Miracleville by Monique Polak Page B

seminary school—or if having that kind of voice is a prerequisite for getting in. Then he closes his eyes again. I know it’s because he’s praying now. I close my eyes too.
    â€œWhere’s your priest’s collar?” Colette asks Father Francoeur.
    â€œColette!” I say. “Can’t you see Father Francoeur is praying?”
    When Father Francoeur smiles, I can suddenly picture him as a teenager. I’ll bet he was a little nerdy but already handsome. There’s a dimple in his chin. “Sometimes that collar gets a little tight around my neck. Besides, I’m here today as a friend, not as a priest.”
    Though we have all been whispering, Mom is waking up. Her eyelids have begun to flutter. If only her legs and feet would flutter too!
    â€œMy girls!” she says, smiling when she sees us. Her voice is so weak we have to lean in to hear her. “Emil!”
    His first name is Emil.
    Mom tries to use her elbows to hoist herself up, but even that one simple movement is too much for her.
    Colette slides her arm behind Mom’s back and props her up a little. I press the button that raises the head of the bed.
    Mom nods. I think she’s too tired to thank us.
    Now Mom reaches for Father Francoeur’s hand, using it to pull herself up a little higher. “Emil,” she says, looking right at him. “I have to get out of here.”
    â€œThérèse, it isn’t time yet for that,” he tells her. “But soon. When you are a little stronger.”
    â€œYou don’t understand,” Mom says, and for the first time since the accident, she is crying. Fat round tears dribble down her cheeks. “I need to go to the basilica. I need to ask for Sainte Anne’s intercession.”

Nine
    E mil—Father Francoeur—doesn’t want to stay too long. He says he’s afraid of tiring Mom out and that she needs all the rest she can get. I’m glad he’s there. Even his short visit has changed the mood in the hospital room. It’s calmer now, and the electricity that was in the air when Colette and I were arguing is gone.
    When Father Francoeur finds out I’m taking the bus back to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré, he offers to drive me. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, I’m afraid that after being up all night you’ll fall asleep on the bus and miss your stop. You might wake up in Baie-Saint-Paul! No, no, we can’t have that.”
    Mom doesn’t like the idea. “Emil, you must have church business here in Quebec City. And Ani will be fine on the bus, won’t you, dear?”
    But Father Francoeur insists. “I need to get back to town. Besides, I’d enjoy the company.”
    Mom’s too weak to argue.
    â€œI almost forgot,” Father Francoeur says, reaching into his jacket pocket, “I brought you something.” It’s a miniature Bible, the kind you need a magnifying glass to read. We carry them at Saintly Souvenirs, but this one looks ancient; the edges of its black cover are frayed.
    â€œEmil,” Mom says, her voice cracking a little, “is that the one I gave you?”
    â€œThe very one. I’ve kept it with me always. I even took it to Africa. Now it’s time to return it.”
    He hands Mom the tiny Bible. She leafs through the pages, so thin they are almost transparent, then presses it to her heart. “I can’t believe you kept it all this time.”
    Father Francoeur smiles. “That Bible,” he says, “was my favorite souvenir.” The way he drags out each syllable makes me think about what the word souvenir means in French—a memory. It’s weird knowing Mom has shared memories with this man, who, until Colette and I saw him on Avenue Royale two weeks ago, we never knew existed.
    By the time Father Francoeur and I are ready to go, Mom’s chin has dropped to her chest. She has dozed off, the tiny Bible still pressed to her