A Hole in My Heart (11 page)

Without a sob of warning, Aunt Mary bursts into tears. It's like the dam holding back days and months and even years of tears broke. I cry with her. I thought in the last few months I had spilled every last tear possible. Yet there's more. And now I'm not sure who these tears are for. For Mum? For Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert? For Lizzie? For me? But this batch seems to soften my insides at last.

“We've been at the hospital all day. You don't know how good it was to see her.” Uncle Robert blows into a handkerchief; then shoves it back into his side pocket. “The doctor said she isn't out of the woods yet.”

I raise my arm to wipe my face on my sleeve, but Aunt Mary, with her own hankie soggy with tears, daubs the wet from my cheeks. Her gentle strokes comfort. Funny, I don't even mind the crumpled feeling. It's like the crumply me is now waiting to be filled up with laughter and hope and warmth and tomorrows.

Curtains drawn back, the sun struggles to brighten Lizzie's room. A pot of flowers adds a smiling warmth to the institutional plainness.

“Elizabeth, my dear, I have a surprise for you this morning.” Aunt Mary has on her whispery voice. Lizzie opens her eyes to a narrow slit. “Your dad went back to Penticton to see to the boys, remember, so I brought someone else instead.”

I stare at my cousin, my best friend. She looks entirely different. But how can that be? A nurse in a starchy white uniform with a small bunchy cap hurries in. I see what Dorothy will be like in a few years. “Shall we show them, Lizzie?” Her voice booms. Lizzie winces and opens her eyes fully. She smiles at me and nods.

The nurse fusses down at the bottom of the bed. Lizzie unbends her legs and wiggles her feet down to where the bedclothes are rolled back. Her feet peek out. For all the world to see. First ten toes, then her arches, her heels. And they are all pink. Her pale, pale skin that always had a purple or blue tinge, is now all pink. That's what's different.

I begin to cry.
Not again
, I think.

Then I laugh as I realize these tears are tears of joy.

• • •

Lizzie will have to be in the hospital at least three weeks, the doctors say. Aunt Mary continues to visit her every day. And almost every night we phone Uncle Robert in Penticton. I talk to him and Dougie and Jack before I pass the phone to Aunt Mary. Long distance is really expensive, but Dad doesn't seem to mind the cost. I guess it's about family — they are the closest family we have.

Aunt Mary takes charge of the house. She does most of the cooking and laundry. I help but I don't have to organize it, remind Dad to buy the food, or change his bedclothes. I don't know if it's because Aunt Mary's around, but Dad talks a lot about Mum. At first it's awkward. Then it becomes more natural. A
remember when
sends us off telling some story of our lives together. Even pictures of Mum now reappear on the piano and the living room side table.

• • •

I still have twice weekly practices of
The Wizard of Oz
after school. I know all the pieces now and, where there's harmony, even have my alto part memorized. Sometimes I sit with Jonathon — he has gorgeous eyes and a really cute smile — but mostly with Ava and Alvina. I volunteer at noon on Wednesdays for costumes. A girl in grade nine is organizing it with Miss Croft, the new, young Home Ec teacher. She's doing the sewing half of our course in January and we get to make a dress.

Many evenings Aunt Mary and even Jan, when she's home, play the piano for a sing-a-long. I find I can hear the inner harmonies, so reading the alto line is easy. Jan says that's a talent. Sunday nights Dad lets me curl up with Aunt Mary and watch
The Ed Sullivan Show
.

Friday I go to Ava and Alvina's place after school. They have a rambling old house that needs a coat of paint. It was their grandparents', and everywhere on the walls are oils by their grandfather, including a painting of a set of baby twins.

“Yeah, that's us,” says Alvina. “Grandpa died not long after he finished it.” At school the girls don't talk much; they stick out only because of their twoness. At home they talk and laugh a mile a minute.

“He did that one,” Ava points to a watercolour on the other wall, “when he was not much older than we are now. We want to be able to paint like him.”

