A Hole in My Heart (6 page)

Thursday I have a run-in with Dad.

“Where're the pictures of Mum we used to have on the piano?”

“I put them away.” Dad snaps and cracks the newspaper as he reads.

“Why?”

“Because that's where they belong,” he says from behind the paper.

“I don't see why. I don't want to forget Mum.” That's been bothering me for a while. “If I don't see her picture, maybe I will.” Dad flicks the newspaper out straight again. It's his only comment. “There ought to be a union for kids. Someplace where we can take our complaints when parents don't listen.” This gets his attention. The newspaper crackles down on his lap.

“I'm tired of your bad attitude, young lady. Go to your room and do your homework.”

What bugs me is that he never used to be cross. We actually did things together. Now we never play cards or crokinole or checkers. I'm not particularly fond of crokinole because it hurts my fingers when I flick the tile, so I don't miss that. But weekends we used to play hearts and crib. If just Mum and Dad and I were there, we'd use Grandad's round cribbage board instead of the normal two-person board so that three could count easily. Now, nothing.

What do I do? Go on strike?

Go back to Penticton?

And besides, last Sunday was Thanksgiving. Jan and I cooked chicken with vegetables and made pumpkin pie for a special late lunch before she and Dot went back to St. Paul's. The meal was decent, more than decent; but no one said thank-you. No one even commented on our effort or mentioned it was Thanksgiving. Dot rattled on about her latest boyfriend. I told Jan she did a good job on the chicken. She thanked me. Other than that, we munched quietly.

Personally I am now very thankful — for all the leftovers. I am also grateful because Dad bought a TV, our first ever, and I watched
The Ed Sullivan Show.
Dad still doesn't do anything with me but at least he doesn't shove me off to bed. I guess I'm supposed to have fun with the TV instead of with him.

I want to do something with you, Dad, or

I'M GOING ON STRIKE

• • •

Today, October fifteenth, is Lizzie's birthday. I'm having my Saturday morning extra time in bed. I roll over onto my belly. Seems this is where I spend half my life. Or all of what I think of as my life. Lizzie's thirteen years old. Imagine being thirteen and maybe going to die.
You better not die, Lizzie.

Bed is my best thinking place. The best because I think the clearest here. It's also the worst because some of what I think hurts. Anyway, right now I think of my time here with Lizzie and how selfish I was. We really had only two nights together because she spent two days in the hospital. I pretty much whined about North Vancouver the whole time and about not having a mother. Lizzie didn't say much. Is she scared?

Did you know you were dying, Mum? Were you scared? The minister says you went to Heaven and that Heaven is a good place, but how does he know?

Grandma said to me, “Don't cry, she's in a better place now.”
Is that true Mum? Is it better than here? Am I going to see you when I die?
I'll be really angry if Lizzie dies. More than that. Really, really angry, because she won't have had a chance to grow up.
I try not to be angry at you, Mum. But I am sometimes. For not being here, for leaving me. Mostly, I just miss you.

At the funeral, the air was heavy. People smiled fake sorts of smiles. Grandma's face was all pinched in but it kept smiling too. Ladies visited, people I didn't know, old people, people that felt stiff like boards and brought orange bread and tuna fish casserole. Overnight, Dad went from a happy man, someone who laughed and made stupid puns to … I'm not sure what to — a man all closed-in? My favourite thing about Dad was his laugh. Where is it now? Is Aunt Mary right? Is he struggling too? Even my bossy sister Dorothy?

March 22, 1959

Dear Nora,

I wish you health

I wish you wealth

I wish you abundance and store

I wish you Heaven after death

What could I wish you more?

Your former grade three teacher,

Mr. Weeks

Does he really believe that?

I don't believe in Heaven. Or God. How can I?

• • •

Later, I'm washing the breakfast dishes including the hated porridge pot. Jan is drying. Sort of. More like flinging the tea towel at it.

“Girls.” It's Dad. His voice is in serious mode. “We have to talk about where everyone is going to sleep when Mary and Robert come down with Lizzie.” Dorothy looks up from her place by our new stereo, listening to her favourite record. For the forty-three millionth time.

“Why are they coming down, Dad? They were just here.” Dot lifts the needle off the record.

“For her operation.” I upturn the clean porridge pot on the drying rack next to the empty milk bottles and dump the lumpy water down the sink. Jan washes off the table.

“Her operation for what?”

“Where have you been for the last century?” I sweep the porridge lumps into my hand — “For her heart, dummie,” — and fling them in the slop pail under the sink.

“Nora, quit talking to your sister that way.”

“Why can't I? That's how she talks to me, but you don't hear.” I swish out the rest of the sink, dry my hands on my apron, then pull it through the handle of the refrigerator.

“Regardless, I don't want any of you talking that way. We're family. Be nice to each other.”

