’s had sex. Unprotected sex. But Colette looks the same as always. Bright-eyed, with those big brown curls that make you want to touch them. Maxim must’ve touched them. He must’ve touched a lot more too, and not just her breasts. The thought makes the insides of my thighs tingle and I cross my legs to make the tingling stop. How could Colette have let him? How could she have been so…so…irresponsible?

  “You never know when you’re going to need a miracle,” the first woman says as Colette counts out the vials and wraps them in tissue paper. The other woman chooses a postcard of the Miraculous Statue and brings it to the cash.

  “Are you two twins?” Colette asks the women. That’s when she spots me—and waves. “Hey, Ani!”

  “We’re sisters, not twins, but every bit as close as twins. Aren’t we, Cheryl?” the postcard sister says, squeezing the other one’s fat freckly arm.

  “No one understands you better than a sister,” Cheryl says, and then the two of them turn and grin at each other like they’ve just won the mini-lotto. I’ll bet neither of them ever had unprotected sex. Or any kind of sex at all.

  “That’s my sister,” Colette says, and the two women turn around and peer at me as if I’m a rare zoo animal.

  “You two don’t look anything alike,” the postcard sister says.

  “Not a bit,” Cheryl agrees. Then she taps her chest as if to show us it’s not hollow. “Of course, it’s not the looks that matter. It’s the heart connection.”

  “Well, we’ve got that for sure,” Colette says, grinning up at me.

  Yeah, I’m thinking, if wanting to murder your sister counts as a heart connection.

  The two women take forever to leave the store. Cheryl is cleaning out her purse, emptying its contents on the counter. Her wallet, a lipstick, a pair of reading glasses with rhinestone decorations. “I know I have a dollar in here somewhere,” she says. The postcard sister wonders out loud whether she should have chosen a different postcard.

  “I need to talk to you,” I tell Colette. “It’s important.”

  “What’s up?” she asks.

  “I can’t talk until they leave,” I whisper.

  “I hope you get your miracles!” Colette calls out when the sisters finally take off.

  “Lovely to have met the two of you!” the sisters say in chorus. Even their matching pale pink purses swing on their shoulders in unison as they head out to the sidewalk.

  “Is Mom okay?” Colette asks. She’s bouncing, but she has one hand on the counter, steadying her.

  “Mom’s okay. I came to talk about you. And Maxim.” I even hate saying that creep’s name. “I was at the sporting goods store in Beaupré. He was there too. I heard him talking to Armand. About you.”

  Colette’s face brightens. “What did he say? Did he call me his girlfriend? Did he say he thinks I’m beautiful? Well, did he?”

  Though I know we’re alone, I turn around to make sure no one is listening. I’m embarrassed even to say what I’m about to say around the Jesus statues and the crucifixes. Someone in this town needs to be discreet. I take a deep breath. “He said the two of you had”—I gulp a little—“sex without a condom. Is that true, Colette?” I don’t care if I sound angry and judgmental. I am angry— and I am judging Colette.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Colette’s lower lip trembles. Now I know what Maxim said has to be true.

  “Colette! What in God’s name were you were thinking? You’re too young to have sex! And you know how dangerous unprotected sex is! You could have a terrible disease, aids even! And you could be pregnant! Don’t you know anyth—?” I only stop shouting when my voice breaks.

  I expect Colette to start bawling. If I were her, I’d feel guilty and lost and scared to death. I’d feel like I’d ruined my whole life. But when Colette looks up at me, her eyes are dry. “It was awesome!” she says.

  At first, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Awesome?” I step so close to Colette I can hear her breathing. “Are you nuts?”

  She’s breathing faster now. “Well, maybe the first time wasn’t awesome. The first time hurt a little.” I can’t believe Colette is telling me this. Can’t she see how she’s embarrassing me? Even my neck feels hot. But Colette doesn’t notice. “After that first time, it was awesome. Definitely awesome. And fun.” Now she’s looking right at me, reminding me that though I’m the older sister, when it comes to sex, she knows way more than I do.

  I feel my jaw drop open, but no words come out. I’m too upset to speak.

  Colette sighs as if I’m the one who’s done something stupid. “What would you know about fun, Ani? You’re the least fun person I ever met. And you’re jealous too! That’s why you’re yelling at me. You’re just plain jealous!”

  “Jealous?” Now she’s really making me angry. Why doesn’t she understand I’m looking out for her—the way I always do? The way I’ve had to ever since she was born! “What do I have to be jealous about?” I’m shrieking now. “That you have some loser boyfriend who can’t keep his mouth shut? And who doesn’t respect you enough to use a condom?”

  When I slap Colette, it feels like my hand is moving without me. As if it slipped out from under my sleeve to smack her cheek. As if the red mark on her cheek appeared out of nowhere and had nothing to do with me.

  It’s not fair that I’m the one who ends up crying. Colette’s been irresponsible, not me. I’m just trying to protect her. Only I can’t protect her anymore. That’s the problem.

  I can’t go home. Not feeling like this. There’s no way I can tell Mom and Dad about Colette. They’ve already got too much to worry about. Besides, if Mom and Dad found out, they’d go to war. Dad would focus on Colette’s safety; Mom would pray for Colette’s soul.

  I’m afraid if I get back on my bike, I’ll fall off. So I end up walking alongside my bike, trying to calm down. The hand I used to slap Colette feels hot. I don’t care if I left a mark on her cheek. I don’t care if it never goes away. Colette deserves it—for being such an idiot. For falling for a loser like Maxim. For having
sex with him. A guy who flirts with middle-aged waitresses.

  I take one of the smaller roads off Avenue Royale. I don’t want to run into anyone I know. I need to gather my thoughts. Make a plan. This is the sort of problem a mom’s supposed to handle, not a sister.

