A Hole in My Heart (10 page)

The house is pitch-dark when I crawl out of bed. I pull on my warmest clothes — wool skirt, long socks, heavy sweater. I creep into the kitchen, pour myself cornflakes and milk. The fridge hums in the silence. I take several bananas and an apple from the fruit bowl for lunch. I don't want to wake the others. Or face them. At least not yet.

It's 7:00 a.m. The early November morning greyness drifts over the mountains as I unlatch the back door. I slip into my coat and wrap a scarf around my neck. The usual heavy clouds are gone. What remain are far-up strands of wispy cirrus, chasing rapidly across the sky. The damp air nips my face. I dig into my pockets for mittens. The unpleasantness of the day barely registers.

Mum, wherever you are, look after Lizzie.
My heavy legs stumble up the street.
Why wasn't it me? Then I could be with you, Mum.

I kick at a stray pile of leaves. The few dry ones lift and fly, the wet ones underneath fall back with a soggy plop. I see Lizzie's face, I remember her words. “It's my one chance for a big life.” She made her choice, even though she knew it might not work. She was so brave. She was so brave. If only I could be like her.

Fists in my pocket, school bag drooping off my right shoulder, I walk and walk. Skulk up back alleys, turn corner after corner, head down.

• • •

“Hiya, Nora. You look sad.” It's Stella, holding Dolores's hand. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” I wipe my face with my sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

“Lori always walks with me to school.”

“Want to come with us?” It's Dolores this time.

“Sure. Where to?” It will help me not to think.

“To Ridgeway Elementary.” I kick another clump of leaves. Stella does too.

“You know last night, when I said you could come over? I mean it. If it ever happens again, come to our house. Just come. Even if it's late in the night. Both of you.”

“Really? You're sure?” Dolores's face brightens. She's wearing the same old skirt and baggy sweater under a half-open rain coat. No mascara and eyeliner again. “Your family won't mind?”

“Of course not.” I'd better warn Dad.

There are kids already at the school. A group of girls playing jacks on the front steps, another jumping hopscotch into half-faded chalk marks on the sidewalk. Boys roll marbles. Other girls skip. A rope thwacks the pavement. Feet clomp.

I'm a little Dutch girl dressed in blue

Here are the things that I can do —

Salute to the captain, bow to the queen

Turn myself around like a washing machine.

I can do a tap dance, I can do the splits

I can do the hokey-pokey just like this.

The chanting of the girls pounds in my head. Salute to the captain, bow to the queen. Bow to the queen. Like old times, me skipping, Lizzie turning rope.

• • •

The day grinds by, with my mind and heart not present. I didn't tell Dolores about Lizzie and fortunately she didn't ask.

Yesterday, school was bad. Today, it's worse than bad. In front of the class Mrs. Bramley asks me why I missed rehearsal yesterday. I feel my face redden. “I forgot,” is all I say. Which is completely true. Then she carries on with a long sermon about the commitment and hard work needed by everybody — in other words, me — if we're going to get this musical into top shape. Of course I disappear into the floor. I hate being singled out in class.

In PT we run around the track again. My legs are still heavy. They feel like stumps of wood barely connected to my body. Mrs. Grantham yells from the sidelines, “Come on, Nora, where's your oomph? You can do better than that.” And in Math, Mr. Keen, who never ever has anyone go to the board, sends me up first thing and each answer I get wrong. He makes me stay in at noon to finish my homework. I guess he figures I've been slacking. I get madder and madder as the day goes on. Mad at myself for coming to school and mad at everyone else for being mean.

I can't do PT. I can't do Math. I don't want to be at school but I don't want to go home. I don't want to go home to more death.

• • •

Instead, I run next door for a pat of Juniper and Carmody. The warmth of their little bodies is comforting. Juniper's purr on my chest resonates down my body, like when I sing. I ask Mrs. Taylor about why Dolores never comes over.

“I like Stella here, but Dolores is a bad influence.” Her mouth pinches. “Her makeup and tight clothes tell me all I want to know about Dolores. The less Stella is around her the better.”

“Dolores doesn't wear makeup or tight clothes anymore.” Mrs. Taylor flicks a pillowcase out straight, then folds it in thirds, and thirds again. “I haven't seen her with a cigarette either.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that. Maybe she's finally getting some sense.”

“Oh, I don't think it's about sense. It's something about trying to be a different person.” I don't know why I know that, but I do. I feel it. “Sometimes I see them huddling outside on the street. Stella says they're running away from home, that their dad does bad and dirty things to Dolores.”

Mrs. Taylor's face flinches, turns red, then white. “What did you say?” She stoops to pick up a dropped tea towel. “What did you say?” she repeats. Then I remember. Their dad is Mrs. Taylor's brother.

“Stella told me that when her father drinks he does awful things to Dolores. I think Dolores is worried he's going to do that to Stella too.” I'm surprised at the words coming out of my mouth. I'd not thought about it before. But I'm happy I said it. Mrs. Quinn's mask again. We shouldn't wear masks. If Mrs. Taylor doesn't like it — or Dolores — too bad. “I told them they can come to our house anytime they need to — to get away from him.”

The more I talk, the more Mrs. Taylor looks like someone — I guess that's me — has hit her in the stomach. Her hands fumble with the remaining tea towels. At last she sits down, almost like her muscles are so drained she can't stand up any longer. “I don't know what the bad and dirty things are, but that's what they said.”

I continue stroking the kittens. They crawl up my arm to my shoulder. Mrs. Taylor sits and sits. I wonder what I've done. Have I done something bad myself? But I don't think so.

At last she says, “Thank-you, Nora. Thank you for telling me.” Her voice sounds as drained as her face looks.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Taylor?”

