Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  I feel Father Francoeur’s eyes on my face, as if he is trying to decide whether he can trust me with the rest of the story. I nod to show him he can.

  “Marco’s gay,” Father Francoeur says. There’s no judgment in his voice. “He told me so that night. I told Marco he could change. That what he was doing was a sin and that he had to stop or he’d go to hell.” Father Francoeur’s Adam’s apple is quivering. It’s as if a small bird is caught inside his throat.

  “After the accident, the guilt was almost too much for me to bear. I shouldn’t have left him alone. Not in the condition he was in.” Father Francoeur pauses. “I even contemplated suicide. The only place that brought me peace was the basilica. I’d been brought up religious. And so I consecrated my life to God. And your mother… well, she understood. She let me go.”

  I wonder if in all my life I’ll ever love someone enough to let him go.

  Twenty-One

  I still don’t know if I believe. Not just in miracles, but in the whole package. Our Savior. Catholicism. Religion.

  If it weren’t for Catholicism, Father Francoeur might not have told Marco being gay was a sin—and Marco might not have drunk so much and got himself run over by a train. And if it weren’t for Catholicism, women in Tante Hélène’s time and even some Catholic women today might use birth control and not be forced to have so many babies.

  As for miracles, Mom’s lower body looks more shriveled every day. It’s a miracle, I suppose, a small miracle, that at least she’s working out with the weights I found in the basement.

  I guess I always thought that as I got older, I’d understand things better. That I’d be able to decide about miracles and religion and the kind of person I want to be— a believer like Mom, a skeptic like Dad or something in between. But the older I get, the more confused I feel.

  The weirdest thing is that despite the whirlpool swirling in my head, the thing I really want to do is go to confession. I can’t even explain the urge to myself. Only that it has something to do with who I was before Mom’s accident, and the peaceful feeling I still get when I’m inside the basilica. The kind of feeling that brought Father Francoeur comfort after Marco got run over by the train.

  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I practice the line in my head, though I’ve said it thousands of times.

  I started going to confession when I was in grade three.

  Back then, my biggest sin was pulling Colette’s hair.

  For the first time ever, it strikes me as kind of odd that I have to call everyone Father. God, the priests, Dad.

  It’s like Catholics have too many fathers to keep track of.

  There’s a row of six confessionals to my right. Two have green lights over their doors, which means there’s a priest inside ready to take confession. A red light over another one of the confessionals suddenly turns to green and I see Madame Dandurand pop out. I drop my head so I won’t have to say hello. I wonder what she came to confess. She certainly doesn’t look like the sinful type.

  “They’re usually the worst,” Dad would say. “Holy-moly on the outside, only not so pure inside.” Now I see how maybe Dad’s crack could apply to me too.

  When the clicking sound of Madame Dandurand’s high heels fades, I make a dash for the closest confessional. I don’t want to run into any more people I know. The moment I push open the door, I know I’ve done the right thing. The musty smell is as familiar as an old friend. I can practically feel it opening its arms to take me in.

  Luckily I’m not claustrophobic because the confessional is tiny, smaller even than one of those old-fashioned phone booths, the kind people used before everyone (except my dad) had cell phones.

  Though I can’t see his face, I already know the priest sitting on the other side of the grill is Father Lanctot. I knew it even before I stepped inside the confessional, because I heard him blow his nose. I’ll bet he stuffed the used Kleenex back up his sleeve.

  I don’t know what I’d have done if it had been Father Francoeur on the other side of the grill. I could never have confessed to him—especially since part of what I have to confess is about him.

  I take a deep breath as I sit down on the hard wooden stool inside the confessional. The stool is still warm from its last occupant. I wonder what he or she came to confess and whether Father Lanctot was shocked by what he heard, though I guess by now, Father Lanctot has heard it all.

  This isn’t going to be easy, but I know I’ll feel better afterward. Sometimes, a person has to tell her story. Get it out, then start over again. Make a new beginning.

