Miracleville by Monique Polak Page A

hammer—“for defacing public property.”
    I try to reach under the blanket and grab the hammer, but Colette pushes me away.
    â€œOkay, then. I give up. But I don’t want to be here when you do it. I’m going home to sleep. Phone right away if there’s news. Any news at all.” I lean over to kiss Mom goodbye. Her breath smells sour and her beautiful hair is so greasy it looks like it’s glued to her head.
    â€œAre you gonna be all right?” I ask Colette. Sitting still for six hours is about the hardest thing you can ask Colette to do. “Did you bring something to do—and something to eat?”
    â€œI’ve got an Elle magazine. And Dad gave me money for the cafeteria. Look, I’m sorry I called you Saint Ani before. It’s just…just…you’re always acting so…well, so good. You make me feel like I’m bad.” Colette makes a strange blubbering noise, something between a sneeze and a sob. “The thing is”—Colette can hardly get the words out now—“I am bad. I know I am. I shouldn’t have left Mom alone in the shop. I was being selfish.”
    I know Colette wants me to tell her Mom’s accident wasn’t her fault, that Mom is going to be okay, that she’ll regain movement in her legs and that all our lives will go back to what they were like before.
    But right now, I can’t give Colette what she wants. Right now, I’m too sad and too drained to be anyone’s big sister. And I’m bone tired of always having to do the right thing, and say the right thing, and look after Colette and her special needs and her feelings.
    â€œYou know, Colette, everything isn’t always about you. This”—for a second, my hands fly up into the air— “this is about Mom. She’s the one who may never be able to walk again. Not you.”
    Colette’s mouth forms an O. She reaches for my hand, but I shake it away. I don’t care if I’ve let Colette down or hurt her feelings. I’ve had it with caring, with being good. It’s too much work.
    There is a knock at the door. I figure it’s a doctor or a nurse. I hope whoever it is hasn’t heard us arguing.
    Someone clears his throat. “May I come in?” a man’s voice asks.
    A doctor or a nurse wouldn’t bother asking.
    The man isn’t wearing scrubs and he doesn’t have a stethoscope around his neck. He has thick dark hair. And then I realize how I know him. It’s the handsome priest who was talking to Mom outside the shop, the one who was assisting Father Lanctot at Sunday Mass. Only he isn’t wearing his priest’s collar now.
    â€œI came as soon as I could,” he says as he walks into the room. Then he stops to introduce himself. “I’m Father Francoeur. Your mom and I knew each other when we were kids. I saw you at church,” he says when our eyes meet. “It’s uncanny how much you look like she did then.”
    â€œIt’s good of you to come,” I say.
    Colette shoots me a look. I know I sound prissy, but I can’t help it. I’m not used to making conversation with priests.
    I extend my hand. My cheeks are hot. I feel his eyes land on my earrings—the ones with the crosses. I’ve worn them every day since the accident. I even wear them in the shower and when I go to sleep. “I’m Ani. This is my sister Colette.”
    Father Francoeur clasps my hands and then Colette’s. His fingers feel dry and cool. He steps closer to Mom’s bedside. I watch him watching Mom’s face. He looks as peaceful as she does. Then he closes his eyes. I wonder if he’s remembering back to when he and Mom were kids. I wonder what kind of stuff they used to do together.
    Father Francoeur opens his eyes. “The Lord cured the paralytic woman, for she had faith.” His voice is gentle and calm. I wonder if that’s something he learned at