Miracleville

by Monique Polak

  “I guess. But still. She should’ve told us.”

  We just sit that like for a while: Colette kicking at the air, me with my legs dangling down. I think about the matchy-match sisters and I feel a little jealous of them. At least they know who they are to each other.

  We’re still sitting on the ledge when we hear the tinkling sound of a girl laughing. “Are you sure coming here is a good idea?” Her accent sounds Spanish.

  “You’re gonna love it.” The words are followed by a laugh.

  Colette and I both freeze. That voice. The laugh. Maxim.

  A second later he’s in front of us, holding hands with the dark-haired girl whose photo he took at the canyon. The one he spoke Spanish to.

  Colette jumps to her feet. Her face looks like it’s about to crack. “Maxim! What the hell? Why are you holding her hand?” She glares at the girl. “He’s my boyfriend, bitch!”

  The girl shakes her hand loose from Maxim’s. Her dark eyes look angry. At who, I can’t tell.

  But she’s not half as angry as Colette. “I hate you, Maxim! I really hate you!”

  I’m standing now too. “Let’s go,” I say, trying to take hold of Colette’s elbow. “Don’t even talk to him. He’s not worth it.”

  Maxim puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s not like we’re married or anything,” he tells Colette.

  “You could at least say you’re sorry,” I hiss at Maxim. Maybe he never learned how to apologize.

  Colette is sobbing. The Spanish girl bites her lip. “I’m sorry,” she tells Colette, but Colette won’t look at her.

  “We should go,” Maxim tells the Spanish girl. “Listen, Colette,” he says, looking back at her, “I’ll phone you later and we’ll talk, okay?”

  Colette sniffles. I know her—she never stays mad. She’s going to give Maxim another chance, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Colette rubs her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is shaky, but the words come out clear. “Don’t bother,” she tells Maxim. “We’re done.”

  I decide not to say anything bad about Maxim, even though I want to. It won’t help Colette if I do. She rests her head against my arm.

  “I really hate him,” she says, hiccupping, and then she starts to sob all over again. “But I love him too.” Saying that makes her cry harder.

  There’s nothing for me to do but let Colette cry and hand her Kleenex when she needs it.

  “There’s only one good thing,” Colette says when we finally get up from the ledge.

  “What’s that?” I expect Colette to say that, soon, Maxim is supposed to go back to Quebec City. Or maybe that she’s glad that, thanks to her, the Spanish girl found out Maxim was a jerk before she fell for him too.

  “The one good thing was you were here.”

  Twenty-Three

  I make Colette swear she won’t talk to Mom or Dad about Father Francoeur. “Not till I’m ready,” I tell her. “And I’m not ready yet.”

  I guess I don’t really have to worry since Colette has other things on her mind.

  When we get home, she bursts into the house and heads straight for the blue velvet couch. “How could he do this to me?” she wails, crossing her hands over her chest as if to prevent her broken heart from popping right out.

  Mom is more supportive than I expected. She makes tea and fusses over Colette. Maybe we’ve been so busy looking after Mom we haven’t given her a chance to look after us. “A bubble bath might help,” she tells Colette— and I can’t help wondering if bubble baths helped Mom get over Father Francoeur after he decided to become a priest.

  Being home is hard for me. It’s as if the lighting has grown darker. In the kitchen, the photograph on the fridge door of Mom and Dad looks different now too. Mom’s smile looks forced. And in the living room, the Jesuses on the crucifixes look more discouraged than usual. As if they’re having trouble bearing the weight of all our sins.

  Colette has taken Mom’s advice and is having a bubble bath. Mom has wheeled herself into the bathroom to keep Colette company. “You don’t have to talk about it,” I hear Mom say to Colette, “unless you want to.”

  Mom sure hasn’t wanted to talk about her past.

  My eyes land on a weight-lifting magazine by Mom’s side of the bed. Marco must have brought it. Because it’s not lying flat, I smooth it out. Which is when I realize there’s something under it. The miniature Bible Father Francoeur returned to Mom. I pick it up and flip it open. There’s an inscription in Mom’s handwriting. The letters are so tiny, I need to bring the Bible to the front window to read the inscription. I understand, it says. Forever your T. The inscription is dated Easter 1993.

  Forever your T. Easter 1993. Eight months before I was born.

  She should have told me. She shouldn’t have let me figure it out for myself like this. It isn’t right. Especially since she raised us to always do the right thing. She even named me after a Saint! And in his own way, Dad’s no better. He’s been lying all this time too! Pretending to be someone he isn’t. I wonder who else in town knows that Father Francoeur is my biological father. I don’t think in all my life I’ve ever felt so angry and alone. Everyone I know has been trying to fool me. Every single one!

  Iza’s mom must know. She and Mom were superclose when they were growing up and when they first had kids.

  There’s all these pictures of me and Iza in our Snugglies, our moms grinning at the camera.

  “I’m going for a bike ride,” I call out to Mom and Colette.

  “Just be back in time for dinner,” Mom calls back. “Your dad’s planning something special.”

  My dad.

  I stop to catch my breath as I bike up Côte Gravel. The narrow road snakes around until it reaches the top of the cliff.

  I stop again when I reach the farmhouse on Côte Ste-Anne. When I look up, all I see is blue sky.

  Iza and her family live in a mansion farther down the road. Dad says it’s ridiculous for three people to live in such a big house.

  The automatic sprinklers are on. I find a dry spot for my bike, then make a run for the front door. A pale, almost translucent rainbow appears over the jet of water from one of the sprinklers.

  Iza’s doorbell chimes like a church bell.

  “Ani,” Lise says as she opens the door. “It’s lovely to see you, honey, but I’m afraid Iza’s at work.”

  “I’m not here to see Iza.”

  “You’re not?” Lise shows me into the huge living room. Though she’s home alone, she’s got lipstick on. I sometimes wonder how she and Mom could ever have been such good friends.

  We sit down on a gigantic beige sofa. “How’s your mom?” Lise asks. “I keep meaning to come by. It’s just that things have been crazy here.”

  It’s hard to imagine things ever being crazy in this house. Everything is in its place, right down to the crystal candy dish on the coffee table.

  “Mom’s started lifting weights. Marco’s been showing her how.”

  Lise wrinkles her nose as though she just smelled something sour. “I didn’t think they were still friends.”

  “They weren’t—until lately.” I wonder if Lise can tell what I’m thinking—that lately she hasn’t been much of a friend to Mom either.

  “So, Ani, what is it you want to talk to me about?”

  My mouth feels suddenly dry. “Is it okay if I have one?” I say, eyeing the oval mints in the candy dish.

  “Oh those, they’re just for show,” Lise says, popping up from the sofa. “How about some juice?”

  “A glass of water would be good.”

  I take a long sip of the water Lise brings me, but the dry feeling in my mouth doesn’t go away. The water is the fizzy kind and Lise has put a slice of lemon on the edge of the glass. I guess it’s for show too.

  “I’ve got some questions,” I tell her.

  “What kinds of questions?” Lise folds her hands neatly in her lap.

  “About my mom and Emil Francoeur. And about me.”


  Lise turns to the window. When she turns back to face me, I notice how her face has none of the lines Mom’s face does.

  “Ani, honey, I think you need to have this conversation with your mom.” Lise’s voice is very gentle. But her lips are pursed together. She knows something.

  “I can’t talk to my mom about this stuff. Not now.

  She’s still too messed up.”

  Lise looks down at her legs, folded neatly at the ankles. She is wearing a pair of crisp beige slacks. “I know I’d be messed up if it was me. But I always thought your mom’s faith would get her through any crisis.”

  I’d always figured Mom and Lise had grown apart because Lise is obsessed with having the perfect life and Mom’s more real. But now I wonder if God got in the way of their friendship too.

  “Can’t you tell me anything?” I ask Lise.

  Lise shakes her head. “There’s just one thing I can tell you, Ani. One really important thing: Your mom and dad love you very much. And they’re special people. Both of them.”

