Miracleville (17 page)

Father Francoeur releases my arm. Then he takes a step back. Does he know what I was thinking?

“My God,” I say, “I don't know what got into me. Forgive me, Father Francoeur.”

He rubs the skin above his priest's collar. “There's nothing to forgive, Ani. Nothing at all.”

But I know there nearly was.

Father Francoeur smiles. For a second, I'm afraid he's going to laugh at me. “It's those boots,” he says. “They need new soles. Take it from me. I specialize in souls.”

It's a bad pun, but we both laugh. The tension that was in the room is almost gone.

Though Father Francoeur hasn't said so and Mom didn't let on, I'm beginning to get something I didn't get before. Even if the clues were there. The little Bible Father Francoeur took to Liberia. Even the fact that Mom never mentioned him. “You and my mom—you were more than just friends, weren't you?”

“That was a lifetime ago.”

He could have said they were just friends, but he didn't. So I was right. “Did you…you know…love her?”

“I did.”

For a moment, I'm jealous of my own mom—and of what she had with Father Francoeur.

“So why'd you become a priest? Why didn't you marry her?” If he had, Father Francoeur might have been my dad. Only I wouldn't have been me. And Colette wouldn't have been Colette. Everything would have been different. And I wouldn't have had my dad.

Father Francoeur gestures to two folding chairs in the front row. I sit on one; he takes the other. He is too far away now for me to smell his soapy smell.

“It happened—my calling—after Marco's accident. I suppose it was because I felt responsible. Not only because I let Marco go home drunk. There was more to it than that.”

I feel Father Francoeur's eyes on my face, as if he is trying to decide whether he can trust me with the rest of the story. I nod to show him he can.

“Marco's gay,” Father Francoeur says. There's no judgment in his voice. “He told me so that night. I told Marco he could change. That what he was doing was a sin and that he had to stop or he'd go to hell.” Father Francoeur's Adam's apple is quivering. It's as if a small bird is caught inside his throat.

“After the accident, the guilt was almost too much for me to bear. I shouldn't have left him alone. Not in the condition he was in.” Father Francoeur pauses. “I even contemplated suicide. The only place that brought me peace was the basilica. I'd been brought up religious. And so I consecrated my life to God. And your mother… well, she understood. She let me go.”

I wonder if in all my life I'll ever love someone enough to let him go.

Twenty-One

I
still don't know if I believe. Not just in miracles, but in the whole package. Our Savior. Catholicism. Religion.

If it weren't for Catholicism, Father Francoeur might not have told Marco being gay was a sin—and Marco might not have drunk so much and got himself run over by a train. And if it weren't for Catholicism, women in Tante Hélène's time and even some Catholic women today might use birth control and not be forced to have so many babies.

As for miracles, Mom's lower body looks more shriveled every day. It's a miracle, I suppose, a small miracle, that at least she's working out with the weights I found in the basement.

I guess I always thought that as I got older, I'd understand things better. That I'd be able to decide about miracles and religion and the kind of person I want to be— a believer like Mom, a skeptic like Dad or something in between. But the older I get, the more confused I feel.

The weirdest thing is that despite the whirlpool swirling in my head, the thing I really want to do is go to confession. I can't even explain the urge to myself. Only that it has something to do with who I was before Mom's accident, and the peaceful feeling I still get when I'm inside the basilica. The kind of feeling that brought Father Francoeur comfort after Marco got run over by the train.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
. I practice the line in my head, though I've said it thousands of times.

I started going to confession when I was in grade three.

Back then, my biggest sin was pulling Colette's hair.

For the first time ever, it strikes me as kind of odd that I have to call everyone Father. God, the priests, Dad.

It's like Catholics have too many fathers to keep track of.

There's a row of six confessionals to my right. Two have green lights over their doors, which means there's a priest inside ready to take confession. A red light over another one of the confessionals suddenly turns to green and I see Madame Dandurand pop out. I drop my head so I won't have to say hello. I wonder what she came to confess. She certainly doesn't look like the sinful type.

“They're usually the worst,” Dad would say. “Holy-moly on the outside, only not so pure inside.” Now I see how maybe Dad's crack could apply to me too.

When the clicking sound of Madame Dandurand's high heels fades, I make a dash for the closest confessional. I don't want to run into any more people I know. The moment I push open the door, I know I've done the right thing. The musty smell is as familiar as an old friend. I can practically feel it opening its arms to take me in.

Luckily I'm not claustrophobic because the confessional is tiny, smaller even than one of those old-fashioned phone booths, the kind people used before everyone (except my dad) had cell phones.

Though I can't see his face, I already know the priest sitting on the other side of the grill is Father Lanctot. I knew it even before I stepped inside the confessional, because I heard him blow his nose. I'll bet he stuffed the used Kleenex back up his sleeve.

I don't know what I'd have done if it had been Father Francoeur on the other side of the grill. I could never have confessed to him—especially since part of what I have to confess is about him.

I take a deep breath as I sit down on the hard wooden stool inside the confessional. The stool is still warm from its last occupant. I wonder what he or she came to confess and whether Father Lanctot was shocked by what he heard, though I guess by now, Father Lanctot has heard it all.

This isn't going to be easy, but I know I'll feel better afterward. Sometimes, a person has to tell her story. Get it out, then start over again. Make a new beginning.

