Miracleville (19 page)

The automatic sprinklers are on. I find a dry spot for my bike, then make a run for the front door. A pale, almost translucent rainbow appears over the jet of water from one of the sprinklers.

Iza's doorbell chimes like a church bell.

“Ani,” Lise says as she opens the door. “It's lovely to see you, honey, but I'm afraid Iza's at work.”

“I'm not here to see Iza.”

“You're not?” Lise shows me into the huge living room. Though she's home alone, she's got lipstick on. I sometimes wonder how she and Mom could ever have been such good friends.

We sit down on a gigantic beige sofa. “How's your mom?” Lise asks. “I keep meaning to come by. It's just that things have been crazy here.”

It's hard to imagine things ever being crazy in this house. Everything is in its place, right down to the crystal candy dish on the coffee table.

“Mom's started lifting weights. Marco's been showing her how.”

Lise wrinkles her nose as though she just smelled something sour. “I didn't think they were still friends.”

“They weren't—until lately.” I wonder if Lise can tell what I'm thinking—that lately she hasn't been much of a friend to Mom either.

“So, Ani, what is it you want to talk to me about?”

My mouth feels suddenly dry. “Is it okay if I have one?” I say, eyeing the oval mints in the candy dish.

“Oh those, they're just for show,” Lise says, popping up from the sofa. “How about some juice?”

“A glass of water would be good.”

I take a long sip of the water Lise brings me, but the dry feeling in my mouth doesn't go away. The water is the fizzy kind and Lise has put a slice of lemon on the edge of the glass. I guess it's for show too.

“I've got some questions,” I tell her.

“What kinds of questions?” Lise folds her hands neatly in her lap.

“About my mom and Emil Francoeur. And about me.”

Lise turns to the window. When she turns back to face me, I notice how her face has none of the lines Mom's face does.

“Ani, honey, I think you need to have this conversation with your mom.” Lise's voice is very gentle. But her lips are pursed together. She knows something.

“I can't talk to my mom about this stuff. Not now.

She's still too messed up.”

Lise looks down at her legs, folded neatly at the ankles. She is wearing a pair of crisp beige slacks. “I know I'd be messed up if it was me. But I always thought your mom's faith would get her through any crisis.”

I'd always figured Mom and Lise had grown apart because Lise is obsessed with having the perfect life and Mom's more real. But now I wonder if God got in the way of their friendship too.

“Can't you tell me anything?” I ask Lise.

Lise shakes her head. “There's just one thing I can tell you, Ani. One really important thing: Your mom and dad love you very much. And they're special people. Both of them.”

But that's all she'll tell me.

Colette is still convalescing—taking long bubble baths and writing madly in a journal Dad bought for her—but getting a little better too. The first few days, she didn't even want to leave the house. Mom and Dad let her skip two days' work at the store.

Today Colette wants to know if, after we close up the shop, I'll bike over with her to Tante Hélène's. To pick up some nerve tonic Tante Hélène made for Mom.

“Are you sure going over there's a good idea?” I don't say Maxim's name since Colette tears up when she hears it.

When Colette sucks in her breath, I know it's because she's still suffering. That even if I think Maxim was a jerk and she's better off without him, she really did care for him. “He won't be there,” she says. “I checked.”

We make a quick stop at Tante Hélène's. “You and I are always going to be friends, aren't we?” Tante Hélène says, patting Colette's shoulder and giving her a big hug before we go. Colette nods.

On the bike ride back, Colette insists on stopping at the small cemetery on Avenue Royale. Because it's not far from our house, we used to come here a lot when we were little. Someone has put a pot of yellow pansies on one of the graves. We sit on a bench under a giant weeping willow tree. Colette kicks at the bottom of the bench with her heel. I try not to let it bother me.

“How's your heart?” I ask Colette.

“Still broken,” she says. “He texted me to say he wants another chance.” I can tell she's watching for my reaction.

“Don't—” I stop myself. Colette has to figure this out for herself. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm still thinking about it. I don't know if I trust him. I think he likes girls too much. Tante Hélène says her husband had the same problem and that she gave him too many chances. How's your heart?” Colette asks me.

“Confused.”

“I guess you haven't talked to Mom yet.”

“Not yet. But soon. And hey, thanks for not blurting anything out,” I tell her. “That can't be easy for you.”

Colette looks insulted. “I said I wouldn't.” Colette stares up at the willow. I look up at it too. It makes a giant silver-green umbrella.

“I'm pretty sure I'm right,” I tell Colette.

She knows what I mean. “You do look like him.”

“I do?”

“Uh-huh. Little things mostly. The thick hair and you both have those really long fingers.” Colette slides her hand over mine. It's true. Her fingers are shorter and thicker than mine. “You laugh the same too.”

