can, Iâll give you a ride. In the mean time, be gentle with yourself. And pray. Iâll be praying tooâfor all of you.â
I tell Father Francoeur he can leave me at the basilica. I should stop at Saintly Souvenirs, but Iâm not sure how Dad would feel about my getting a lift home from Father Francoeur. I wonder if Dad knows Mom used to smoke and that she and Father Francoeur hung out together.
Father Francoeur gives my hand another squeeze before we say goodbye. This time, I squeeze back. I canât help thinking again how handsome he is. I like his profile best. His nose is straight and not too long, and his nostrils flare a little. From the side, his face looks chiseled, as if someone had sculpted him from marble.
When Father Francoeur drops me off and Iâm standing alone on Avenue Royale, I start feeling sad and overwhelmed and tired all over again. I need to sleep. Iâll feel better once I get some rest. First I should see how Dad and Clara are managing at the shop. But the idea of facing Dad and Clara makes me feel even more tired. So tired I could collapse here on the sidewalkâ and never get up. If Father Francoeur knew how I was feeling right now, what would he say?
Heâd tell me to go to the basilica. Even just for a few minutesâto help me find my calm place. So thatâs what I do.
Usually, no matter what time I go, thereâs always someone there, kneeling in one of the pews, palms pressed together, whispering a prayer. But today, for the first time ever, I am alone. I have the entire basilica to myself.
I go straight to our pew.
I can practically feel the holiness soaking into my pores. Father Francoeur would be impressed if he knew. There I go againâthinking of him.
I bring my thoughts back to the Lord and to Mom. After all, thatâs why Iâm here. âPlease, Lord,â I say as I kneel down, âplease let Mom walk again. And give us the strength we need to help her.â
Then instead of leaving, I stay a few more minutes. Iâm not praying now; Iâm just letting the sacred air fill me up. Something tells me Iâm going to need it.
Clara is straightening the crucifixes on the wall behind the cash register. But she rushes over when I come in. âIs there any news?â I can see the worry in her eyes.
Because it helped when Father Francoeur squeezed my hand, I pat Claraâs elbow. âNo news. But we have to hopeâand pray. Whereâs my dad?â
âHe said he had things to do at home.â Claraâs eyes are getting moist. I know itâs because she feels responsible for Momâs accident too. If sheâd been able to fix the alarm or if she hadnât freaked out, Mom would never have left the picnic. But thereâs no point in going over all the what-ifs.
I wonder whether Father Francoeur would say Momâs accident was Godâs will. Now Iâm sorry I didnât ask him that when we were in the car. Maybe he thinks all bad things that happen are Godâs willâpoverty and homelessness and tsunamis and war. Maybe he thinks theyâre some kind of test.
âIt wasnât your fault,â I tell Clara.
I can tell from the look in her eyes she doesnât believe me.
The tiredness comes back as I trudge along Avenue Royale toward our house. I hear hammering from down the street. Whatâs going on? For as long as I can remember, Mom has been bugging Dad to repair the wood fence around our property. Maybe heâs finally getting around to it. Maybe itâs his way of telling Mom how bad he feels about the accident.
âDad!â I call out. âIâm home!â
âAni!â he calls back. âI just phoned your sister. She says thereâs still no change. Come see what Iâve been up to!â His voice sounds proud. I must be right about the fence. Itâs something he can do for Mom while she is trapped in the hospital. Though Iâm
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley