Free Miracleville by Monique Polak

can, I’ll give you a ride. In the mean time, be gentle with yourself. And pray. I’ll be praying too—for all of you.”
    I tell Father Francoeur he can leave me at the basilica. I should stop at Saintly Souvenirs, but I’m 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 can’t 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 I’m standing alone on Avenue Royale, I start feeling sad and overwhelmed and tired all over again. I need to sleep. I’ll 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 sidewalk— and never get up. If Father Francoeur knew how I was feeling right now, what would he say?
    He’d tell me to go to the basilica. Even just for a few minutes—to help me find my calm place. So that’s what I do.
    Usually, no matter what time I go, there’s 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 again—thinking of him.
    I bring my thoughts back to the Lord and to Mom. After all, that’s why I’m here. “Please, Lord,” I say as I kneel down, “please let Mom walk again. And give us the strength we need to help her.”
    Then instead of leaving, I stay a few more minutes. I’m not praying now; I’m just letting the sacred air fill me up. Something tells me I’m going to need it.

    Clara is straightening the crucifixes on the wall behind the cash register. But she rushes over when I come in. “Is there any news?” I can see the worry in her eyes.
    Because it helped when Father Francoeur squeezed my hand, I pat Clara’s elbow. “No news. But we have to hope—and pray. Where’s my dad?”
    â€œHe said he had things to do at home.” Clara’s eyes are getting moist. I know it’s because she feels responsible for Mom’s accident too. If she’d been able to fix the alarm or if she hadn’t freaked out, Mom would never have left the picnic. But there’s no point in going over all the what-ifs.
    I wonder whether Father Francoeur would say Mom’s accident was God’s will. Now I’m sorry I didn’t ask him that when we were in the car. Maybe he thinks all bad things that happen are God’s will—poverty and homelessness and tsunamis and war. Maybe he thinks they’re some kind of test.
    â€œIt wasn’t your fault,” I tell Clara.
    I can tell from the look in her eyes she doesn’t believe me.
    The tiredness comes back as I trudge along Avenue Royale toward our house. I hear hammering from down the street. What’s going on? For as long as I can remember, Mom has been bugging Dad to repair the wood fence around our property. Maybe he’s finally getting around to it. Maybe it’s his way of telling Mom how bad he feels about the accident.
    â€œDad!” I call out. “I’m home!”
    â€œAni!” he calls back. “I just phoned your sister. She says there’s still no change. Come see what I’ve been up to!” His voice sounds proud. I must be right about the fence. It’s something he can do for Mom while she is trapped in the hospital. Though I’m