  But that’s all she’ll tell me.

  Colette is still convalescing—taking long bubble baths and writing madly in a journal Dad bought for her—but getting a little better too. The first few days, she didn’t even want to leave the house. Mom and Dad let her skip two days’ work at the store.

  Today Colette wants to know if, after we close up the shop, I’ll bike over with her to Tante Hélène’s. To pick up some nerve tonic Tante Hélène made for Mom.

  “Are you sure going over there’s a good idea?” I don’t say Maxim’s name since Colette tears up when she hears it.

  When Colette sucks in her breath, I know it’s because she’s still suffering. That even if I think Maxim was a jerk and she’s better off without him, she really did care for him. “He won’t be there,” she says. “I checked.”

  We make a quick stop at Tante Hélène’s. “You and I are always going to be friends, aren’t we?” Tante Hélène says, patting Colette’s shoulder and giving her a big hug before we go. Colette nods.

  On the bike ride back, Colette insists on stopping at the small cemetery on Avenue Royale. Because it’s not far from our house, we used to come here a lot when we were little. Someone has put a pot of yellow pansies on one of the graves. We sit on a bench under a giant weeping willow tree. Colette kicks at the bottom of the bench with her heel. I try not to let it bother me.

  “How’s your heart?” I ask Colette.

  “Still broken,” she says. “He texted me to say he wants another chance.” I can tell she’s watching for my reaction.

  “Don’t—” I stop myself. Colette has to figure this out for herself. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m still thinking about it. I don’t know if I trust him. I think he likes girls too much. Tante Hélène says her husband had the same problem and that she gave him too many chances. How’s your heart?” Colette asks me.

  “Confused.”

  “I guess you haven’t talked to Mom yet.”

  “Not yet. But soon. And hey, thanks for not blurting anything out,” I tell her. “That can’t be easy for you.”

  Colette looks insulted. “I said I wouldn’t.” Colette stares up at the willow. I look up at it too. It makes a giant silver-green umbrella.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m right,” I tell Colette.

  She knows what I mean. “You do look like him.”

  “I do?”

  “Uh-huh. Little things mostly. The thick hair and you both have those really long fingers.” Colette slides her hand over mine. It’s true. Her fingers are shorter and thicker than mine. “You laugh the same too.”

  “But don’t you think it’s…you know, gross?”

  Colette is tapping the bench now. Maybe she thinks better when some part of her is moving. “No,” she says, “it’s not gross. It just is.”

  “But I wanted to kiss him.” My voice breaks when I tell her this. It’s the part I’m most ashamed of.

  “That was before you knew.” Colette gives me a sideways look. “You didn’t kiss him, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. But I wanted to. Oh, Colette, I feel so ashamed.”

  “You don’t have anything to be ashamed about.” Colette says this as if the matter is settled.

  Twenty-Four

  It’s only four days till Saint Anne’s feast day on Sunday—and the pilgrims are taking over our town.

  There’s about twenty times as many pilgrims as residents. And by Sunday, there will be thousands more. We’re being invaded.

  It happens every year, but somehow I’m still not used to it. There are people everywhere, many of them on crutches or in wheelchairs; long lineups outside L’Église, at Sweet Heaven and at the Blessings Office; people posing for photographs on the basilica grounds; traffic jams at every corner. They jabber to each other in languages I recognize—French, German, Spanish, Cantonese and Russian—and some that I don’t. Armand and Maxim are working overtime in the parking lot. There needs to be at least two of us in the store at all times. But there are benefits to having your town invaded: like all the other businesses on Avenue Royale, we’ll earn more this week than in all the other fifty-one combined.

  I haven’t had much time to think—and maybe that’s okay. I’m still not ready to talk to Mom or Dad or Father Francoeur. Besides, what would I say? Dad, you’re not my dad. Father Francoeur, in case you haven’t already figured it out, congratulations, you’re a father. No, I feel like I need to let things sit a while longer, the way I do after I’ve had a big meal. My brain is digesting. The other thing I’ve been doing is watching: looking for signs, for differences. Does Dad treat Colette better than me? Is he more patient with her? Does he love her more? Does he laugh harder when she says something funny? But though I’ve been watching carefully, like a scientist peering through his microscope, I haven’t noticed anything different. Dad’s worried about Mom, but otherwise, he’s the way he always is. Kind and steady.

