A Hole in My Heart (5 page)

I fold Lizzie's letter into my pocket. I always re-read her letters — sometimes over and over and over. I'm glad, really glad, Lizzie knows she's insensitive about wanting to talk more with her mum. Because she is. Was. She should be sorry
.
She should know better. At school I overhear kids saying nasty things about their mums and I get furious. I want to yell at them,
Don't you realize how lucky you are to have a mum?
or,
No matter how bad she is it's better than having no mum
. But I don't. They'd all look at me like I'm a fool, and they'd find out about Mum. I am glad I told the Quinns, though. It feels like I don't have to hold myself in quite the same.

One more day until Lizzie comes. I wonder if she's changed since the summer. Will she look different?

I skim through the letter a fourth time and pause on the part about Lizzie looking forward to being with her mother. I feel the tears well up again. Why do I have to be such a sop? No one else cries. Is there something wrong with me?

To my friend Nora,

Honey in the morning

Honey in the night

Honey in the afternoons

And everything's all right.

Micki Arase

Everything is not all right.

• • •

On Tuesday I make it home from school in seventeen minutes. I run up the back steps two at a time. Aunt Mary's in the kitchen washing the breakfast porridge pot. I wrap myself around her in a huge hug. “Oh, it's so good to see you. To see someone from home. Where's Lizzie?”

“Lying down. Travelling is tiring. Oooh, I'm going to get porridge-y water all over you.”

“Can Lizzie and I sleep in Jan and Dot's room and you sleep in my room?” I hop up and down.

“Hold on. Calm down.” Aunt Mary upturns the pot on the wire rack and wipes her hands on her apron. Now she squeezes me in a rocking sort of way. “I don't see why not, as long as you girls sleep. You have school tomorrow and Lizzie has her tests.” She turns back to the counter. “But your dad should be the one to say.”

“We'll sleep. I promise.” I give my aunt another hug from behind. “I just can't wait. When can I see Lizzie?” I dump my school bag on the floor under the telephone.

“If she's awake she'll have heard you come in.” Aunt Mary unwraps some beets and onions from old newspapers. Clumps of dirt fall away. “First let me hear what you're doing at school.”

I feel my shoulders sink as I plop down on a kitchen stool. “Not much. I hate school. I miss Penticton and you and Lizzie and my friends there.”

“What about friends here?”

“I don't have any. No one talks to me.”

“Do you talk to them? Do you smile?”

“Why should I? They laugh at me, at my shoes, at my clothes.”

Aunt Mary pushes aside the beets, washes her hands, wipes them on her apron, leaving a pinky dirt stain, and puts the kettle on the stove. I can tell from the slow, careful action that she's going to say something. It reminds me of Mum. “How about a cup of tea? You like tea, don't you, with lots of milk?”

I tuck my feet up on the seat of the chair, fold my arms around my legs, and nod. I can't help staring at Aunt Mary. It's like looking at Mum. I never noticed before. They have the same dark hair, the same cute ski-jump noses, the same twinkly eyes. Hers are blue but Mum's were brown. I feel my eyes well. Again.

“Oh, Aunt Mary, seeing you makes me miss Mum all the more.”

She pours boiling water into the teapot. “It's the same for me, Nora. You look just like your mum when she was your age.” My eyes widen, my head cocks to one side. “But it's wonderful too. Because it's a little bit like having Rita back. We were sisters but, don't forget, we were also best friends.”

I pour tea into my mug. Then into my aunt's. “And you sound exactly like Mum.”

“The four of us girls, my sisters and I, we were close. I love Alice and Beth, but they're older.” Mary pours milk into both mugs. “That okay?” She nods to my milky tea. “But Rita and I were less than two years apart. And because we were both tall and strong we got to do the picking in the orchard, not having brothers and all.” Aunt Mary sips her steamy tea, eyes smiling off into the distance. “Then we'd run all the way down the hill to the beach to swim, climb half the way up again, turn around, and go back down because we were already hot, laughing all the way. Meanwhile, Alice and Elisabeth were in the house helping mother with supper. I used to begrudge the time they got to be with her. It's crazy because, despite the hard work of picking, I wouldn't have wanted to be indoors all the time either.”

Hearing about Mum when she was young, I feel my loneliness lift.

“You have that same long and lean body that she had, the same hair.” She pauses. “Is there something wrong with the tea?”

“No, no. It's good.” I come back to the present, add more milk, and slurp. “But my hair isn't like Mum's. Hers was dark. Mine's a mousy brown.”

“Hers was like that too at your age but became a deep chestnut colour later. She wore it long, in a French braid. Really lovely.”

“Could you do my hair up like that tomorrow morning?”

Aunt Mary empties her teacup. “How about tomorrow night we can have a girl session of doing each other's hair. Maybe you can even practise the French braid on yourself.”

