Comme au cin\u00e9ma, j\u2019ouvre grand les rideaux. Je n\u2019essaie plus d\u2019oublier les principaux acteurs de ma jeunesse.<\/p>\n
Ma m\u00e8re qui n\u2019aimait pas mon p\u00e8re. Ce p\u00e8re qui aimait ma m\u00e8re comme un fou. Le grand-p\u00e8re qui toujours nous prot\u00e9geait. Fr\u00e9rot, le vagabond sans fa\u00e7on. Nini, ma cadette. La plus jeune, pleurant dans son berceau, et moi, la grandette, qui \u00e9crit cette histoire. Le personnage omnipr\u00e9sent, celui \u00e0 qui nous offrions toutes nos pri\u00e8res et que nous craignions sans jamais l\u2019avoir crois\u00e9, \u00e9tait camp\u00e9 par Dieu, cet inconnu qui veillait sur nous.<\/p>\n
\u00c0 cette \u00e9poque, les adultes occultaient leurs mis\u00e8res. Peut-\u00eatre priaient-ils en cachette, au bout du quai ou dans la grange en caressant le museau d\u2019un nouveau petit veau. Nous, les marmots, n\u2019apprenions rien de la joie ni du bonheur \u00e0 la maison. Nos jeunes c\u0153urs \u00e9taient aussi purs que les fraises sauvages dans les champs, nos doigts rosis et nos salopettes salies en t\u00e9moignaient. Puis, il y avait Maman dont la bouche s\u2019emplissait de cris \u00e0 c\u0153ur de jour.<\/p>\n
Se croyant ma\u00eetre du monde, fr\u00e9rot se soulageait sur les plants de tomates. Il cachait son cahier d\u2019arithm\u00e9tiques et pr\u00e9tendait l\u2019avoir perdu. Juste pour s\u2019amuser, il enterrait quelquefois les petits caplans (poissons) en train de s\u00e9cher. Seul gar\u00e7on de notre fratrie, \u00ab\u00a0le fiston \u00e0 son papa\u00a0\u00bb, il grandissait en taille et en maladresses. Inscrit au coll\u00e8ge apr\u00e8s sa douloureuse septi\u00e8me ann\u00e9e, Fiston s\u2019\u00e9vada et devint vendeur ambulant de toutes sortes de bidules.<\/p>\n
L\u2019enfant ch\u00e9ri roula sa bosse un peu partout en Gasp\u00e9sie, quelques ann\u00e9es. Lorsqu\u2019enfin il revint \u00e0 la maison, papa s\u2019empressa de lui trouver une bonne fille \u00e0 marier. Une institutrice qui lui apprendrait quelques bonnes mani\u00e8res et t\u00e2cherait de l\u2019encourager \u00e0 trouver une meilleure fa\u00e7on de gagner sa vie. Revenu de voyage de noces \u00e0 Montebello, Fiston man\u0153uvra pour vendre porte \u00e0 porte la fameuse encyclop\u00e9die Grolier en 15\u00a0volumes. Papa aida donc fr\u00e9rot \u00e0 se procurer un vieux bazou pour pouvoir livrer la marchandise. Le fils prodige cogna peut-\u00eatre \u00e0 une douzaine de portes, mais ne vendit aucun livre.<\/p>\n
Par un beau matin d\u2019automne, fatigu\u00e9, d\u00e9prim\u00e9, d\u00e9sesp\u00e9r\u00e9, ses deux mains coll\u00e9es au volant, fr\u00e9rot appuya fort sur la l\u2019acc\u00e9l\u00e9rateur et fon\u00e7a dans une cour \u00e0 bois. Sa femme, la pauvre, nous confia plus tard qu\u2019il se cherchait un cercueil pour dispara\u00eetre.<\/p>\n
Papa brailla toutes les larmes de son corps. Son seul gar\u00e7on, enfoui sous terre. Nous, ses s\u0153urs, \u00e9tions abasourdies; nos larmes coulaient une \u00e0 une sur nos joues. Maman, frapp\u00e9e de stupeur, laissa grand-p\u00e8re, lui aussi endeuill\u00e9, tenter de nous consoler comme il le pouvait. Un cur\u00e9 tout de noir v\u00eatu r\u00e9citait une pri\u00e8re. Une voisine tenait dans ses mains un g\u00e2teau aux framboises. Tout le village semblait partager notre peine.<\/p>\n
Nini, la deuxi\u00e8me fillette, a grandi en apprenant vite \u00e0 patauger dans la flamboyance du monde. Elle mettait des heures \u00e0 se maquiller, se coiffer, se pomponner dans la salle de bain, et critiquait sans arr\u00eat les v\u00eatements que maman lui cousait. Et pourtant, jeune femme, lorsqu\u2019elle avait les deux pieds sur terre, elle \u00e9tait une fabuleuse cr\u00e9atrice de bijoux inusit\u00e9s. Elle l\u2019est encore aujourd\u2019hui et, quand je pense \u00e0 elle, je ne fais qu\u2019admirer son talent.<\/p>\n