  I flatten the sides of my skirt. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” That’s the easy part. It’s like saying “Once upon a time” when you tell a fairy tale. Always the same.

  What comes next is going to be harder. I’ve done so many sinful things lately I hardly know where to begin.

  “I don’t feel compassion for sick or handicapped people—the way I should.” I didn’t plan to start with that; it just pops out.

  I can only see the dark outline of Father Lanctot through the grill. He looks like a shadow of himself and now he’s nodding. I guess he’s heard that one before.

  “My mother is handicapped, and I don’t even feel much compassion for her.” Though I’ve been speaking in a low voice, I drop it even more. Father Lanctot straightens his shoulders. Even though I can’t see him, I can see his shadow. “I get grossed out when I see her legs. They just hang there, useless, like a rag doll’s. Looking at them makes me feel sick.”

  I don’t stop for air. I’m afraid if I do, it’ll be too hard to get going again. “And I don’t have compassion for my sister either. She’s got adhd.” I wonder if Father Lanctot knows what that is. And I wonder how many other confessions he’s listened to in his lifetime. Thousands probably. Maybe even tens of thousands.

  “And I have…I mean I had…a crush on someone I shouldn’t have had a crush on.”

  Father Lanctot’s shadow is nodding again.

  “He’s a priest.”

  Father Lanctot’s shadow goes still.

  “Don’t worry. It isn’t you.”

  “I should hope not.” Father Lanctot’s voice is flatter than usual.

  For a second, neither of us says anything.

  “Is there more?” Father Lanctot asks me.

  “I don’t know whether I believe in—you know— Him. God.”

  “Doubting is part of faith.”

  “It is?”

  “Certainly. True faith makes room for doubt.”

  I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t know what he’s talking about. How can faith and doubt go together? I always thought they were opposites like hot and cold, or fire and water. Or my mom and my dad.

  “You said you don’t have much compassion for your mother. Correct?”

  “Uh-huh.” I can practically feel the guilt coming out of my pores.

  “But that means you have some compassion. Correct?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe I’ve focused too much on what I’m missing and not enough on what I’ve got.

  “You must draw on the compassion you have. Compassion is like a well. It goes deeper than you expect.” I think about the old stone well behind the farmhouse on Côte Ste-Anne. When we were little, Dad used to lift us up so we could peer down into it. No matter how hard we tried, we could never see the bottom. “Now about that priest you say you have a crush on. Have those feelings passed?”

  I wonder if Father Lanctot notices I’ve just squirmed in my seat. Maybe he’s like a border guard—trained to watch for suspicious signs.

  “Pretty much,” I tell Father Lanctot.

  “Pretty much is a good start,” he says.

  “Do you really think so?” This confession is turning into more of a conversation than I expected.

  “I do.”

  “Then I guess I’ll try to think of it that way. Pretty much is a good start,” I say, trying out the words and the idea. “So what’s my pen
ance?”

  “I was just getting to that. Why are all you young people always in such a rush?” Father Lanctot sighs. “I want you to say twelve Hail Mary’s every night for a week. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “God be with you,” Father Lanctot says. As I get up from my seat, I hear him blow his nose. When I leave the confessional, the light is flashing green again.

  Twenty-Two

  The first thing I see when I leave the basilica is another flashing light. This one’s red and it’s coming from the top of an ambulance pulling out of the basilica parking lot. At first, I think it’s one of the pilgrims—someone has fallen out of a wheelchair or had a heart attack. Still, the wailing sound of the siren rattles me. For the rest of my life, that sound will always remind me of the day of Mom’s accident and how I heard the siren in the background when Colette phoned to say something bad had happened. And how after that, everything in our lives changed.

  I look over at the parking lot. Armand is there, wearing his orange vest. When he sees me, he waves, gesturing for me to come over.

  “Did you hear what happened to the new priest?” he shouts as I walk toward him.