Their bedroom upstairs is bright and happy. Water-colour paintings of flowers and trees and people cover the pale yellow walls. Even paintings of the dark, dank coastal forest have a life about them. “Wow. You guys are good.” I like their quiet enthusiasm, their love of the outdoors. I want to be their friend.

Later that night, Dolores and Stella come over. It's snowing big sloppy flakes. They have only slacks and long-sleeved cardigans on. Stella's bottom lip quivers. I assume she's been crying. But I don't comment. I know what it's like when you don't want to tell others about your tears. Aunt Mary insists they eat some of the leftover squash soup we had for supper. Even though they said
no
to it at first, they end up eating two bowlfuls each.

While I do homework, they watch TV. When Aunt Mary asks them to sleep over, Dolores says it's time to go. We walk them home and wait until they flick on and off the front light to show they're okay.

But are they okay?

The next morning, Aunt Mary and I meet Dot and Janet in downtown Vancouver for a birthday shopping spree. Dad gave them strict instructions to get me new school clothes and an outfit for good, including shoes. We choose a green flared skirt with a beautiful crinoline — scratchy, but what crinoline isn't — a pair of pumps for special occasions and a pair of penny loafers for school, a twin sweater set, and a matching brown-flecked wool skirt. It must have cost a fortune, but who am I to complain?

“You can come with me to church tomorrow in your new outfit,” says Aunt Mary. That's not exactly what I had in mind but going anywhere with my aunt is more than okay. More like wonderful. Even church. And besides, I might have changed my opinion about God now.

And last but not least, Aunt Mary says, “Let's fit you with your first bra.” I am sure I turn red from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, almost as red and embarrassed as last Tuesday when I had to call Aunt Mary because I got my first period.

• • •

The next day, Sunday, is my actual birthday. Jan and Dorothy — would you believe Dot? — make my favourite meal, lasagna and salad. Aunt Mary had baked a cake and hidden it in the freezer in the basement. We eat most of it, including lashings of thick chocolate icing, but I save some for Lizzie.

That evening I lie on the old carpet of the screened-in porch next door, twitching a piece of wool at Juniper. When Mrs. Taylor appears, I say in a casual sort of voice, “Dolores and Stella came to our house Friday night. They were cold and Stella was crying.”

“Who else saw them?” Mrs. Taylor's face has a funny hard look.

“Dad and Aunt Mary of course. Why?” She doesn't answer. “We gave them some leftover soup. Later, we walked them home.” Mrs. Taylor doesn't say much but that funny hard look around her mouth becomes more pinched in.

• • •

Room 709

Vancouver General Hospital

November 22, 1959

Delivered by Shank's Mare (that is, Mum)

Dear Nora,

I know it seems silly to write when you're just across the water in North Van, but this gives me something else to do besides reading when Mum's not here. So where to begin? At the beginning, I guess.

The first things I remember are the high bed, the hard mattress, crawling under the covers with the tightly pulled sheets that smelled like soap and, well, that it was all like that before. That's what I noticed first. It was being in a hospital again. Sort of obvious, because I was. But it also brought back the loneliness. Even the sheets smelled like loneliness. You probably think that's crazy, but they do. They don't smell and feel comforting like fresh sheets at home.

When Mum and Dad left the first day it was the worst. Worse than when they were here and worse than before. I strained to hear the sound of their feet as they walked away. But they blended in with voices, telephones ringing, and other footsteps. I felt my heart beating right up in my throat. I tried reading
The Secret Garden.
I couldn't concentrate. I tried
Anne.
My mind went nowhere in particular. I peered out the window to the hospital wing opposite, wondering who was there and why and for how long.

I was scared. I didn't tell Mum. That fifty-fifty chance the next day kept blinking in my head. Particularly, the fifty percent chance of not working. But I kept saying the alternative was a hundred to zero, the zero part not being much of an alternative. When I thought about it that way I felt better.

