We’re both quiet after he says that. Maybe it’s because we’re thinking the same thing: that after what’s happened to Mom, our lives will never get back to normal. Maybe we’ll have to settle for a new normal.
Up ahead, the hill shimmers with yellow lights. From where we are, the lights look like fireflies, but we know they’re coming from the lanterns. Everyone in the parade gets a paper lantern with a little yellow votive candle flickering inside.
When we reach the base of the hill, Dad and I line up for our lanterns. There’s a chill in the air I haven’t felt all summer. When I shiver, Dad puts his arm around me. “Do you want my jacket?” he asks, starting to loosen his jacket from his shoulders.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Look, Ani,” Dad says, “your mom told me you know about us—and you.” Dad is looking me in the eye. When he blinks, I know how hard this is for him. “I just need you to know one thing.” He pauses. “It never made any difference to me. You’ve always been my daughter. Always will be.” Dad’s voice cracks when he says that.
“Excuse us,” some pilgrims behind us call out. They’re carrying a banner made from an old sheet with a huge drawing of Saint Anne on it. Saint Anne is wearing a long blue dress and someone has spray-painted a golden halo over her head. Dad and I move over to the edge of the path and wait there in single file as the pilgrims squeeze past us with their banner.
The man handing out lanterns gives us ours. “I know,” I tell Dad. And because I know what he is really trying to say is that he loves me, I add, “I love you too, Dad. I just wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Me too,” Dad says. “It just never seemed like the right time. I should’ve been braver.”
The first station is just a few meters up from the road. We join the crowd of people standing in front of the larger-than-life bronze Jesus being condemned to death. His face looks peaceful. Someone has left a bouquet of plastic red and white dollar-store carnations at Jesus’ feet.
Dad is next to me and I can feel him shift from one foot to the other. All this religious stuff must be making him squirm. Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “I need you to know too, Ani,” he whispers, “that I won’t be upset if you want to get to know him.” At first, I think Dad’s talking about Jesus, but then I realize he means Father Francoeur.
Maybe Dad hasn’t heard that Father Francoeur is going back to Africa. Though I guess with email and Skype, I could still get to know him even if he’ll be living on another continent. Only I’m not sure yet what I want from Father Francoeur. “I’ll see,” I tell Dad.
We follow the path past the next couple of stations, stopping only briefly to look at the bronze sculptures, but when we get to the fourth station, where Jesus is meeting his afflicted mother, Dad is out of breath. I hand him the plastic bottle I’ve brought along, and he takes a long swig of water.
Jesus’ hands are stretched out toward Mary. Mother and Son gaze into each other’s eyes. Even though they are bronze statues, I can feel they understand each other. Mary understands what Jesus has decided to do; He understands how difficult it is for her to let Him go. Maybe that’s what love is—caring so deeply about someone else that you can feel what it’s like to be that person.
A pilgrim has looped a rosary over one of Jesus’ long fingers. The colored beads glimmer under the light of our lanterns.
“You ready, Ani?” Dad asks. I guess he’s had about all the religion he can handle.
I take Dad’s hand. I’m getting a little winded now too. There’s a stone bench up ahead, but three old ladies are sitting on it and another three are standing nearby, waiting for a turn to rest their legs.
Up ahead, the path winds like a corkscrew. It’s thick with pilgrims, and when I turn my head, I see even more pilgrims behind us. Dad turns to look too. The yellow lights from the lanterns wink at us. It’s as if there are stars on the ground instead of the sky.
Dad shakes his head. “I have to admit it’s pretty. Maybe I shouldn’t have said no all those years when your Mom wanted me to come with her.”
“She’s glad you came tonight,” I tell him.
People are slowing down now and some pilgrims, especially the ones who are old or out of shape, are stopping to rest or have water.