  Colette will have to have a pregnancy test. And an hiv/aids test too. Who knows how many other girls Maxim has sweet-talked into unprotected sex? When Colette calms down, I’ll tell her she needs to ask him. And that if she plans to keep having sex with him, they’ll have to use a condom.

  My head is hurting from trying to sort all this out.

  Maybe that’s why I don’t see Tante Hélène coming up the sidewalk toward me. I smell dandelions before I see her. She’s carrying a bundle of the bright yellow weeds.

  “Ani?” she says, stopping in front of me. “What’s wrong?” She puts her dandelions in my bicycle basket and slides the palm of her hand against my forehead. “You have a fever. Not high, but a fever nonetheless. You should sit down. Come, dear, we’re not far from my house.”

  I feel my legs wobble as we follow the sidewalk to her house. I leave my bike on her lawn. Tante Hélène leads me to the chipped blue swing on her front porch and sits me down on the puffy pillow. It feels damp under my bum.

  “How about a nice cup of dandelion tea?”

  I can’t even stand the smell of dandelions. “No thanks. I’ll just sit for a bit.”

  Tante Hélène is watching my face. “You’re not really sick, are you?” she says. “You’re upset. I can tell. The dandelion tea would do you good.”

  “Okay, I’ll have some.” There’s no use fighting Tante Hélène.

  Maybe it’s because she’s added honey, but the dandelion tea doesn’t taste bitter. And if I don’t inhale when I drink it, I don’t notice the bad smell. I am beginning to feel a little calmer. Maybe it’s the tea, or maybe it’s from sitting next to Tante Hélène on her porch swing. The swing is rocking just a little, kind of like a cradle.

  “This business with your mother must be very hard on all of you,” Tante Hélène says with a sigh and I nod. “But that’s not all that’s bothering you, is it?”

  How does she know stuff like that?

  “It’s my sister,” I say into my teacup. “And your grandson.” At least I don’t have to say his name.

  “My grandson?” Tante Hélène seems surprised that anything about her grandson could be a problem. He’s got her under his spell too. “I know he and Colette have been spending a great deal of time together,” she says. She makes it sound as if they’ve been playing checkers up in his bedroom. “They seem to have become very close friends.”

  “They’re more than close friends,” I whisper.

  Tante Hélène nods. “It’s the way of the world,” she says. “There’s no stopping it. There never was.”

  “Maxim and Colette…you know…” I feel my ears getting hot again. I can’t believe I’m saying these things— or trying to—to Maxim’s grandmother. I take another sip of dandelion tea. “They did it…without…you know…”

  When Tante Hélène bites her lip, I know she understands what I’m trying to tell her. “Oh my,” she says. “Oh my. That’s very bad. Very worrisome.”

  At least now I’m not the only one worrying. The thought makes me feel just a little bit better.

  “I’ll talk to him. Straightaway.” Tante Hélène’s chin wobbles when she says so.

  “You will? You’d talk to him about…well, you know…?”

  “Of course I know. In fact, I should have talked to him when he first came to stay with me. And I’ll talk to Colette too.”

  “You will?”

  “Certainly. Colette and I have become good friends.”

  “You have?” I try to picture Colette sitting here, sipping dandelion tea and chatting with Tante Hélène. I’ve seen Colette on swings. If Colette was on this one, she’d rock so hard, she’d send Tante Hélène flying all the way to Avenue Royale.

  “She’ll need to go to the clinic. For a checkup. I have an old friend who works there. I’ll phone and see what she can do.”

  “Do you think Colette could be—?” I bite my lip.

  Tante Hélène brushes some strands of gray hair away from her eyes. “Let’s hope not.”

  We both sip at our tea. I can feel Tante Hélène’s eyes on my face. I get the feeling she’s about to prescribe some herbal remedy for me. Something to bring down my fever, settle my stomach or calm my nerves.

  But that’s not what Tante Hélène has on her mind.

  “You seem a little squeamish,” she says. “About sex.” Tante Hélène says the word like it’s no big deal. As if there’s nothing sinful about it.

  First I look down at my feet. Then I look over at my bicycle lying on the lawn. I don’t know where to look next. “I don’t like talking about it is all. It’s…embarrassing.”

  For a moment, Tante Hélène closes her eyes. Her eyelids look like they’re made of tissue paper. “In my day,” she says, “we never discussed sex. How I wish I’d had someone to talk to about such things when I was a young woman. All the new feelings in my body. Feelings that sometimes made me feel ashamed.”

  Listening to her makes me remember the feelings I’ve been having lately. New feelings. The tingling I got in church when Father Francoeur looked at me, the ache in my breasts when I imagined Maxim touching Colette.

  Tante Hélène continues. “It wasn’t that much better when your mother was growing up either. Especially for Catholic girls.”

  Though Tante Hélène is old and wrinkled, I don’t find it that hard to imagine her as a teenager. I wonder what she thought about sex when she was a teenager. “How did you find stuff out—in your day, I mean?”

  When Tante Hélène chuckles, her cheeks fill up and she reminds me of a squirrel. “Well, mostly through trial and error. But birth control—oh my, we knew nothing about it. Not a thing! The priests told us birth control was a sin. They told us sex was just for having babies. It’s no wonder people had so many children in those days. Too many! The women were just plain worn out from raising such big families. No one told us sex could be pleasurable.”

  Pleasurable. Tante Hélène smiles when she says it.

  I think about what Colette had said about fun. About how I was the least fun person she’d ever met. What if that’s true? “I don’t even like to think about sex. I mean… I do think about it, quite a lot sometimes, but I try not to.” The words have slipped out of me, and immediately I’m sorry I said them. I’ve told Tante Hélène too much. She’ll think I’m as bad as Colette.

  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

  Did 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.