Miracleville (11 page)

I hear Mom wheeling herself out of the bathroom. She still has trouble maneuvering the wheelchair around corners, but she gets angry if we try to help. “I need to be able to do this myself,” she tells us, gritting her teeth from the effort.

Dad clears his throat. “Maybe we should think about washing your hair today, Thérèse,” he says softly.

“Not today.”

If it were me, I'd take that as a sign to end the conversation, but Dad doesn't. “Are you sure, Thérèse?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

Now I hear the sound of Dad flipping through a magazine. “Thér…,” he says, but then he stops himself.

“What is it now?”

“Well, uh…I've been meaning to tell you about this article I read online. Some French neuroscientists are using electrical stimulation to get paralyzed rats to run again.” Dad's voice sounds bright, but I can tell he's forcing it.

“Robert,” Mom says his name like it's a warning.

“I thought it was a very hopeful study. And there's another group of researchers out in Alberta who've done some very interesting experiments with geckos. I thought you'd want to hear all about it.”

“I don't. Geckos, for goodness sake.”

“You know, Thérèse, things could be worse. You could've died when you got caught under the garage door.”

“You're right,” Mom says. “I could've died. But that isn't doing me much good now, is it?”

Dad doesn't say anything, but even from upstairs, I can feel the tension between them. It's traveling up the stairway and through the walls. “All right then,” Dad says at last, “in that case, I think I'll go to my office and work on the accounts. Can I make you a cup of tea first, Thérèse?”

That breaks my heart—when he offers to make her a cup of tea. Even after she's been so mean to him.

If Mom answers, I can't hear it. I try to concentrate on
The Life of Saint Anne
. Ominous clouds are darkening the sky of Anne and Joachim's life. The priest who wrote the book liked using flowery language. Personally, I don't know why he didn't just say Anne and Joachim were having a hard time.

I hear Dad trudging up the stairs and the click of the light switch when he gets to his office, which is just down the hall from our bedroom.

Downstairs, Mom has started to cry. I think she's trying to say something between the sobs, but I can't make out the words. And I don't really want to.

I hear Dad breathing hard. He's upset too. Then I hear him trudge back down the stairs. I can tell from the number of steps that he's stopped halfway down. “What about the God you love so much?” Dad calls out. “Where is He now, when you really need Him?”

When, after a minute or two, Mom still doesn't answer, Dad goes back up to his office. I hear him sit down at his chair and sigh.

How come now, when both my parents are hurting and I should be trying to do something to help, all I really want to do is pull the sheets over my head and pretend none of this is happening?

“I'm home!” Colette calls out. I must've dozed off reading
The Life of Saint Anne
. If that priest had put in some of the more interesting parts of her life, maybe the book would've turned out better. I mean maybe Saint Anne didn't just automatically get over things after Joachim took off to the desert. Maybe they didn't talk for a while, or she got snappy with him. Maybe she had the hots for some other guy. And maybe, once she finally did get pregnant and gave birth to baby Mary, she discovered that being such an old mom was hard. Maybe taking care of the baby was so hard Saint Anne was glad to consecrate Mary to the church. These are all things the priest doesn't mention.

“I was over at Maxim's,” Colette is telling Mom. I can imagine what Colette was doing at Maxim's house. Making out, I'll bet! I don't understand how Colette can act like sex is no big deal, when, for me, the whole idea is so…well, complicated. Part of me thinks sex is scary and sinful, and even a little gross—people rubbing the most private parts of their bodies together—but another part of me is curious about it. Not just because I wonder how it'll make my body feel, but also because I really do believe what they teach us in MRE: sex is a sacred mystery, kind of like religion itself.

I think my life would be easier if Colette and I had more in common than who our parents are.

I can hear Colette unzipping her backpack. “Tante Hélène made these brownies for you, Mom. There's ginger in them. She says ginger's good for your system.”

I expect Mom to snap, but she doesn't. Maybe she snapped enough at Dad before and she's feeling mellower now.

It's probably safe to go downstairs. Besides, I wouldn't mind a brownie, even one that's good for my system. I hear Dad's office door opening too. Maybe he's also got a sudden brownie craving. Or maybe he's hoping Mom'll be nicer to him now.

“What's wrong with your chin?” I ask Colette when I see her. The skin on her chin is all red and bumpy-looking.

“Nothing. It's a little sore is all,” Colette says, covering her chin with her hand. But I know better. Josianne's chin gets like that too. It happens when she's been kissing Armand and he hasn't shaved. I touch my own chin. I wonder if it'll ever look like that.

But neither Mom nor Dad seems too concerned about Colette's chin. Or that she's been spending so much time at Maxim's.

“Is Tante Hélène around when you and Maxim are hanging out?” I ask, hoping Mom and Dad will get the hint and start acting like parents again.

“Yup,” Colette says, but I know she's lying. I'll bet anything that when Colette is over, Tante Hélène is busy in her kitchen making herbal potions—or brownies.

Colette runs her fingers through Mom's hair. As I watch her, I think how I haven't really touched Mom since she came home. Sure, I kiss her hello every morning, and I kiss her goodbye when I leave for work, but it's hard to hug someone who's in a wheelchair. And Mom's hair looks so greasy, I don't feel like touching it.

