Not just in miracles, but in the whole package. Our Savior. Catholicism. Religion. If it weren’t for Catholicism, Father Francoeur might not have told Marco being gay was a sin—and Marco might not have drunk so much and got himself run over by a train. And if it weren’t for Catholicism, women in Tante Hélène’s time and even some Catholic women today might use birth control and not be forced to have so many babies. As for miracles, Mom’s lower body looks more shriveled every day. It’s a miracle, I suppose, a small miracle, that at least she’s working out with the weights I found in the basement. I guess I always thought that as I got older, I’d understand things better. That I’d be able to decide about miracles and religion and the kind of person I want to be— a believer like Mom, a skeptic like Dad or something in between. But the older I get, the more confused I feel. The weirdest thing is that despite the whirlpool swirling in my head, the thing I really want to do is go to confession.