  “D’you mean Father Fr-Francoeur?” My chest feels tight. What can have happened to Father Francoeur? Has he had a heart attack or some kind of stroke? Or was it an accident like Mom’s? What I’m thinking most of all is, Haven’t enough bad things happened to me already? Doesn’t God grant some kind of immunity to kids whose moms are paralyzed below the waist? Can’t He at least do a better job of looking after the people I’ve got left?

  Armand nods yes. He means Father Francoeur. I rush over to Armand, grabbing hold of his elbow. A driver waiting for Armand to direct him to a parking spot honks. “What happened to him? Tell me!” My hands are shaking.

  Armand signals for the driver to wait. “Take it easy, Ani,” he says. “I heard Father Francoeur had an allergic reaction. He was having lunch in the clergy cafeteria and his throat starting closing up. The paramedics said he went into anaphylactic shock.”

  Armand turns around and directs the driver to a free spot. Then he walks back to where I’m waiting. “They think he might have an allergy to mangoes—because another priest told the paramedics they had mango yogurt for dessert.”

  “Mangoes?”

  Armand must notice how upset I am, because he says, “I didn’t know the two of you were so close.”

  “We are. I mean…we’re not. He’s a family friend. D’you think he going to be all right?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine. The paramedics were pretty pissed off he’d let his EpiPen expire. Look, Ani, you gotta chill out. Like you said, the guy’s a family friend. It’s not like he’s your dad. Imagine if, after everything you’ve been through, something bad happened to your dad— or to Colette…”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better, Armand, it’s not working.”

  I can still hear Armand’s words inside my head as I walk along Avenue Royale. It’s not like he’s your dad.

  The window shade is already down at Saintly Souvenirs. But now I hear Colette’s voice inside my head too. He’s old enough to be your father.

  That’s when it occurs to me. What if—? What if—? No, there’s no way, no way in the world…

  Then again, it’s possible. I try to do the math, but the numbers get jumbled inside my head like a calculator just before the battery dies.

  I’m sixteen. How old was Mom when she had me? Why can’t I remember? It must be because I’m trying too hard to figure it out.

  Okay, I think I’ve got the numbers right now. It could be. It could, even if it’s the grossest thing in all the world. The grossest thing ever.

  Too gross to even think about. But there’s the math— and now the mango allergy.

  Lots of people have allergies to peanut butter. But allergies to pitted fruit are less common. What if it’s not just a coincidence?

  My head is going to explode. Or else I’m going to vomit. Maybe both at the same time.

  There’s a wooden bench up ahead. If I sit for a bit maybe my stomach will settle. Pilgrims walk by, but I don’t notice them and they don’t notice me. I need to talk to someone. Not Mom. No way. Not now, not when she’s still so messed up. And definitely not Dad.

  I’m thinking back on the conversation I overheard last week. Dad wanted to know something. What was it he said again? “I need to know who it was.” Mom didn’t want to tell him. She said he’d never needed to know before. Oh God, maybe that’s what they were talking about. Maybe Dad has known all along I wasn’t his. But Dad’s my dad. I know he is.

  It’s hard to even hold up my head. When I close my eyes, I see myself sitting on a wooden bench on Avenue Royale, my head slumped over. Why can’t this be happening to someone else?

  Thank God I didn’t kiss him. Though I came close. Now I really want to vomit.

  A girl about my age is trying to get by in her wheelchair. I bring my legs a little closer to my body to give her more room. In the past, I might have looked away. This time, I don’t. She has freckles on her nose and stronger biceps than I’ve ever seen on a girl. She maneuvers the wheelchair past me.

  When our eyes meet, she nods. There’s nothing disgusting about her. Nothing at all. I’m the monster, not her. All along, I’ve had it wrong. The really monstrous things don’t show on our outsides.

  “Hey, Ani,” a voice calls. At first, I think it’s Iza. I don’t want to talk to her. I’ll tell her I have to get right home to look after Mom. I’ll say I’ll phone her later.