That night I slept like a log because they gave me a sleeping pill. The next morning I couldn't have any food, only water, so my stomach growled all morning. One not-so-nice part was that the nurse shaved the hair between my legs. That was completely awful, embarrassing, and a whole bunch of other words. Now my incision goes from the top to the bottom of my front. Funny, though, there were so many nurses and doctors poking and prodding my body and talking and pushing stethoscopes at me I pretty much ended up forgetting to be shy.

Other than that Mum and Dad came, most of the morning was a blur until I crawled onto the gurney. That's the thin bed on wheels they take you on for an operation. Those sheets smelled different. Not of loneliness, more of fear, or of the unknown. Weird how smells can make me think of emotions. I wonder how many kids have gone on that gurney under those sheets for operations like mine and not like mine.

Mum and Dad walked with me to the surgery doors. Their faces were upside down, their mouths sort of falling to meet their noses and their eyes puffed out. Oh, Nora, my dad who laughs at the antics of Jack and Dougie, who prunes his fruit trees and digs in the garden, picks the peaches with the same sort of loving eyes he uses for Mum and even us, the dad who plays ball with all the boys of the neighbourhood as I keep score, that man who goes to church every Sunday, that's the dad I've known. But he squeezed my hand and tears rolled silently down his face the whole time. I didn't know that person. It made me more scared because he wasn't him.

Mum was different too. You know, she doesn't usually talk a whole lot. Sometimes, but not most of the time. This time she babbled on, telling me you sent hugs and good luck and stuff like that. Words flew past me — over my head. It was like they were heading for the dust motes that hung in the sunlight as we passed each open doorway. She also gave me tight, tight hugs. Maybe you've noticed, she's been giving hugs lately. I'm not sure why. I sort of liked it and still do, but it definitely is different, especially the tight kind. The beige ceiling with the occasional crack slid by.

I remember Mum's squeeze, felt Dad's kiss on my forehead, their upside down faces.

I remember scrunching their hands back and saying, “Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. See you in a while.” And Mum's last words, “Remember our deal,” and me nodding.

The next thing I saw was scorpions crawling all over everything. Scorpions in a hospital? I've never seen scorpions but that's what it looked like. Big spiders seemed to be crawling all over the world. I held my breath. I was so afraid. I remember thinking a scream might dislodge them, send them careening down on top of me. Another part of me wanted to scream out anyway and knock them down, but the bed clothes were pulled tightly over me, my arms pinned underneath. Then I decided I was sleeping and it was a nightmare. Even thinking about it now brings back a bit of that fear.

A nurse rushed in. Maybe I did scream. But all she said was, “Oh, you're awake. Wonderful. How do you feel, Elizabeth?” She peered in as if behind glass. She was covered with scorpions too. I closed my eyes. I breathed in. The air smelled funny. I relaxed. I remembered what the doctor said, that after the operation I would be in a plastic tent, a tent with a funny sweet smell, giving me extra oxygen to help me breathe. I felt stupid. I remember thinking, though, why if my heart was fixed would I need help to breathe? I never asked.

The first time I saw Mum and Dad, that really was when I knew my nightmare or dream was over. I wanted to hug them but they were behind the tent too. And covered with scorpions of course. Eventually, I realized the scorpions were spots of rust or something on the plastic.

Mostly I remember being oh-so tired and that seemed to go on for days.

This is a hugely long letter and I'll run out of paper soon. Two more big items. My most embarrassing moment — I had my first period, lying here in bed. There was a slimy wet feeling between my legs. I tried to sit up and the next thing there was blood all over the sheets. I pulled the cord for the nurse. And my saddest moment — Karen's parents came in to see me, bringing a pot of flowers. I don't know what kind they are but they are pretty. I felt horrible. After they left I cried and cried. I was the lucky fifty percent. I'm glad for me, I'm glad for Mum and Dad. But so so sad for Karen and her parents.

Anyway, that's the end of the page. I won't start another. I'll see you at your house next week, they say. Hugs to my favourite cousin.

Lizzie

PS Happy (belated) Birthday. Did Mum give you the present I brought down for you?