“But don't you think it's…you know, gross?”

Colette is tapping the bench now. Maybe she thinks better when some part of her is moving. “No,” she says, “it's not gross. It just is.”

“But I wanted to kiss him.” My voice breaks when I tell her this. It's the part I'm most ashamed of.

“That was before you knew.” Colette gives me a sideways look. “You didn't kiss him, did you?”

“No, I didn't. But I wanted to. Oh, Colette, I feel so ashamed.”

“You don't have anything to be ashamed about.” Colette says this as if the matter is settled.

Twenty-Four

I
t's only four days till Saint Anne's feast day on Sunday—and the pilgrims are taking over our town.

There's about twenty times as many pilgrims as residents. And by Sunday, there will be thousands more. We're being invaded.

It happens every year, but somehow I'm still not used to it. There are people everywhere, many of them on crutches or in wheelchairs; long lineups outside L'Église, at Sweet Heaven and at the Blessings Office; people posing for photographs on the basilica grounds; traffic jams at every corner. They jabber to each other in languages I recognize—French, German, Spanish, Cantonese and Russian—and some that I don't. Armand and Maxim are working overtime in the parking lot. There needs to be at least two of us in the store at all times. But there are benefits to having your town invaded: like all the other businesses on Avenue Royale, we'll earn more this week than in all the other fifty-one combined.

I haven't had much time to think—and maybe that's okay. I'm still not ready to talk to Mom or Dad or Father Francoeur. Besides, what would I say? Dad, you're not my dad. Father Francoeur, in case you haven't already figured it out, congratulations, you're a father. No, I feel like I need to let things sit a while longer, the way I do after I've had a big meal. My brain is digesting. The other thing I've been doing is watching: looking for signs, for differences. Does Dad treat Colette better than me? Is he more patient with her? Does he love her more? Does he laugh harder when she says something funny? But though I've been watching carefully, like a scientist peering through his microscope, I haven't noticed anything different. Dad's worried about Mom, but otherwise, he's the way he always is. Kind and steady.

This morning he's sprinkled icing sugar in the shape of a smile over our French toast and made eyes from chocolate chips, the way he used to when we were little. Colette bursts out laughing when Dad serves her. Mom smiles too. I think the weight lifting is doing her good. She's wearing a white sleeveless blouse, and I can see that her upper arms are getting some definition. More importantly, she's not as down as she was before she started training with Marco.

We're talking about how busy the store has been when Dad comes up with the idea that Colette and I should have a day off. “We're going to need the two of you in the store from tomorrow through Sunday pretty much nonstop. Clara is working today, and I can go in to help. You two can have the day to yourselves—to get out and get some fresh air.”

“But who'll look after Mom?” Colette and I ask at the same time.

“I don't need constant looking after,” Mom says.

“We could go to the canyon. And Mom, you can come with us!” Colette says.

I watch for Mom's reaction. Colette shouldn't have said that. She's just reminding Mom of all the things she can't do anymore. Colette should've checked with Dad and me before bursting out with the idea.

Only Mom doesn't look upset at all. “I'd love to feel the spray from the waterfall on my face,” she says, lifting her face up toward the ceiling fan that's rotating over our dining-room table. “It's been forever since I was at the canyon.”

Of course, we all know it hasn't really been forever. The last time Mom was at the canyon was the day of her accident.

“It's settled then,” Dad says. “I'll give the three of you a lift over. You can phone when you're ready to be picked up.”

“Can I invite Tante Hélène too? I think she's getting lonely with Maxim working so many hours this week,” Colette says. We all look at her when she says Maxim's name. Her eyes don't tear up this time.

Dad takes another bite of French toast and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “That's one of the things I love about you, Colette, the way you're always thinking about other people.”

Colette is already in the kitchen, phoning Tante Hélène. I wonder what things Dad loves about me.

We can't take the wheelchair on the suspension bridges, but we can take it on the bigger paths. Colette pushes the wheelchair, but I don't entirely trust her. What if something—a butterfly or some cute guy—distracts her and she lets go when we're hiking downhill? I walk alongside Mom.

We get as close as we can to the waterfall. There's a clearing up ahead with an old picnic table. I help Colette park Mom's wheelchair at the narrow end. This way, Mom will feel the spray from the waterfall on her face.

I hadn't realized what good friends Colette and Tante Hélène have become. Colette recognizes native herbs and plants without Tante Hélène having to tell her what they are. Today, Tante Hélène, who is wearing her floppy hat again, has brought along a burlap bag to collect plant samples. She's also brought lunch. Whoever heard of a tofu sandwich? It turns out to be better than it sounds. “Tante Hélène marinates the tofu in soy sauce and cilantro before baking it,” Colette explains.