  This morning he’s sprinkled icing sugar in the shape of a smile over our French toast and made eyes from chocolate chips, the way he used to when we were little. Colette bursts out laughing when Dad serves her. Mom smiles too. I think the weight lifting is doing her good. She’s wearing a white sleeveless blouse, and I can see that her upper arms are getting some definition. More importantly, she’s not as down as she was before she started training with Marco.

  We’re talking about how busy the store has been when Dad comes up with the idea that Colette and I should have a day off. “We’re going to need the two of you in the store from tomorrow through Sunday pretty much nonstop. Clara is working today, and I can go in to help. You two can have the day to yourselves—to get out and get some fresh air.”

  “But who’ll look after Mom?” Colette and I ask at the same time.

  “I don’t need constant looking after,” Mom says.

  “We could go to the canyon. And Mom, you can come with us!” Colette says.

  I watch for Mom’s reaction. Colette shouldn’t have said that. She’s just reminding Mom of all the things she can’t do anymore. Colette should’ve checked with Dad and me before bursting out with the idea.

  Only Mom doesn’t look upset at all. “I’d love to feel the spray from the waterfall on my face,” she says, lifting her face up toward the ceiling fan that’s rotating over our dining-room table. “It’s been forever since I was at the canyon.”

  Of course, we all know it hasn’t really been forever. The last time Mom was at the canyon was the day of her accident.

  “It’s settled then,” Dad says. “I’ll give the three of you a lift over. You can phone when you’re ready to be picked up.”

  “Can I invite Tante Hélène too? I think she’s getting lonely with Maxim working so many hours this week,” Colette says. We all look at her when she says Maxim’s name. Her eyes don’t tear up this time.

  Dad takes another bite of French toast and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “That’s one of the things I love a
bout you, Colette, the way you’re always thinking about other people.”

  Colette is already in the kitchen, phoning Tante Hélène. I wonder what things Dad loves about me.

  We can’t take the wheelchair on the suspension bridges, but we can take it on the bigger paths. Colette pushes the wheelchair, but I don’t entirely trust her. What if something—a butterfly or some cute guy—distracts her and she lets go when we’re hiking downhill? I walk alongside Mom.

  We get as close as we can to the waterfall. There’s a clearing up ahead with an old picnic table. I help Colette park Mom’s wheelchair at the narrow end. This way, Mom will feel the spray from the waterfall on her face.

  I hadn’t realized what good friends Colette and Tante Hélène have become. Colette recognizes native herbs and plants without Tante Hélène having to tell her what they are. Today, Tante Hélène, who is wearing her floppy hat again, has brought along a burlap bag to collect plant samples. She’s also brought lunch. Whoever heard of a tofu sandwich? It turns out to be better than it sounds. “Tante Hélène marinates the tofu in soy sauce and cilantro before baking it,” Colette explains.

  “And why do I have the feeling the cilantro comes from Tante Hélène’s herb garden?” Mom says.

  “It certainly does,” Tante Hélène tells her. “You know, Thérèse, I could help you start a herb garden of your own. Colette says there’s a sunny spot behind your kitchen.”

  Mom doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no either.

  “I think I’ll get some fresh air,” Tante Hélène announces after we’ve finished eating. “Colette, are you coming?”

  “But there’s air everywhere here,” Mom says.

  I catch Tante Hélène and Colette exchanging a look. Ahh, I think, they want to give me some time alone with Mom. Only I’m not sure I want to be alone with her. I need for Colette to be here too. After all, what I need to talk to Mom about involves Colette too.

  “Colette, can you stay?” I ask her.

  Tante Hélène adjusts the brim on her sunhat. “I’ll be off for a little while then,” she says.