I flatten the sides of my skirt. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” That's the easy part. It's like saying “Once upon a time” when you tell a fairy tale. Always the same.

What comes next is going to be harder. I've done so many sinful things lately I hardly know where to begin.

“I don't feel compassion for sick or handicapped people—the way I should.” I didn't plan to start with that; it just pops out.

I can only see the dark outline of Father Lanctot through the grill. He looks like a shadow of himself and now he's nodding. I guess he's heard that one before.

“My mother is handicapped, and I don't even feel much compassion for her.” Though I've been speaking in a low voice, I drop it even more. Father Lanctot straightens his shoulders. Even though I can't see him, I can see his shadow. “I get grossed out when I see her legs. They just hang there, useless, like a rag doll's. Looking at them makes me feel sick.”

I don't stop for air. I'm afraid if I do, it'll be too hard to get going again. “And I don't have compassion for my sister either. She's got adhd.” I wonder if Father Lanctot knows what that is. And I wonder how many other confessions he's listened to in his lifetime. Thousands probably. Maybe even tens of thousands.

“And I have…I mean I had…a crush on someone I shouldn't have had a crush on.”

Father Lanctot's shadow is nodding again.

“He's a priest.”

Father Lanctot's shadow goes still.

“Don't worry. It isn't you.”

“I should hope not.” Father Lanctot's voice is flatter than usual.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

“Is there more?” Father Lanctot asks me.

“I don't know whether I believe in—you know— Him. God.”

“Doubting is part of faith.”

“It is?”

“Certainly. True faith makes room for doubt.”

I don't know how to tell him that I don't know what he's talking about. How can faith and doubt go together? I always thought they were opposites like hot and cold, or fire and water. Or my mom and my dad.

“You said you don't have much compassion for your mother. Correct?”

“Uh-huh.” I can practically feel the guilt coming out of my pores.

“But that means you have some compassion. Correct?”

I hadn't thought of it that way. Maybe I've focused too much on what I'm missing and not enough on what I've got.

“You must draw on the compassion you have. Compassion is like a well. It goes deeper than you expect.” I think about the old stone well behind the farmhouse on Côte Ste-Anne. When we were little, Dad used to lift us up so we could peer down into it. No matter how hard we tried, we could never see the bottom. “Now about that priest you say you have a crush on. Have those feelings passed?”

I wonder if Father Lanctot notices I've just squirmed in my seat. Maybe he's like a border guard—trained to watch for suspicious signs.

“Pretty much,” I tell Father Lanctot.

“Pretty much is a good start,” he says.

“Do you really think so?” This confession is turning into more of a conversation than I expected.

“I do.”

“Then I guess I'll try to think of it that way. Pretty much is a good start,” I say, trying out the words and the idea. “So what's my penance?”

“I was just getting to that. Why are all you young people always in such a rush?” Father Lanctot sighs. “I want you to say twelve Hail Mary's every night for a week. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“God be with you,” Father Lanctot says. As I get up from my seat, I hear him blow his nose. When I leave the confessional, the light is flashing green again.

Twenty-Two

T
he first thing I see when I leave the basilica is another flashing light. This one's red and it's coming from the top of an ambulance pulling out of the basilica parking lot. At first, I think it's one of the pilgrims—someone has fallen out of a wheelchair or had a heart attack. Still, the wailing sound of the siren rattles me. For the rest of my life, that sound will always remind me of the day of Mom's accident and how I heard the siren in the background when Colette phoned to say something bad had happened. And how after that, everything in our lives changed.

I look over at the parking lot. Armand is there, wearing his orange vest. When he sees me, he waves, gesturing for me to come over.

“Did you hear what happened to the new priest?” he shouts as I walk toward him.

“D'you mean Father Fr-Francoeur?” My chest feels tight. What can have happened to Father Francoeur? Has he had a heart attack or some kind of stroke? Or was it an accident like Mom's? What I'm thinking most of all is, Haven't enough bad things happened to me already? Doesn't God grant some kind of immunity to kids whose moms are paralyzed below the waist? Can't He at least do a better job of looking after the people I've got left?

Armand nods yes. He means Father Francoeur. I rush over to Armand, grabbing hold of his elbow. A driver waiting for Armand to direct him to a parking spot honks. “What happened to him? Tell me!” My hands are shaking.

Armand signals for the driver to wait. “Take it easy, Ani,” he says. “I heard Father Francoeur had an allergic reaction. He was having lunch in the clergy cafeteria and his throat starting closing up. The paramedics said he went into anaphylactic shock.”

Armand turns around and directs the driver to a free spot. Then he walks back to where I'm waiting. “They think he might have an allergy to mangoes—because another priest told the paramedics they had mango yogurt for dessert.”

“Mangoes?”

Armand must notice how upset I am, because he says, “I didn't know the two of you were so close.”

“We are. I mean…we're not. He's a family friend. D'you think he going to be all right?”

“I'm sure he'll be fine. The paramedics were pretty pissed off he'd let his EpiPen expire. Look, Ani, you gotta chill out. Like you said, the guy's a family friend. It's not like he's your dad. Imagine if, after everything you've been through, something bad happened to your dad— or to Colette…”

“If you're trying to make me feel better, Armand, it's not working.”

I can still hear Armand's words inside my head as I walk along Avenue Royale.
It's not like he's your dad
.