Miracleville

Miraclevile

MONIQUE POLAK
    

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Text copyright © 2011 Monique Polak

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Polak, Monique
Miracleville [electronic resource] / Monique Polak.

Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-331-3

I. Title.
PS8631.O43M57 2011A      JC813'.6      C2010-908043-2

First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2010942082

Summary
: Ani's faith is tested when her mother is paralyzed, her younger sister starts having sex and questions arise about the identity of Ani's father.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Typesetting by Nadja Penaluna
Cover photo by Getty Images
Author photo by Monique Dykstra

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

14  13  12  11  •  4  3  2  1

For my sister Carolyn, who understands
that miracles are possible

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgments

One

C
olette drags one foot along the floor. “Please,
mademoiselle
,” she says, grabbing my elbow. “I know you're closing up, but I need a bottle of Saint Anne's Miracle Oil. A little of your oil and I'll be dancing again. I was a ballerina”—her voice cracks—“until a terrible thing happened. I was dancing in Paris, when a gray mouse ran across the stage. I tripped and…my career was ruined!”

Colette covers her mouth and sobs. Loudly.

“Stop it!” I tell Colette as I spray the front window with cleaning solution. This stuff might be eco-friendly, but it leaves pale streaks on the glass. “It isn't right to make fun of the pilgrims,” I say. “They're our best customers.”

“
They're our best customers
,” Colette mimics me in a shrill voice.

I grit my teeth. I hope I don't really sound like that.

Colette crosses her hands over her crotch and looks down at the floor. “Oh, I almost forgot—Saint Ani doesn't approve of imitations.”

Mom and Dad named me for Saint Anne, and all my life I have tried my best to live up to the Blessed Saint's example. Saint Anne was patient; she never complained, even when she and her husband Joachim couldn't have a child. Saint Anne was kind; she never stopped loving Joachim even when he ran off to the desert in a snit. And Saint Anne was good. When she finally had a child— Mary—Saint Anne remembered her promise to God: that she would consecrate her child to Him. Which turned out to be a wise move since Mary ended up giving birth to Jesus, and where would we Catholics be without Him?

I want to be patient and kind and good too. But it's hard when Colette is acting so dumb. And not helping with the cleanup either. I swear she acts dumb on purpose.

I take a deep breath and spray the window again. Though the two of us are only eleven months apart, I'm the big sister. Colette's role model. But not a saint.

Outside, people are still milling around on Avenue Royale, the main street in our little town of Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. Avenue Royale's so narrow there's only room for a sidewalk on one side. And the houses here in the center of town are set so close to the road that few have front lawns, just little patches of brown grass, and sometimes not even that.

In almost every group of people on the sidewalk, someone's in a wheelchair or hobbling on crutches. I look away. I know I should make an extra effort to show compassion for people who are handicapped, but sometimes the sight of a lolling head or a leg that ends in a stump makes me feel, to be honest, a little nauseated.

Each of those poor souls has come to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré to pray for a miracle. Sometimes, when I'm walking on Avenue Royale, I feel hope hanging in the air like a living thing.

Every summer, religious pilgrims from around the world come to pray for Saint Anne's help and to buy souvenirs from the row of shops like ours on Avenue Royale. Saint Anne is one of Quebec's patron saints. Dad calls her the patron saint of lost causes. “Think of all the crippled people who come here,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever seen a single one miraculously cured?”

Mom hates when Dad talks like that. “What about all those crutches hanging on the basilica walls? Every single pair was left behind by someone who didn't need them anymore! Besides,” she tells Dad, “if you don't believe in miracles, they'll never happen.”

“In all my life, I only ever witnessed one miracle,” Dad likes to say to Mom. “And that was when a babe like you fell for a goofball like me.”

“The world's sweetest goofball,” Mom'll say.

I want to believe in miracles, really I do, but Dad's got a point. I've heard of miraculous healings, but I've never seen one. Then again, Mom's got a point too. Maybe if I believed more strongly, miracles would happen.

I know from Colette's grin that she's about to do another imitation. She doesn't know when to stop. Now she grabs a bottle of Saint Anne's oil from the shelf and studies the fine print on the label. “What's this?” She throws her hands up in the air. “
Avoid superstitious feelings
?
No guaranteed results
? And you're charging two dollars for this?” She takes a pretend swig. Then she does a pirouette on the faded wood floor in front of the cash register.

“Your oil,” she cries out, “it's cured me! I can return to Paris and get even with that evil mouse!”

I pull down the window shade—a little too hard— and start dusting the Jesus snow globes. The Jesuses inside give me mournful looks. Maybe they're cold in there or maybe they understand how hard it is to have a sister like Colette.

The truth is, I don't always feel like being good. Sometimes I want to scream. Or whack someone, usually Colette.

I make myself concentrate on the snow globes. One is covered with greasy fingerprints. When I pick it up, snow lands on Jesus' sinewy shoulders.

Colette grabs a
Bless This Trailer
plaque from the display case. “
Mademoiselle
,” she asks, “how much for this magnificent glow-in-the-dark plaque? My family and I are staying at the trailer park across the highway. The Lord is sure to visit a trailer with such a magnificent plaque outside.”

“Enough!” I say as I attack the smudged snow globe with cleaning solution. For a moment, the sour smell of vinegar fills the shop.

But now Colette is rotating her lower arms in small circles as if she's in a wheelchair and is motoring down the shop's long center aisle. “Excuse me,
mademoiselle
—”

I march past Colette to the counter and grab the feather duster from the shelf under the cash register. I hum as I dust the Saint Anne nightlights. Dust particles rise into the air and then disappear.

Colette sighs. Maybe she'll quit fooling around if I ignore her. But the next second she's pressing her face up against mine. “
Mademoiselle
,” she says, her dark eyes dancing, “please sell me a holy key chain. You see, my wife and I”—she turns to plant an airy kiss on the imaginary wife's cheek—“are trying to conceive, but the Lord has not yet blessed us with a child.”

I'm still trying to ignore her when Colette reaches between her legs and tugs on an imaginary penis. I can feel my earlobes heat up. I don't know how Colette can make jokes about penises!

“It seems to work okay, doesn't it, my dear?” Colette asks, leering at the imaginary wife.

“Colette!” Though my voice is stern, I feel the corners of my mouth rise a little. I try to swallow my laughter, but it comes bubbling up. I'm laughing because Colette is being so outrageous, but also because I'm embarrassed. The feather duster falls to the floor, looking like the messy tail end of a chicken.

“Aha! I made you laugh!” Colette says, picking up the feather duster and swatting me with it.

From outside, we hear the singsong sound of Mom's voice. “It's lovely to see you too,” she is saying to someone on the curb.

Colette lifts the window shade. “Who's that guy with Mom?”

I go to the window too.

The man has thick dark hair. When he turns his head, I notice his starched black collar and the white rectangular tab at his throat.

“He's good-looking,” I whisper, “for a priest.”

“Maybe he had a harelip or a hunchback that Saint Anne fixed.” Colette hunches over and prepares for another imitation.

I pull Colette up by her shoulders. “Come on. Mom'll be inside in a minute. If you don't help, we'll be too late to meet Iza and the others.” I pause. “And Maxim.” Colette's got a huge crush on Maxim.

When Mom lets herself in, Colette is busy vacuuming around the cash register. I'm counting money.

“
Bonjour
,
mes filles
! Sorry I'm late. The buying trip took longer than we expected.” Mom's face is flushed. “Thanks for watching the store, girls. You're my two angels.”