From where we are now, we can see to the top of the hill. A crowd has gathered at the eleventh station. Here, Jesus is being nailed to the cross. I can’t help shivering when I look at the bronze nails piercing through His wrists and knees. Better to look at His face. I study it, searching for some sign of panic or anger, but I don’t see any. None at all. Just acceptance. Let it be. I don’t know how Jesus did it. I know I could never accept that kind of pain—no matter how much I believed.
I can’t stop looking at Jesus’ face. He looks so…so human. Could that mean that sometimes even He had doubts and questions, not just about religion, but also about Himself? The way I do?
Dad has gone to wait at the edge of the path. I can feel him looking at me looking at the statue.
When I’m done, I slip my hand into Dad’s. Together, we trudge to the top of the hill. The exercise has warmed me up. I stop, but only for a moment, at the last station: Jesus is being laid in the sepulchre. At last, His suffering is over. What’s left is His story, and for believers, His example. I’m still not sure if I believe any of it.
Dad and I join the crowd of pilgrims filing down the road that heads back down to Avenue Royale. “I wonder if it’s true,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the hill.
Dad doesn’t say anything at first. I know it’s because he’s thinking. “I suppose it could be,” he finally says. Because the road is steep, we need to take small steps and lean back a little on our ankles. “Sometimes,” Dad says, “a good story is as important as the truth.”
The downstairs light is on when we get home. Mom’s in her wheelchair, parked near the front window. “How was it?” she asks when we get in. At first, I don’t know why she’s whispering, but then I see that Colette has fallen asleep on Mom and Dad’s bed. She’s curled up in snail position.
“Better than I expected,” Dad says. He puts his arm around Colette so he can bring her upstairs. She makes a little moaning sound, and Dad kisses her forehead.
Mom wheels herself over to me. She pats the edge of the bed, which means she wants me to sit there. My legs are still warm from the climb and sitting feels good. “So tell me all about it.” If Mom’s sad she missed the parade, I can’t tell from her voice or her eyes.
As I tell Mom about the lanterns and the crowds and how even Dad had a good time, I notice her bite down hard on her lower lip. Something must be hurting.
I jump up from the bed. “What’s wrong, Mom? Tell me what’s wrong.”
I must’ve raised my voice because Dad comes clattering down the stairs. “What’s going on?”
We’re both watching Mom’s face.
She’s gripping the sides of her wheelchair so hard her hands are shaking. “I’ve got some bad cramping,” she says. She looks up at both of us. Her pale blue eyes look silver. “In my thighs.”
Twenty-Seven
It’s too soon to get excited, but the neurologist in Quebec City thinks the cramps in Mom’s thighs are a hopeful sign.
Hopeful. That’s something I haven’t felt in a while.
Marco can tell something’s up at our house. When he comes by to help Mom with her weight-training routine, his eyes dart from her to me and back again. “Something feels different in here today. Lighter,” he says.
Mom’s eyes have a little of their old sparkle back— and for a moment, I’m afraid the cramping may not be anything more than some random thing, and not a sign that she is regaining sensation below the waist.
“I’ve been feeling some pain. In my thighs,” Mom tells Marco. She says this in a quiet voice, and I wonder if it’s because, like me, she is worried about how Marco will take the news.
I know if it was me and I’d spent more than half my life trapped in a wheelchair, it
’d piss me off if some woman who’s only been paralyzed for less than two months suddenly shows a sign—even a little one—that she might recover. I’d feel like it just wasn’t fair, that the woman should take a number and wait her turn and that she’d be way behind me—twenty years behind me—in the recovery sweepstakes. I don’t think I could stand the unfairness of it all.
But Marco doesn’t seem pissed off. He wheels his chair next to Mom’s. “Thérèse,” he says, pumping his hand on her back, “that’s great. Show me where you feel the cramping.”
When she shows him the spots on her thighs, I expect Marco to look down at his own useless legs—that’s what I’d do—but he doesn’t. I think he’s really happy for Mom. Too happy to think about his own troubles.
I ask Marco about it later when I’m helping him down the ramp from our house. “Is it hard for you? The news about Mom, I mean.”