I lean over Dot, my arms outstretched to give her a hug. She rolls her eyes at me. “Faker,” I mumble.

“Careful, you.” She hangs onto my hair as I pull away. Just enough so it hurts, not enough to make me squeal.

“That's better.” Dad stands in the kitchen doorway. “Now back to Lizzie. They're coming down a few days before the operation.”

“Can't they stay somewhere else? We don't have the room.”

Dad scowls at Dot. “Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert will sleep in your room.” I hear a sucked-in sort of gasp from both my sisters. “The boys are remaining behind in Penticton with Granny Frazer. Lizzie can bunk in with Nora on the camping mattress.”

“What about Jan and me?” Funny how Janet doesn't say a word. Because Dorothy says enough for both of them? Or maybe she's nicer.

“I can't believe you said that, Dorothy Mackenzie.” Red creeps up Dad's face. “You're here two nights out of the week, at most, and you begrudge your aunt and uncle a bed when they have to go through this? You and Jan will sleep on the floor in the rec room.”

Dot turns her face to the window. “So do we at least have a mattress?”

“No, I'm thinking you might like stones or pieces of glass to sleep on. And of course no sheets or blankets.”

I grin. “When are they coming exactly, Dad?”

“In two and a half weeks. Friday, November fourth, I think it is.”

“For how long?” I hear Janet bang the plates down in the cupboard.

“That depends on how it goes. But we're planning for the best. Robert will go home after the operation, after they see that everything's fine. Mary'll stay on at least until Lizzie comes home from hospital. And home means here.” I see Dorothy stiffen again. “Lizzie will stay with us until the doctors say she can return to Penticton. She has to be near a good hospital.” I can almost see the lines of fire streak from Dad's eyes to Dot. “The success of an operation such as this — I suppose it's true of any operation but because this is such a tricky one and so new, it is doubly important — depends on having a group of highly skilled doctors and nurses and modern diagnostic aids like cardiography and a blood bank. The post-operative care must be impeccable. It's just plain lucky we're here or your aunt and uncle could not have afforded this.”

I go to my room with feelings falling all over themselves. I should be happy, I know. Happy that Lizzie will be staying here and happy that Lizzie's heart will be fixed. But there'll be sickness in the house all over again.

What if it doesn't work? What then?

What if she dies?

And Mum, you were so pale and weak when you came home from hospital. There was that special bed Dad set up in the living room so you could be with us, not upstairs tucked away from all that was going on. You were so quiet, Mum. It felt like we had to whisper or it hurt you. You told me stories of when I was little. Do you remember? Like how embarrassed you were when Mrs. Boulton gave me new mitts when I was two or three and I wailed, “No fumbs, no fumbs,” because she made baby mitts that are all one piece with no thumb part sticking out. And the time Vicki and I had that screaming contest until Vicki's mum phoned over and told us to be quiet. You got more of a telling off than we did.

I feel my stomach contract. It pulls and grabs at my insides. What will happen to Lizzie? She can't die. There can't be a death in this house too. There mustn't be.

Dear Nora,

Apple pie without cheese

Is like a kiss without a squeeze.

Love, Uncle Robert

This evening I'm tired. Very, very, very tired. Looking after the Quinns was tough. I don't know why. Their laughter seemed louder; it grated on my ears. I wanted to tell them to go jump in the lake. Or I guess the ocean is more appropriate here.

Now I'm curled up on my bed — again — with
Anne of the Island.
I read
Anne of Green Gables
three times, once with Mum and twice myself. I love
Anne
even though there are too many big words and quotations, which I don't understand and don't really want to. I remember long ago deciding when it got complicated and too full of description I'd jump over it. But Mum's eyes were like the Lake of Shining Waters when she read Anne's imaginative place names. My eyes water — again.

For Christmas last year, I got
Anne of Avonlea
. I especially like the school parts and Davy and Dora. All Davy's boldness and questions. But the first chapters of
Anne of the Island
are nowhere near as good. I had to renew it, just like Lizzie. Maybe Aunt Mary's right — it's too old for me and Lizzie. Right off I don't like the boy-girl stuff, even though I like that Anne ignores Gilbert. Some of the girls in Penticton were like that. Josie Williams, for example. This is what she wrote in my autograph book:

Nora now, Nora ever,

Mackenzie now, But not forever.

How dumb can you get? And Sylvia Graham's is not much better:

If all the boys lived across the sea,

Oh what a great swimmer Nora would be.

There are lots of things to think about other than boys, in my opinion.

In
Anne of the Island,
I particularly don't like Diana saying, “I have a feeling things will never be the same again.” That's exactly how I feel, but how can Diana? Anne's only going away from home for a few months. She can come back any time she wants because Marilla is still there. Besides, she's going away with Gilbert and Charlie Sloane and will be boarding with her friend. And Diana isn't going away at all. They have no idea what it's like to go somewhere where there's no one you know, not a one. Leave everyone behind.

