Free Miracleville by Monique Polak Page B

is paralyzed below the waist?—what’s going to happen to their bond? Maybe Dad’ll want to leave Mom for somebody healthier. And then what would happen to us?
    I could look online for answers, but to be honest, I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I google paraplegics + bodily wastes , or paraplegics + sex . There’s so much sick stuff on the web, and if the search leads me to some paraplegic porn site, I swear I’ll be scarred for life.
    No, there’s an easier way to find out.
    I’ll get Colette to ask.
    Too bad she’s sleeping.
    Except for when she was on Ritalin, Colette has always been a way better sleeper than me. Maybe it’s because she uses up so much energy fidgeting and yakking all day.
    At night, all she has to do is put her cheek on the pillow and she’s out cold.
    Not me. Sleep’s always been a struggle for me. Especially if there’s something on my mind—the way there is tonight.
    I try telling my body to relax, but my body isn’t taking orders. I try counting the glow-in-the-dark stars Colette and I stuck on the ceiling in our bedroom, but that doesn’t help either. I try focusing on the music the crickets are making outside, but instead, I think I hear the creak of Marco Leblanc’s wheelchair. Maybe he’s as bad a sleeper as I am.
    Colette sighs. This could be my chance. “Are you awake?” I whisper.
    Colette doesn’t answer. So I lie there a little longer, to see if she wakes up on her own. Our bedroom door is half open and I see a pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark. I move over to the side of my bed and tap the spot next to me. Eeyore jumps up, landing with a soft thud. I stroke the fur behind his ears the way he likes. Sometimes, petting Eeyore helps me fall asleep.
    It’s Eeyore’s purring that wakes Colette up. She shifts on her bed, then yawns. “What are you doing to that cat?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
    â€œNothing. Just petting him. I can’t sleep.”
    â€œDid you try counting the stars?”
    â€œIt didn’t help.”
    â€œDo you want me to make you a cup of warm milk?”
    I know Colette means it. That she’d actually get up and warm up some milk for me. And because Mom got rid of the microwave—she thinks microwaves give off dangerous electrical waves—Colette would have stood by the stove and warmed the milk in a small pot. “Nah, but thanks for offering.”
    I hear Colette shift onto her other side. “Colette—”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œThere’s some stuff I’m wondering about. About Mom.” I’m almost too shy to talk about it.
    â€œIs it about sex?”
    I’m glad Colette said the word, not me. And she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about it either. “Well, yeah, and about going to the bathroom. How’s that gonna work exactly?”
    â€œI think she’ll have to keep wearing a diaper. You know—for number two’s. And I’m pretty sure she’ll still have the catheter for peeing.”
    â€œMom wears a diaper?”
    â€œYou haven’t noticed?”
    â€œI guess not. I didn’t really think about it till now.” I suck in my breath. “Will we have to wipe her? Or change the diaper?”
    â€œShe changed plenty of ours.”
    â€œYeah, but we were babies. Our poops were baby-size.”
    â€œWe can’t expect Dad to do everything,” Colette says. I know she’s right. “The diapers might just be temporary,” Colette continues. “I read online that, over time, people who are paraplegic get to recognize the rhythms of their bodies. She’ll be able to tell us when she has to go. Then one of us will have to help her onto the toilet.”
    â€œAnd off,” I add, trying to picture how it’ll work.
    After that, neither of us says anything for a while. The Saint Anne nightlight on the bottom of the wall