Miracleville (21 page)

So after Mass, Mom and I wait by the confessionals until nearly everyone else has left. We form a line with the others who have been invited to participate. One is a boy my age, who must have cerebral palsy and is also confined to a wheelchair. The boy's face looks like it is frozen in a permanent grimace. He's with his dad, and I let them go before us.

I wheel Mom down the exit ramp next to the main stairs. As I look out at the basilica grounds, all I see are people. Some have brought their own folding chairs; most are standing.

The late morning sun lands on Father Lanctot's bald spot. In the bright light, I can see how lined his face is, and I wonder how long it will be before he is too old to conduct the Mass on Saint Anne's feast day.

A microphone has been set up outside and when Father Lanctot goes over to it, the entire town seems to fall silent. Even the crows understand that this is no time for cawing.

Father Lanctot says a few words in Latin. And then, one by one, he blesses each person grouped in the circle around him. I watch his face as he looks at the grimacing boy. All I can see in Father Lanctot's eyes is kindness. The boy's eyes glisten with pride.

Now it's Mom's turn. Father Lanctot kisses her forehead. “In the name of Saint Anne,” he says, “I bless you and pray for your healing—both physical and spiritual.”

I remember back to when Mom was released from hospital and how she insisted on coming to pray at the Miraculous Statue. Looking back, it seems silly that I ever thought for even a second that Mom might be miraculously healed just from saying a prayer. I must have been crazy.

I'm more realistic now. I don't need to look at the boy's grimacing face or at Mom's useless legs to know that neither of them—or any of the others in this circle— are going to be miraculously healed. None of them are going to be adding their crutches to the collection on the church walls, or abandoning their wheelchairs. But right now, at least, that feels okay.

Maybe it's because I know what's going to happen next. The part of Saint Anne's feast day ceremonies I love best.

I look up at the dozens of rectangular windows at the top of the basilica. From where I am standing, the windows look tiny, though I know they're not.

Mom is looking up too. I rest my hand on her shoulder, which feels more muscular than it used to.

And then, these windows—dozens and dozens of them—which are never opened except on Saint Anne's feast day, burst open all at once. Behind the windows, I can just make out the priests in white robes who've opened the windows.

And then—my favorite, favorite part.

The doves.

Each priest releases a single white dove.

Father Lanctot's voice crackles through the microphone. “By choosing to die for our sins, Christ has allowed each of us to be saved. Like these birds, we too can rise above our earthly cares and fly into heaven.”

The doves—there must be thirty of them—soar away, and my heart soars with them. For just that moment, as the doves take off and disappear into the vast blueness of the sky, I'm a believer.

Twenty-Six

T
he afternoon goes by in a whir. Kind of like the doves flying off, only faster.

When it's finally over, and Colette and I are closing down the shop, I can't remember anything specific. Not the face of a single customer—there were too many. Not a single thing they bought—though I know we sold postcards and key chains and license plates and statues and Jesus-and-Mary salad spoons. All I remember is the
dr-ring dr-ring
of our old cash register and the bell on the shop door tinkling as new customers poured in and others streamed out.

“We must have made thousands!” Colette is saying. “I'll bet this was our biggest day ever!”

I want to tell her we don't know that yet for sure, that we still have to add up all the sales, but I stop myself. What's the point of spoiling Colette's fun?

Though the souvenir stores are closed for the day, Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré is still celebrating. I hope Sweet Heaven won't run out of Quebec maple fudge.

“I'm sorry you can't come to the parade,” I tell Mom over dinner. Dad has made filets of sole with a
beurre blanc
sauce that he serves in a gravy dish that belonged to his great-grandmother. Mom closes her eyes when she takes the first bite of fish. It is good—light and moist— and the sauce tastes, well, buttery.

I don't think in all her life Mom has ever missed a Saint Anne's feast day parade, probably because the parade combines two of Mom's favorite things: religion and exercise. On the night of Saint Anne's feast day, thousands of pilgrims trek up the hill across from the basilica, past the stations of the cross, which are bronze statues that tell the story of how Jesus suffered for us. Because the hill is steep, it's a tough trek, and some people get so winded they turn back.

“I've made my peace with it,” Mom says. “Besides, you'll go for me, won't you, Ani?”

“Of course, I will.”

“And I will too,” Dad announces.

“You will?” the three of us say at once, and then we all laugh.

Dad reaches across the table for Mom's hand. “I want to be able to tell you all about it afterward,” he tells her. There's not even a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Colette and I look at each other. Next thing we know, Dad'll be asking Mom why we don't have a crucifix hanging in the dining room.

“You're my darling,” Mom tells Dad.

Dad looks so pleased I'm afraid he'll burst.

I can't remember the last time I was out alone with Dad. “I know all these pilgrims are good for business, but to be honest, Ani,” he tells me as we thread our way through the crowds on Avenue Royale, “I can't wait for them to all clear out of town. So life can get back to normal.”

We're both quiet after he says that. Maybe it's because we're thinking the same thing: that after what's happened to Mom, our lives will never get back to normal. Maybe we'll have to settle for a new normal.

Up ahead, the hill shimmers with yellow lights. From where we are, the lights look like fireflies, but we know they're coming from the lanterns. Everyone in the parade gets a paper lantern with a little yellow votive candle flickering inside.

When we reach the base of the hill, Dad and I line up for our lanterns. There's a chill in the air I haven't felt all summer. When I shiver, Dad puts his arm around me. “Do you want my jacket?” he asks, starting to loosen his jacket from his shoulders.

“No, no, I'm fine.”