I uncurl and give my aunt another hug. “I'm glad you're here. Dad never talks to me about Mum or Penticton. Even what he's doing. Sometimes I don't think he knows I'm around.”

Aunt Mary pushes me out of our hug, holds me by both shoulders, and looks me straight in the eye. “Don't forget your dad misses Rita too.”

“But he talks to Dot and Janet.”

“Maybe he thinks you're too young — which you aren't — or maybe you remind him too much of your mother. And some men don't like to talk about feelings, you know. They think they have to be strong all the time — which is silly — and they think crying means they're not — which is also silly.”

“No one even mentioned Mum on her birthday.”

“Oh, my dear. I thought of it but just imagined you people were having a special evening to yourselves.” Aunt Mary gives me another hug. A long, long squeeze. “I'm so sorry. I should have called.”

“What did she die of?” I look up at her from our hug. I don't want to let her go.

“Didn't you know? A type of cancer called leukemia.”

“I'm sure they told me but things didn't stick in my brain very well back then. It was so fast.” Ooops. Here come the tears again.

“Don't forget we're all sad but we handle it in different ways. That includes your sisters. Maybe you just have to tell your dad that you need to talk to him, about school and about your mother. I can certainly mention to him about your clothes and shoes. Lots of times men don't understand the importance of clothes for girls.” Aunt Mary untangles my arms and turns back to the counter. “But I've got to get a move on and make this soup. Which do you want to do — chop the beets or the onions?” She pulls out the under-the-counter cutting board and hands me a knife. You like beet soup don't you? And apple crumble? Lizzie and I brought as many apples from our tree as we could fit into our suitcases.” Aunt Mary gives me a broad smile and an unexpected hug. Actually, the hugs are all somewhat unexpected because our family is not usually the huggiest in the world. I wish we were. I can never get too many hugs.

“Yes and yes. I like them both. And I'll chop the beets — the onions will make me cry.” I curl up my mouth in a half grin. “And I don't need any more help with that than I already have.”

“Speaking of Lizzie, look what the cat dragged in.”

• • •

That evening Lizzie and I run next door — well Lizzie doesn't run, it's more of a go-next-door slowly — and check out Fluffy/Carmody to see if she is still kitten-less. She is. While we hand her back and forth, stroke her and listen to the responding purr, we chatter about Penticton and school and Jenny and Vicki and homework until it gets late. Then we curl up in the twin beds in the basement and play our usual word game. One person whispers a word, the other a word it reminds them of, going back and forth until we either fall asleep or burst out laughing at the silliness. But tonight it neither sends us to sleep nor into gales of laughter.

“How are you really?” It's Lizzie who breaks the silence.

“Really really?”

“Yes, really really.”

“About school, you mean?”

“Well, maybe. I also mean about Aunt Rita.”

“I don't know. I thought moving here would be easier. The kids in Penticton all treated me like I had some sort of disease. Mother-dying disease, I guess. Like they'd catch it. No one asked what it was like for me. The only person who really said anything was Marion Carmichael. She cried at Mum's funeral and kept saying, ‘I'm
soooo
sorry,' over and over. I yelled at her. ‘It was my mum who died not yours. So why are you crying?' I guess that wasn't very nice.”

“It's hard to know what to say.”

“Yeah.”
Like at the Quinns'
, I think.

“And we don't want the same thing to happen to our mothers.”

“Sometimes at night I can't even see her face any more. Oh, Lizzie! I'm scared I'll forget her.”

There's silence in the room except for the tick of the alarm clock and creak of floor boards above.

Friday after school I trudge down Lonsdale Avenue with Dolores and Trudy. Half the time I stare at the others' feet as they skip around puddles and I wonder why I'm here. Lizzie and Aunt Mary went back this morning and I'm already looking forward to their return.

The air is heavy with moisture, but it's not raining any more. The first time in days. I draw to the side to avoid the splash of grimy water from passing cars. Boys eye Dolores as we pass. She dips her head and flaps her eyelids a little faster than usual.

In the café, Trudy and Dolores plunk their coats and books in the booth and shove in facing each other. I stand there feeling foolish. “Oh yeah, you're here.” Dolores gets up. I scrunch in next to the wet coats. “We're getting a Coke and jelly donut,” says Dolores. “You too?”

“Just an Orange Crush.”

“No donut? Getting too fat, are yah?” Does she like being mean? The last thing anyone could call me is fat, but I still flush.

“I'm saving my money.” Why did I say that?

“What for?”

“To go back to Penticton. I don't like it here.” I should've said, to get away from you guys. Get away from the unending rain, rain, rain. Or, should've said we're going on a holiday to France. Or Australia. Or England.

Trudy's eyes widen. “You'd go back to Penticton by yourself? What about your family?”

“I don't have much family here.” Oh, why did I say that as well?

“I thought those kids were your little sisters.”