Tellement souvent, je regardais maman tricoter tout en activant avec son pied le berceau de Nini, son troisi\u00e8me enfant. \u00ab\u00a0La derni\u00e8re\u00a0\u00bb, soupirait la femme, \u00e9puis\u00e9e. Pourtant, un quatri\u00e8me b\u00e9b\u00e9 suivit. Une \u00ab\u00a0derni\u00e8re derni\u00e8re\u00a0\u00bb. Celle qui fit damner maman, celle qui s\u2019\u00e9vada de la maison, celle qui, beaucoup trop jeune, donna naissance \u00e0 un enfant. Maman pleurait, papa maudissait l\u2019affreux drogu\u00e9 que sa fille aimait. Tant d\u2019ann\u00e9es, elle resta \u00e9loign\u00e9e de nous tous. Puis un miracle se produisit. Cette \u00ab\u00a0derni\u00e8re derni\u00e8re\u00a0\u00bb s\u2019assagit et la vie s\u2019attela \u00e0 la prot\u00e9ger.<\/p>\n
Mon papa d\u2019amour n\u2019a-t-il jamais \u00e9t\u00e9 heureux? Lui qui aimait tellement maman, au point que sa souffrance le tuait \u00e0 petit feu. Vieillissant en silence, il devint presque muet. Maman, aigrie, mais r\u00e9solue dans son r\u00f4le d\u2019\u00e9pouse, le nourrissait, le lavait et le peignait sans dire un mot jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce qu\u2019un jour, je doive le conduire \u00e0 l\u2019h\u00f4pital o\u00f9 il ferma ses yeux et son c\u0153ur pour toujours \u00e0 23\u00a0h le m\u00eame soir.<\/p>\n
Moins de deux ans plus tard, maman d\u00e9cida d\u2019amener mes enfants en Gasp\u00e9sie pendant les vacances d\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9. Approchant le village de Caplan, maman se mit \u00e0 roucouler. Elle chantait, ses doigts pianotaient sur le volant. Et voil\u00e0 que, soudainement, apr\u00e8s avoir frapp\u00e9 de plein fouet un camion conduisant des moutons \u00e0 l\u2019abattoir, sa petite bagnole avait fait plusieurs tonneaux dans une pente avant de s\u2019immobiliser contre un arbre. Sa mort ressemblait \u00e0 celle de son fils. Comme si une co\u00efncidence n\u2019attendait pas l\u2019autre, l\u2019accident s\u2019\u00e9tait produit exactement \u00e0 la hauteur de la pancarte verte annon\u00e7ant Caplan, le village natal de maman. Comme si elle \u00e9tait volontairement revenue mourir \u00e0 l\u2019endroit o\u00f9 elle \u00e9tait n\u00e9e.<\/p>\n
Quand le policier m\u2019annon\u00e7a la nouvelle au t\u00e9l\u00e9phone, je me suis \u00e9croul\u00e9e. J\u2019ai tout de suite pens\u00e9 que mes enfants \u00e9taient morts eux aussi. Je ne sais pas par quel miracle, mais les trois s\u2019en sont sortis sains et saufs. Seul le traumatisme de l\u2019accident mettrait du temps \u00e0 gu\u00e9rir. Ce Dieu invisible qui veillait sur mes petits a gard\u00e9 mes enfants en vie.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2665\ufe0f<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Comme au cin\u00e9ma, j\u2019ouvre grand les rideaux. Je n\u2019essaie plus d\u2019oublier les […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":73958,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-73932","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"Just like at the movies, I open the curtains wide. I no longer try to forget the main characters of my youth.\r\n\r\nMy mother didn\u2019t love my father. My father was crazy about my mother. Grandpa always protected us. My brother, the easygoing drifter. Nini, my younger sister. The youngest girl, crying in her crib, and I, the oldest of the three girls, writing this story. The omnipresent character, to whom we all prayed and feared without ever having met him, was played by God, the stranger watching over us.\r\n\r\nIn those days, adults concealed their miseries. Perhaps they prayed in secret, at the end of the dock or in the barn while caressing the muzzle of a new-born calf. We, children, learned nothing about happiness or joy at home. Our young hearts were as pure as the wild strawberries in the fields, which reddened our fingers and overalls. And Mom, whose mouth would be full of screams all day long.