  But it’s not Iza; it’s Colette. When I see her, the tension in my shoulders starts to loosen and the sick taste in my throat goes away. Colette drives me crazy, she has always driven me crazy, but she is always there. Like she is now.

  Colette and Maxim have been to the clinic for the hiv/ aids tests. She’s blurting this out on the sidewalk for the whole town to hear. “There’s a new aids test,” she’s saying. “People used to have to wait two weeks for results. But we’ll know sooner. And the nurse, she’s Tante Hélène’s friend, she says she isn’t too worried. Maxim’s only had sex with two other girls. And he used a condom with the second one.”

  “Colette! Can you at least whisper?”

  “Oops,” she says, dropping her voice. “You’re right. I guess this stuff is kinda private, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet. I need to talk to you about something important.”

  “You do?” Colette’s voice goes up, as if I’ve offered her a gift.

  The Scala Santa is Colette’s idea. She tells me how it’s her and Maxim’s favorite spot. She doesn’t have to say for what; I can figure that one out on my own.

  When Colette takes my arm, I feel a little less monstrous. “Did you know Mom used to smoke behind the Santa Scala?” I ask her.

  “I’m not surprised,” Colette says.

  A woman is admiring a huge oil painting of Jesus on the cross. Some pilgrims are trudging up the stairs. One of them, a man, is on crutches and a younger person, probably his son, is helping him up.

  Colette leads me up the stairs and around the building to a shady spot at the back. “There’s a concrete ledge we can sit on,” she says.

  We hoist ourselves up onto the ledge. I let my legs dangle. Colette bangs her heels against the wall. We’re close to Côte Gravel, the steep winding street that leads up to Côte Ste-Anne. We hear a car chug as it climbs Côte Gravel. But from where we are, we can’t see it and it can’t see us. This is the perfect hiding place.

  No wonder Mom came here to blow smoke rings and to teach Father Francoeur to smoke. Now I wonder what else they did behind the Scala Santa. “The thing I need to talk to you about,” I tell Colette, “it’s pretty gross.”

  Colette has finally stopped kicking. “Did I do something wrong?”

 
“No, this is about me.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “You did something wrong?”

  “Not really. Not me. It’s more something Mom did.” I pause. What I’m about to say is going to change everything between me and Colette. “With Father Francoeur. A long time ago.”

  “Oh,” Colette says. Her pupils are getting big the way they did in my dream. “Do you really think—?”

  “Uh-huh, I do.” I take a deep breath before I go on. “I’m nearly sure that Father Francoeur’s my dad…my biological dad.” Saying it out loud makes me feel even more certain that it’s true. And also a little bit afraid.

  There’s no going backward now.

  “Do you think Father Francoeur knows?” Colette asks.

  “I’m not sure. But I think Dad does. I think he’s known all along.”

  Colette has started kicking again. “You’re probably right.”

  “Then he’s not my dad. Not my real dad.” I look at Colette. “And we’re not real sisters.” I can feel the tears roll down my cheeks.

  When Colette wraps her arms around my shoulders, I let her. All our lives, I’ve had to look out for her. That’s what being a big sister means. This time though, she comforts me, rocking me from side to side.

  “You’re wrong about that part,” she whispers. “No matter what, Dad’s your real dad—and we’re real sisters.”

  “That’s not true,” I say between sobs. “You know it’s not true.”

  “It is true. I know it here.” When I pull away a little, I see Colette is tapping her chest exactly where her heart is. “So are you going to talk to her about it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet anyhow. And you better not either.” I don’t mean to sound so sharp.

  Colette’s kicking double-time now. “She should’ve told us.”

  “Yeah, she shouldn’t have lied. Especially since she raised us not to lie,” I say.

  Colette looks at her feet. “It wasn’t exactly a lie. Maybe she was waiting for the right time to tell. Or maybe the longer she waited, the harder it got.”