“And brother,” adds Dolores.

“Nope.” Say nothing.

“So who were they?”

“Who cares?”

“Then why don't you like it here?”

“That's a dumb question. Why do you think?”

“'Cause the kids don't like you?”

“Because most of them are snooty.”

“They think you're snooty.” Trudy sucks on her straw too hard. Fizz goes up her nose and she screws up her face. “Wasn't it Jeannie Cruikshank who said that? Or was it Alvina?”

“Imagine having a name like that, Alvina. I hear their parents wanted a boy named Alvin. So she had to be Alvina.” Dolores circles her tongue around her lips to take in the crumbs of donut glaze. “How would you feel not being wanted because you're a girl?”

“That's not nice. Maybe they didn't know they were having twins and picked out a boy's name and a girl's name.” I swirl my straw round and round the lip of the glass. Good change of topic. “Didn't your mother and father tell you if you can't say something nice don't say it?”

“Oooh. Aren't we just little Miss Goody Two-Shoes.” Dolores stands up. “I'm going to the washroom. Coming, Trude?”

I stare into the blank air in a café full of kids. What am I doing here? Sitting. Waiting.

Like waiting in the hospital to see Mum. I sat there in the hall for what seemed like forever, hoping to sneak into her room when the head nurse wasn't around. You have to be thirteen to visit someone in the Penticton hospital. Dorothy and Janet were old enough, but not me. One time Dad came along and said, “Come on, Nora girl. I don't care what the rules are, you're seeing your mother.” I crawled up on the bed with Mum. We hugged and hugged until I didn't have the strength in my arms to hug any more. She looked so pale and felt so hard and brittle. Not soft like before.

Then Dad brought her home
.

“Hey, dreamer.” It was one of the guys who passed us on the street. “Where're your friends?”

“How should I know? Anyway, they're not friends of mine.”

“Then why're you hanging out with them?”

“Because I am. Any objections?”

“Holy crow, you're touchy.”

“So why do you want to know where they are?”

“Because. Just because.” Someone drops a coin in the jukebox. Elvis Presley's “Jailhouse Rock” bursts forth. “I'm Jonathon, by the way. And you are?”

“Cleopatra.” My face crumples. “Sorry. I'm in a bad mood. My name's Nora. Do you go to Sutherland?”

“Yeah, grade nine.”

“So how come you're talking to this jerk, Nora?” It's Dolores, grinning bright red lipstick, an unlit cigarette waving about in her right hand. I don't want to be anywhere near them.

“I'm not.” I slurp the last of my Orange Crush, grab my coat and school bag. I don't even bother to say
See yah around
. I head for the door, arm half into one sleeve, the rest of the coat dangling. I can feel Dolores, Trudy, and Jonathon stare after me. Having no friends is better than hanging around with this lot.

• • •

Penticton

October 7, 1959

Dear Nora,

It was great to have a visit, even though it was short. I wish Mum didn't have to get back here so fast. Surely Dad and Gran could have looked after the boys longer. But Mum said she still has lots of canning and pickling to do and work for the church for Thanksgiving.

I wish you'd write more. We didn't even get properly caught up because I was in the hospital. I'd like to hear about the Quinns and maybe when I'm down next time I could meet them.

Mum and I talked a lot on the bus going back. She said you remind her of Aunt Rita when they were little. I wonder if I look like Mum when she was little. I thought of asking Dad, but he didn't know her then. The only people I can ask are Aunt Alice and Auntie Beth. But we never see Aunt Alice anymore now they've moved to Montreal. And I don't remember having met Auntie Beth. Has she ever visited from California? Oh, I just thought,
Your dad would know
. He grew up with them, didn't he? But then I could ask her, too, and maybe she has some pictures. I'm going on and on.

Do you ever wonder about being our parents' age? You know, I've never thought about growing up or being grown up. Purposefully. But now, because of the operation, I do. I wonder, will you and I still be as good of friends when we're big? Maybe we'll have daughters like us. That would be nice. What would you call your daughter? I like the name Mona and also Margaret. If she was Margaret, though, I'd call her Peggy.

Did you finish
Anne of the Island
?

Mum says I'm supposed to be resting, not writing. But writing at my desk is not much different from lying in bed reading.

I'm glad we came down. You say no one at your house talks about Aunt Rita. It's sort of the same here but different — no one here talks about my operation. But with the doctor in Vancouver I got to ask questions. Plus, I heard some of the questions Mum had. It feels more real. And more scary. I forgot to tell you that there's going to be another girl being operated on the same day. Her name is Ingrid. That's all they said. I didn't meet her.

I don't look forward to the operation but I do look forward to seeing you. And to staying at your place for the weeks after. It sounds like it may even be until Christmas. Hopefully we can do some Christmas shopping together.

Your cousin and best friend (I hope),

Lizzie