But Colette doesn't seem to mind. And I can see Mom's face softening. Maybe she misses us touching her.

“Let me do your hair, Mom,” Colette says softly. “I'm going to make it so pretty. I'll wash it in the sink for you. It's going to smell so nice.” Colette's voice is gentle, almost as if she is singing a lullaby.

Dad and I exchange looks. I think we're both worried Mom'll have another outburst.

But she doesn't. “Okay, baby,” she tells Colette. “I'd like that.”

Mom doesn't object when Colette wheels her into the bathroom. I follow behind, thinking Colette will probably need my help. But Colette wheels the wheelchair right over to the sink. I watch as she runs the water, testing with her fingers that it's not too hot or too cold. “Okay, you can put your head back now,” she tells Mom.

Colette, who can never concentrate on anything, is concentrating now, putting a rolled up washcloth under Mom's head so she'll be more comfortable.

“Ouch!” Mom calls out suddenly. “Stop pulling my hair!”

Dad is standing behind me, and the two of us bristle at the same time. We're both expecting trouble.

Colette laughs. “Oops,” she says, not bothering to apologize. “I hate it when that happens!”

The sink is full of suds. Mom sighs as Colette massages her head.

Fourteen

D
ad just calls out “Bye” from the front door when he leaves to do the banking. He doesn't kiss Mom on the cheek, tug one of Colette's curls or tweak my nose. Mom doesn't seem to notice something's different, but Colette and I do.

“He didn't tweak my nose,” I tell Colette once he's gone.

Colette is standing by the door, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Poor Daddy,” is all she says.

Colette is working at Saintly Souvenirs today. I see her loading on the lip gloss, which means Maxim is probably going to be dropping by. I wonder if, when there are no customers, they make out there too. For a second, I imagine Maxim's hands on Colette's grapefruit breasts and what that would feel like. But the thought disturbs me and makes my own small breasts ache in a way I'm not used to, so I make myself stop.

I'm home with Mom today. I offer to read to her, but she says no. She doesn't want to watch tv either. So I just sit with her in the living room and try to make conversation.

“Do you need a pillow for your back?”

“No.”

“Do you want to see today's newspaper?”

“No.”

“We could do the crossword.”

“I don't think so.”

“Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich with bacon and tomato.”

“Not right now.”

“You sure? Because I think I'm gonna make one for myself.”

“I already told you no.”

On my way to the kitchen, I pause in front of Mom's wheelchair. I don't look down at her legs and feet, but I make a point of reaching out to stroke her hair. Soft and gentle, the way Colette did last night. At least now Mom's hair is clean. But her face doesn't relax the way it does when Colette touches her. Maybe Mom can sense how uncomfortable I am around her. How the thought of her paralyzed legs—just hanging there, limp and useless— makes me queasy.

I wash my hands after I've laid out the bacon strips in the fry pan. Jesus is watching me from the crucifix over the sink. He's tired, aching from hanging on the cross, but even so, I can feel His disappointment. He's telling me I need to be better with Mom. More understanding, more patient, and definitely less grossed out. Mom knows exactly how I feel and so does He.

The bacon sizzles in the pan. Its smoky smell fills every corner of the kitchen and seeps into the rest of the house. When the doorbell rings, I turn down the heat.

“Don't let whoever it is in,” Mom warns. “I'm not up for visitors today.”

She's not up for visitors any day.

At first when I look out the glass pane on the door, I don't see anyone. Maybe it was some kid playing a trick.

But then I see a muscular suntanned arm reaching up to ring the doorbell again. The arm drops and now I see fingers in leather-and-mesh weight-lifting gloves. “Oh my God,” I tell Mom. “It's him. It's Marco Leblanc.”

I didn't think he ever left his house, but I can't very well leave him sitting outside our door in his rickety old wheelchair. Besides, he knows I've seen him.

Mom is wheeling herself out of the living room and into the hallway where I'm standing. “Let him in,” she whispers, but I already have.

I don't like how Marco is looking at me. Staring really. As if he actually knows me.

Mom wheels herself so she is next to me. “Thérèse,” Marco says. His face is all sweaty and so are his arms and hands. “It's been a while.” His voice sounds rusty, which is what must happen when you hardly ever talk to anyone.

“I—uh—have to take the bacon off the stove,” I say. Because I don't know what else to say, I ask Marco if he wants a bacon and tomato sandwich.

Marco looks surprised. I guess no one ever offers to make him anything. “Sure,” he says. “That'd be good.”

I don't really want to go back to the kitchen. Even though he gives me the creeps, I'm curious about Marco. This is the first time I've seen him up close. His upper arms are even bulkier than I thought; the blue veins near his hands are so swollen I'm afraid they might burst.

Marco has a colorful striped Mexican blanket over his lower body, but I'll bet underneath the blanket, his legs are sweating too. His hair looks like it's been dyed black. No one has hair that dark. But how could a man in a wheelchair dye his own hair? Maybe he gets the nurse to do it, or the delivery boy from the IGA.

I've got to take the bacon out of the fry pan before it burns.

“I've been watching you go up and down the ramp,” I hear Marco tell Mom.

Marco speaks slowly, like it's an effort to get the words out.