Miracleville by Monique Polak

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.”
    â€œAre you saying it would be a good thing if she felt pain?” Dad asked.
    â€œExactly.”
    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?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œMom’ll like that,” I say, and Colette’s face brightens. “Leave it on her nightstand so she’ll see it when she wakes up.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYou can’t do that!” I hiss.
    â€œOh yes I can.”
    â€œColette!”
    â€œSaint Ani strikes again,” Colette mutters.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œPut 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.
    â€œI’ll take the hammer home,” I tell Colette. I use my firmest voice—the one Colette sometimes listens to.
    â€œNo way,” Colette says. “I want to hang the crucifix right there.” She fixes her eyes on the wall opposite Mom’s bed.
    â€œYou could get in a lot of trouble, for…for”—I search for the right words, something that will scare Colette into giving me the