“Look, Ani,” Dad says, “your mom told me you know about us—and you.” Dad is looking me in the eye. When he blinks, I know how hard this is for him. “I just need you to know one thing.” He pauses. “It never made any difference to me. You've always been my daughter. Always will be.” Dad's voice cracks when he says that.

“Excuse us,” some pilgrims behind us call out. They're carrying a banner made from an old sheet with a huge drawing of Saint Anne on it. Saint Anne is wearing a long blue dress and someone has spray-painted a golden halo over her head. Dad and I move over to the edge of the path and wait there in single file as the pilgrims squeeze past us with their banner.

The man handing out lanterns gives us ours. “I know,” I tell Dad. And because I know what he is really trying to say is that he loves me, I add, “I love you too, Dad. I just wish you'd told me sooner.”

“Me too,” Dad says. “It just never seemed like the right time. I should've been braver.”

The first station is just a few meters up from the road. We join the crowd of people standing in front of the larger-than-life bronze Jesus being condemned to death. His face looks peaceful. Someone has left a bouquet of plastic red and white dollar-store carnations at Jesus' feet.

Dad is next to me and I can feel him shift from one foot to the other. All this religious stuff must be making him squirm. Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. “I need you to know too, Ani,” he whispers, “that I won't be upset if you want to get to know him.” At first, I think Dad's talking about Jesus, but then I realize he means Father Francoeur.

Maybe Dad hasn't heard that Father Francoeur is going back to Africa. Though I guess with email and Skype, I could still get to know him even if he'll be living on another continent. Only I'm not sure yet what I want from Father Francoeur. “I'll see,” I tell Dad.

We follow the path past the next couple of stations, stopping only briefly to look at the bronze sculptures, but when we get to the fourth station, where Jesus is meeting his afflicted mother, Dad is out of breath. I hand him the plastic bottle I've brought along, and he takes a long swig of water.

Jesus' hands are stretched out toward Mary. Mother and Son gaze into each other's eyes. Even though they are bronze statues, I can feel they understand each other. Mary understands what Jesus has decided to do; He understands how difficult it is for her to let Him go. Maybe that's what love is—caring so deeply about someone else that you can feel what it's like to be that person.

A pilgrim has looped a rosary over one of Jesus' long fingers. The colored beads glimmer under the light of our lanterns.

“You ready, Ani?” Dad asks. I guess he's had about all the religion he can handle.

I take Dad's hand. I'm getting a little winded now too. There's a stone bench up ahead, but three old ladies are sitting on it and another three are standing nearby, waiting for a turn to rest their legs.

Up ahead, the path winds like a corkscrew. It's thick with pilgrims, and when I turn my head, I see even more pilgrims behind us. Dad turns to look too. The yellow lights from the lanterns wink at us. It's as if there are stars on the ground instead of the sky.

Dad shakes his head. “I have to admit it's pretty. Maybe I shouldn't have said no all those years when your Mom wanted me to come with her.”

“She's glad you came tonight,” I tell him.

People are slowing down now and some pilgrims, especially the ones who are old or out of shape, are stopping to rest or have water.

From where we are now, we can see to the top of the hill. A crowd has gathered at the eleventh station. Here, Jesus is being nailed to the cross. I can't help shivering when I look at the bronze nails piercing through His wrists and knees. Better to look at His face. I study it, searching for some sign of panic or anger, but I don't see any. None at all. Just acceptance. Let it be. I don't know how Jesus did it. I know I could never accept that kind of pain—no matter how much I believed.

I can't stop looking at Jesus' face. He looks so…so human. Could that mean that sometimes even He had doubts and questions, not just about religion, but also about Himself? The way I do?

Dad has gone to wait at the edge of the path. I can feel him looking at me looking at the statue.

When I'm done, I slip my hand into Dad's. Together, we trudge to the top of the hill. The exercise has warmed me up. I stop, but only for a moment, at the last station: Jesus is being laid in the sepulchre. At last, His suffering is over. What's left is His story, and for believers, His example. I'm still not sure if I believe any of it.

Dad and I join the crowd of pilgrims filing down the road that heads back down to Avenue Royale. “I wonder if it's true,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the hill.

Dad doesn't say anything at first. I know it's because he's thinking. “I suppose it could be,” he finally says. Because the road is steep, we need to take small steps and lean back a little on our ankles. “Sometimes,” Dad says, “a good story is as important as the truth.”

The downstairs light is on when we get home. Mom's in her wheelchair, parked near the front window. “How was it?” she asks when we get in. At first, I don't know why she's whispering, but then I see that Colette has fallen asleep on Mom and Dad's bed. She's curled up in snail position.

“Better than I expected,” Dad says. He puts his arm around Colette so he can bring her upstairs. She makes a little moaning sound, and Dad kisses her forehead.

Mom wheels herself over to me. She pats the edge of the bed, which means she wants me to sit there. My legs are still warm from the climb and sitting feels good. “So tell me all about it.” If Mom's sad she missed the parade, I can't tell from her voice or her eyes.

As I tell Mom about the lanterns and the crowds and how even Dad had a good time, I notice her bite down hard on her lower lip. Something must be hurting.

I jump up from the bed. “What's wrong, Mom? Tell me what's wrong.”

I must've raised my voice because Dad comes clattering down the stairs. “What's going on?”

We're both watching Mom's face.

She's gripping the sides of her wheelchair so hard her hands are shaking. “I've got some bad cramping,” she says. She looks up at both of us. Her pale blue eyes look silver. “In my thighs.”

Twenty-Seven

I
t's too soon to get excited, but the neurologist in Quebec City thinks the cramps in Mom's thighs are a hopeful sign.