Marco looks me straight in the eye. “That’s not the kind of question I expect from you, Ani. It’s more of a Colette question.”
He’s right, but I feel like I know Marco well enough now to ask it. Maybe what he just said is his way of not answering. But a minute or so later, he says, “Sure I wish it was me, but you know what, Ani? I’ve had twenty years to make peace with being paraplegic. It took a long time, but I did it. And I can still be happy for your mom. For all of you.”
Marco doesn’t look anything like the bronze Jesuses at the stations of the cross. Those Jesuses don’t have slicked-back, dyed black hair or bulging biceps or skin that’s gone leathery from too much sun. But even so, right now, I’m remembering the look on the bronze Jesus’ face when he was first condemned to death.
There’s something Marco still wants to say. I know because he’s watching me. “Besides,” he says, “I’ve got something of my own to celebrate.”
I wonder if Marco and his boyfriend are getting married, but that’s not what it turns out to be.
“A guy I know is opening a gym on Avenue Royale, not far from your shop. He’s offered me a job, working with disabled people. I told him yes.”
“You did? That’s amazing!”
“I know what you’re thinking—that I’m not exactly a people person,” Marco says.
“I wasn’t thinking that. You’re good with people. When you want to be.”
“D’you really think so?”
“Uh-huh, I really do.”
I’m starting to get better at hugging people in wheelchairs.
The pilgrims have mostly cleared out of town. I can see the sidewalk again, and without all the cars, the air smells crisper. On my way to the basilica, I spot a porcupine crossing Avenue Royale. He’s fat and funny-looking, with brown spikes, and I’m sure he’s been hiding in the woods the last couple of weeks, waiting till now to cross to the other side of the street.
There’s no line outside the Blessings Office. No pilgrims waiting with statues, nobody with a new puppy.
Emil…Father Francoeur…Father—I still don’t know what to call him—is sitting behind the desk, scratching his temple with the flat end of a ballpoint pen.
He looks glad to see me. “Ani,” he says, getting up from his chair, “I was hoping you’d come by.”
“I didn’t bring a toaster for you to bless.”
The sound of Father Francoeur’s chuckle fills the little room. Do I really laugh like him?
“Have a seat.” Like always, I can feel him looking at my hair and eyes. I know that when he sees me, he is remembering Mom.
Father Francoeur sits back down in his chair and gestures for me to take the seat across from him. “So are you missing the pilgrims?” he asks me.
“Not really. They brought us a ton of business this year, that’s for sure, though. But now, well, it feels like I can breathe again. Or almost, anyway.”
Father Francoeur’s eyes seem to darken. “You’re not having trouble breathing, are you?”
The way he asks makes me wonder if he’s figured things out. If he knows I’m his. “I’m allergic to mangoes,” I tell him. It isn’t what I planned to say.
“Just like me,” he says, pulling his chair a little closer to the desk and extending his hands along the desk until they’re only a few inches from mine.
“It’s kind of an unusual allergy,” I say.
“I know.”
“It can run in families.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
I slide my hands off the desk and fold my arms over my chest. Father Francoeur’s face is very serious.
“In a way,” I tell him, “I wish you’d never come back to town.”
I expect Father Francoeur to look hurt, but he doesn’t. When he nods, I know it’s because he’s feeling bad for me. He’s imagining what’s going on inside me, and for a moment, I try imagining what’s going on inside of him.
I uncross my arms. “I always thought I knew who I was, but now everything’s different. From the first time I saw you, I felt there was something between us. Something familiar. And then that day at the museum—after your talk—I got confused.” This part is hard to talk about, but I know I have to do it. I have to make things right. Not for Mom, not even for Father Francoeur, but for me. “I guess I needed to feel close to you. Only I didn’t understand why. I didn’t know that you were my fa—” At first, I stumble over the word.
“Father.” We say it together, without stumbling.
I put my hands back on the edge of the desk. Father Francoeur reaches all the way over and lays his hands over mine. Colette was right. We have the same long fingers.