“I'll be fine. You run along home now.”

• • •

The house is empty and cold. Where are Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert? Why would Dad go to the hospital on a day like today? And there's no note.

It's useless to do homework. Anyway, I don't plan on going to school tomorrow. I pull the ironing board out of the wall and attack the clean laundry in the basket. I iron pillowcases, tea towels, shirts, and blouses. I iron the underpants, which normally I ignore, even though my mum used to iron them. I put on my favourite record,
Windjammer
. It's all cheerful and upbeat. I can't or won't put on something sad.

Like when her mother, my Grandma Gladwin, died. Mum had come home from up north — Bella Coola, I think it was — to nurse her, and the rest of the family was away at church when she died. Mum went straight to her bedroom and put on her most cheerful dress, one with tiny yellow flowers all over, one she knew her mother loved. That's how she greeted the rest of the family when they came back. She knew her mother wouldn't want black.

And neither would Lizzie. Lizzie would want cheerfulness and happy music.

As I iron, I sing out the jaunty tunes at the top of my voice: “Life on the ocean waves where friendships ...” Tears well up. “And while we sail the waves, I wave my love goodbye; the kisses that she saves, I'll gather by and by.” But the words make my tears flow, as the ironed clothes pile up, as the smell of hot steamy cotton invades my senses.

At 5:30, I put the contents of two large containers of spaghetti sauce from the freezer on to heat, and fill a big pot of water. When Mum died, I remember how friends and neighbours dropped by. Even if I didn't like the baked beans or gloppy casserole they brought, it was good to have them. Both the people and the food. Here there's no one. No church members. No neighbours who know us or know Lizzie.

Then I have a thought — maybe Dad's gone to bring Dorothy and Jan home. Something in me feels better. I want people around now. I peel apples for apple crisp. Every curl of the peel reminds me of Lizzie. We used to try to do the whole apple in one kinky curly curl. Like her hair.

I place the arm at the beginning of the
Windjammer
record for the third time. The music blasts forth again. The front door opens. Despite the noise from the player, I jump.

“Oh, Aunt Mary.” I fly into my aunt's arms and burst into tears. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” Aunt Mary gives me a squeeze and then holds me away from her body with her arms straight. Her face is normal, normal tired, but not scrunched up and miserable looking.

“Honey, honey. What have you done that you're so sorry for?”

“For Lizzie, for ...” I can't say the word.

“For what?” Aunt Mary brushes away the mussy hair on my tear-stained cheeks. “Lizzie's doing great. What on earth made you think otherwise? Didn't you see the message on your blackboard? Why do you think there's a smile on my face?”

“But, but, last night. When you came in you said she died. I heard you.” I crumple to the stair, shaking. “Are you sure she's all right? You're not pretending?”

She nods. Her face queries Uncle Robert at the door behind her.

“Oh, my darling child. We would never pretend about something like that.” My uncle sweeps me up in his arms and carries me to the living room couch. “Here. Now let's explain what has happened, every little detail in the past twenty-four hours. Then maybe you'll believe us.” Aunt Mary turns down the record player. The music dances on. “But let me say first that the doctor is happy with the operation so far, and Lizzie seems to be breathing well and strongly. She even opened her eyes and said a very weak hello.”

They tell me of their day and the day before too. Mainly of their wait.

“The other girl, Karen, went for surgery first. When we got there we had to wait in the hall because Lizzie was undergoing all the preparatory work. But we had lots of time to talk in her room when they had finished and that was good. We even got to walk her down the hall towards the surgery. But the hard part was watching her go through those doors without us.” Uncle Robert pauses and wipes his eyes. “Being a parent, you want to protect your child from all hurts. And we couldn't.” His voice is gravelly.

“Then we had to wait and wait. That was even worse. We were taken to a room for family members. The parents of Karen were there too. We all waited but no one talked much. A whisper here. A whisper there.” I'm in the middle of the chesterfield between my aunt and uncle. At first one speaks, then the other. I notice grey in Aunt Mary's hair in just the same place Mum had it.

“Eventually I went down to the cafeteria. Your aunt couldn't leave. Or wouldn't. We really didn't feel like eating, but nibbling on the sandwiches I brought back gave us something to do.”

“About then a nurse came in and asked Karen's parents to come with her. Marlene, the mother, started to cry, ‘What's wrong? What's wrong?' Her face was white as the proverbial sheet. She began to wail — a wail that came from somewhere deep within, but sounded more like it was from something unearthly.” Aunt Mary enfolds me in a rocking hug.

“I must admit I felt huge relief it wasn't Lizzie. Then I felt terrible. That poor mother. Later, when the nurse came back, I asked, ‘Is she going to die?' I meant Karen, of course. She shook her head back and forth but you could tell she was putting her best face on.” Funny how when you're upset, you notice things that don't really matter. Like all I can see is the deep shadow on Uncle Robert's jaw and think,
he should shave.

“At this point Lizzie was still in surgery. I guess the nurse couldn't say much. And besides, she didn't want to upset us. She said only that Karen's parents were talking with the other doctors. That's all.”

It's like a roller coaster ride at the Penticton Peach Festival. Up and down, up and down, with my stomach left in the air, wondering if it'll ever land. Too much.

“So we waited and waited. We waited to hear about Lizzie. But we also waited to hear about the other girl. I think that's what you heard. You heard me telling your dad.” Aunt Mary squeezes me again. “Little Karen died last night. She got through the surgery but something happened after. Our Lizzie is fine. We even got to see her. That's why we were so late. They let us into the Recovery Room for just one minute. We had to gown up. She was sleeping.”