\r\n\r\nThinking he was the master of the universe, my brother would relieve himself on the tomato plants. He hid his math book and pretended he\u2019d lost it. Sometimes, he\u2019d amuse himself by burying the capelins that were drying in the sun. The only boy of our brood, \u201cDaddy\u2019s boy\u201d was growing taller and accumulating blunders. After an arduous seventh grade, he was set to start high school, but Daddy\u2019s boy escaped and became a pedlar of all kinds of knickknacks.\r\n\r\nThe golden child worked basically everywhere in Gasp\u00e9sie for a few years. When he finally returned home, Dad hurried to find him a good girl to marry. A teacher who\u2019d hopefully instruct him in good manners and encourage him to find a more stable livelihood. When they returned from their honeymoon in Montebello, my brother managed to land a job selling the big 15-book Grolier encyclopedia collection. Dad helped him buy an old jalopy to be able to deliver the merchandise. The wunderkind knocked on a dozen or so doors but failed to sell a single book.\r\n\r\nOn a nice fall morning, tired, depressed and desperate, my brother, his hands gripping the steering wheel, hit the gas pedal and sped straight into a pile of lumber. His poor wife later confided that he was looking for a coffin to disappear in.\r\n\r\nDad cried his eyes out. His only son was gone, six feet under. We, his sisters were dumfounded; our tears falling one by one down our cheeks. Mom was numb with shock, leaving Grandpa to try and console us as best as he could. A priest dressed all in black recited a prayer. A neighbour held a raspberry cake in her hands. The entire village seemed to share our sorrow.\r\n\r\nNini, the second daughter, grew up learning quickly how to carry herself in a world of flashy appearances. She spent many hours doing her makeup and hair, beautifying herself in the bathroom, and constantly criticizing the clothes Mom had sewn for her. When she was in a more down-to-earth space, however, she created these amazing pieces of jewellery. She still does today and, when I think about her, I can only admire her talent.\r\n\r\nI\u2019d often watch mom knit while she rocked Nini\u2019s crib back and forth with her foot. She was her third child. \u201cThe last one,\u201d sighed the exhausted woman. And still, a fourth baby followed. \u201cThe last, last one.\u201d The one who gave Mom such grief, the one who ran away from home and gave birth to a child much too young. Mom cried, Dad cursed the horrid drug addict his daughter was in love with. For years, she stayed away from the family. Then, a miracle. The \u201clast, last one\u201d calmed down, and life moved to protect her.\r\n\r\nWas my beloved father ever happy? He who loved Mom so much, to the point that his suffering slowly killed him. He aged in silence, ending up nearly mute. Mom, embittered but steadfast in her role as wife, fed, washed him and combed his hair without uttering a word. One day, I drove him to the hospital where he closed his eyes and his heart forever at 11 p.m. that same night.\r\n\r\nLess than two years later, Mom decided to bring my kids to Gasp\u00e9sie during the summer vacation. Approaching her hometown of Caplan, she was beaming, singing and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her small car crashed into a truck carrying sheep on the way to a slaughterhouse. The car rolled down a slope, flipping several times, before coming to a stop against a tree. Her demise was similar to her son\u2019s death. As if one coincidence weren\u2019t enough, the accident happened right at the green sign marking the town\u2019s limits. As if she\u2019d deliberately returned to die where she\u2019d been born.\r\n\r\nI collapsed upon learning of her death when the policeman called. I immediately thought that my kids had also died. By some miracle all three survived the accident unscathed. Only the trauma from the accident needed time to heal. The invisible God looking over my kids kept them alive.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2665\ufe0f"},"yoast_head":"\n