Miracleville Read online

  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

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B PO BOX 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  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

  Colette 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.”

  Colette winks at me. Yeah, right, I think, you’re some angel!

  Now Colette is stuffing the vacuum cleaner back into the closet behind the counter. She doesn’t wrap the electrical cord into a neat bundle the way she should, but I don’t say anything. How many times have Mom and Dad told me that what Colette needs most is encouragement? And that we must love her exuberant personality. If you ask me, exuberant is code for annoying.

  I hand Mom the cash from the register and the list of purchases made on credit and debit cards.

  “Who’s that priest you were talking to?” Colette asks Mom.

  Mom unsnaps her purse and ignores Colette’s question. “I’ll see you two at home then. I’ll set the alarm inside the store. You’re on your bikes, aren’t you? So you’ll be leaving by the garage anyway. No fooling around, okay, Colette?”

  Colette throws her arms up in the air. “Why do I always get blamed for fooling around, even when I haven’t done anything?”

  “Because you are always fooling around,” I mutter under my breath.

  Mom is by the front door, arming the alarm. She gives me a sharp look. “Look out for her. Remember, you’re the big sister.”

  Aargh.

  Most of the shops on Avenue Royale have garages and parking spots out back to make deliveries easier. Even though our garage door is electric, it’s ancient, and it makes a loud humming sound as it opens.

  “Ready?” I ask Colette. The air is warm, and from where we are standing, we can see all the way down to Highway 138. Cars and trucks zip along in both directions. Somewhere in the distance, to the west of us, is the bridge to Île d’Orléans, and beyond that, about twenty miles away, is Quebec City.

  Once I hit the switch, we’ll have ninety seconds to get outside.

  “Guillotine!” Colette calls out. Since we were little, Colette and I have made a game of running out while the garage door closes. She came up with the name Guillotine because if that door ever closed on us, it’d probably take off our heads. As we get bigger, the game’s become harder. There is more of us that has to slip out before the door closes.

  “Ready!” Colette says.

  I hit the switch, and we take off.

  I reach the end of the driveway first. I hear Colette panting behind me. She’s running so hard I worry she’ll crash into our bikes, which are chained together to a telephone pole. But Colette slides to a stop in front of the bikes. “That was fun,” she says, “even if you beat me!”

  Mom has already put out the recycling. My eyes land on a giant cardboard box with a picture of a two-foot-tall Jesus figurine on one side.

  Then a really weird thing happens.

  Jesus’ eyes flash, as if he’s alive and possibly angry at me.

  For a second, I wonder if He is trying to send me a message. My shoulders stiffen.

  Colette grabs my arm. “C’mon,” she says, “let’s go!”

  When I look back at the box, Jesus’ eyes are flat and dead.

  Two

  “Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts…” Mom bows her head as she prays.

  I bow my head and say grace with Mom. I should be thinking about the Lord and His gifts, but Colette is distracting me. Again. She keeps tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. Even Dad is playing with his napkin.

  Colette looks like Dad. She has his stocky build, dark laughing eyes and curly chestnut hair. I’m more like Mom. We’re slim, with pale blue eyes, straight blond hair (although mine is thicker) and the same heart-shaped face. The women on Mom’s side go gray early. Mom’s only thirty-four, but her hair’s already got gray streaks. I guess it’ll happen to me too.

  Mom’s friend Lise—my friend Iza’s mother—is always after Mom to dye her hair, but Mom won’t. She’s kind of an eco-freak. It started when Colette was four, after she was diagnosed with adhd—Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. Mom read online that eliminating household chemicals might help Colette. Of course, there’s no way of knowing if it worked. All I know is the bottom of our bathtub’s gray—a problem eco-cleanser won’t fix—and Colette is still a royal pain.

  Colette has one thing I wish I had. Boobs. Even though I’m sixteen, my chest is almost as flat as the dining-room table. Sometimes, when we’re getting dressed in the upstairs bedroom we share, I sneak a peek at Colette’s chest—her breasts are the size of grapefruits—and I feel a tug of jealousy. I know it isn’t right, but I still do. What if I stay flat-chested forever?

  Colette’s moving her lips, but she isn’t saying the words to the prayer out loud.

  Dad is still playing with his napkin. Sometimes I wonder if he has a touch of adhd too. When Mom looks up and catches Dad’s eye, he stops.

  Other than Dad’s office behind the kitchen, the dining room is the only crucifix-free zone in our house. Dad freaked out a couple of weeks ago when Mom came home with another crucifix (a sample from a supplier) and tried to hang it on the wall across from the table. Her plan might have worked if she hadn’t hung it right in Dad’s line of vision.

  “If there’s one thing that spoils my appetite, Thérèse,” Dad had said, shaking his head, “it’s the sight of Jesus bleeding on the cross!” Then Dad closed his eyes, refusing to open them until
Mom took down the crucifix.

  The crucifix was made of resin, and Jesus was wearing a tan loincloth that looked like a diaper. “But this is such a lovely crucifix. See how lifelike our Savior’s skin looks,”

  Mom had said, stroking the resin as if it were flesh.

  Dad banged his fist on the table. “My point exactly!”

  “Calm down, Robert,” Mom told him, patting his arm. “I’ll find another place for it.”

  Dad shook his head again. “I’m sure you will.”

  When Dad gets upset, it’s a lightning flash—over quickly and leaving the air feeling crisper afterward. “Let’s kiss and make up,” he’ll say to Mom, puckering up his lips in a way that always makes Colette hoot.

  “Not in front of the girls,” Mom will say, blushing.

  When Mom and Dad argue, it’s usually about religion. She believes; he doesn’t. They compromise when it comes to home décor. No crucifixes in Dad’s office or the dining room. But there is a crucifix over the kitchen sink, one on either side of the blue velvet couch in the living room and one over every bed in our house. I wonder if Dad has to close his eyes when he and Mom have sex too. Not that I ever like to think about my parents having sex. What kid does?

  Mom believes we need to be constantly reminded that Jesus sacrificed His life for us.

  I’m not so sure that’s necessary.

  One thing Mom and Dad agree about, though, is raising us. They’re both too strict, especially now that we’re teenagers. I don’t understand why they worry so much. I’ve never caused them any trouble and, except for her adhd, Colette’s not a bad kid either. Besides, it’s hard to make trouble in a town this size, where everybody knows each other. Not to mention that we’ve got good Saint Anne watching out from every statue, key chain and nightlight.

  Colette pops up from her chair when I ask her to help me clear the dishes. I know it’s because she wants to see Maxim.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to McDonald’s again,” Mom says to us.

  I know it’s pathetic, but McDonald’s is the coolest place in town to hang out. Other than the basilica (not exactly a hot spot for teens) and the other religious monuments, all we’ve got is the Sweet Heaven Candy Store and a couple of restaurants with names like L’Église and Pilgrims’ Café.