“Your parents came to see me last week to fill me in on”—I can tell from how slowly Father Francoeur is speaking that he wants every word to be the right one— “who we are to each other. Like you, I felt a connection the moment I saw you. I thought it was because you look so much like your mom used to. But then, Ani, I started realizing it was something else. A heart connection I’d never felt before. Something quite different of course from the feelings I had for your mother. And then… and then…I didn’t dare to hope that you were mine.”
“I am yours,” I tell him. “Biologically, I mean.”
Father Francoeur nods. “I understand what you’re telling me. That you have a father. A real father who’s been there for you all your life. But perhaps, when you’re ready, you could make some room for me too?”
“Aren’t you going back to Africa?” My voice quivers when I say Africa. Part of me wants Father Francoeur to go away so I can pretend I never met him; the other part wishes he would never leave.
“I fly out next week. But I may be back before Christmas—depending on how things go.”
“You mean in Liberia?”
Father Francoeur looks down at his hands, which are still over mine. “No,” he says, looking back up at me. “Not in Liberia. Depending on how things go here.
With you. On how you feel. On whether or not you can handle having me around.”
“What if I don’t know yet?”
Father Francoeur squeezes my hands. “I can live with that.”
Twenty-Eight
Colette and I are both lying on our beds, reading. I’m reading The Life of Saint Anne, only this time, I’ve got a pencil in my hand so I can scribble notes to myself in the margins. Such as, Didn’t Saint Anne want to kill her parents when they dropped her off at the church so they could keep their promise to consecrate her to the Lord?
Colette’s got her nose inside an US Weekly magazine. It’s Saturday night and Mom and Dad are out on a date— their second one since Mom’s accident. Mom’s been getting a little more cramping in her thighs. The doctors are “cautiously optimistic” and they’ve recommended she step up her workout routine. They’ve given her exercises for her legs and so the three of us have been taking turns helping her do leg lifts.
Marco’s convinced the weight training made a difference. He wants Mom to write a testimonial he can hang on the wall at his friend’s gym. Tante Hélène says it was her nerve tonic. Father Franc
oeur says it’s God’s plan.
Hope’s a funny thing. A little hope can go a long way, and yet, there’s something painful about hope too. If what we’re hoping for doesn’t happen, we might end up feeling even worse than we already did when the accident first happened. And yet the hope that Mom might regain some movement in her lower body has lightened the atmosphere in our house, just like Marco said. Hope is making us kinder with each other and more patient.
And that’s when I realize that maybe it’s true that the real miracle isn’t when someone throws away their crutches or stops being paralyzed. Maybe the real miracle is way simpler than that. Maybe the miracle is not giving up. Maybe it’s staying hopeful even when you’re not sure how things will turn out.
Which may be why, even though I am concentrating on The Life of Saint Anne when Colette puts down her magazine and says, “So I was thinking…,” I don’t get upset with her.
I rest my book on my lap, using my pencil for a bookmark.
“Uh-huh,” I say to Colette.
“I was thinking maybe I’ll be a nurse.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell her. “Except you’ll have to wear those hideous white nurses’ shoes—with the rubber soles.” Then I remember how good Colette has been with Mom and how she was the first one to get Mom to wash her hair. “I think you’d make a really good nurse.”
“But what about my adhd?”
I think in all the time we’ve known about Colette’s adhd, this is the first time she’s ever mentioned it and it occurs to me now that Colette’s adhd isn’t only a burden for all of us who know her, it’s a burden for Colette too. A way heavier burden than it is for the rest of us. And yet, Colette never complains about it.
“You know,” I tell Colette, “there could be a plus side to having ADHD—benefits that could come in handy if you’re a nurse. Nurses need a ton of energy and they need to be able to bop around from one task to another. Check a patient’s blood pressure, help them do leg lifts, change their bedpan.”
“Uck, that part’s gross,” Colette says. She picks up her magazine. “Even with the bedpans, I think I still want to be a nurse,” she says.
Miracleville Page 15