Including your mother.

I roll around onto my back and stare at the ceiling and out the window as usual, the book upside down on my chest. The never-ending rain drizzles down the glass and the light from the streetlamp flows in yellow waves.

But maybe Anne would understand. Her parents died, too, and she never had a real home until Avonlea. Maybe that's why home is so important to her. Like me.

The book slides off my chest as I tuck my hands underneath my head and stare around the room, at the blackboard, my old brown bureau, the closet, and the white desk Uncle Robert made for me, the exact same as Lizzie's.

Maybe I'll never go back to Penticton. Maybe that's what Anne means by a “bend in the road.” I've gone around a bend and can never go back. Maybe Dad will never be happy, maybe Dot will always be silly and boy-crazy and hate me. But I do like the Quinns. Maybe I have to choose a way to be happy. Or a place.

Oh, Mum, I'm all muddled up.

I've cried so much you'd think my crying glands would have dried up by now. But I feel wet streaks on my cheeks. They match the rain on the windowpane.

And Anne's favourite person, her kindred spirit, Matthew, died too. Why do people have to die?

• • •

I wake, fully clothed, to the light shining from my bedside lamp. I twist the switch to off. Blackness engulfs me as I crawl under the covers. My blackboard still reads:

TALK TO ME

DAD

TALK TO ME

ABOUT MUM

• • •

Monday, Mrs. Bramley announces in Music class the school's going to put on
The Wizard of Oz
. I sang in the Junior and Intermediate church choirs in Penticton but I haven't sung at all since before Mum got sick. Even around the house. I don't know why. It doesn't feel right. I check “choir” anyway on the list at the back of the room and I almost agree I'd do costumes, too, but change my mind.

Tuesday at four, straight after announcements, I head for room 9A. I'm third there and find a desk by the window. With Mrs. Bramley on the autoharp, we stumble through “We're Off to See the Wizard” and “Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead” about ten times each until I have them nearly all memorized. I wait until the others straggle out. The room's empty, except for Trudy.

“What're you doing here?”

“The same thing as you, I guess.” I am definitely not happy to see her. Part of the reason for coming to practices is to be away from her and Dolores.

“You like singing?”

“Uh-huh. I used to be in a choir in Penticton.”

“Me too. Not Penticton. But Prince George. In the school choir.”

“Where's Dolores?”

“Does it matter?”

“I thought you were her best friend.”

“Only friend. Maybe not even that.”

“Still, where's Dolores?”

“Look, I'd rather stay away from her.”

“How come?”

“She does mean things. But mainly I don't like going to her house. It's funny there.”

“Funny ha ha or funny peculiar?”

“Funny peculiar. It gives me the creeps. Don't go there.”

“I don't even know where she lives.”
Not really, anyway.

“Well, if you want my advice, keep it that way.” I hold the school door open for Trudy.

“Have you put your name down for a special role?”

“Nah, I don't think I could.” We walk down the corridor together. It feels awkward. “Did you see that Jinx was at rehearsal too?”

“Jinx? Who's Jinx?”

“You know, Jonathon. The guy at the café. That's his nickname.” We cross over Grand Boulevard in silence.

“Got to turn here.” I give her a half wave. “See you Thursday.”

• • •

The next day after school I just get in the front door when the back doorbell rings. It's Stella with a smile on her face.

“Come see the kittens.”

I hop over the picket fence, barely missing the rhubarb. There on the porch, in the quilt-padded cardboard box, are four, mostly black, tiny rat-like creatures, two curled up asleep, the other two nursing. Carmody — in other words Fluffy — purrs contentedly.

“Can we pick them up, Mrs. Taylor?”

“Of course, dear. Fluffy will tell you if she doesn't want you to.” Mrs. Taylor seems softer today. Maybe she likes kittens too. I wonder if she wanted babies of her own.

I slip my hands under each kitten in turn, stroke their soft fur and explore their markings. One has white fur around his eye with black everywhere else, another has white boots only. A third is all black. They have cords dangling from their bellies. When I lift up the fourth, I know immediately she's my favourite. She's smaller than the others — teeny, teeny — and has a touch of white under her chin.

“When do they open their eyes?” Stella asks her aunt.

“I don't know. Let's wait and see.”

The small warm creature wriggles in my hand and mews, her head moving, searching.

“She's looking for her mother, for food.”

I slide her in next to Carmody. The kitten immediately sucks away at her mum's little nipple. Carmody licks the tiny body. It looks so peaceful. And comforting. “I wish I could keep her, Mrs. Taylor.”

“If your dad says you can have a kitten, you can pick whichever one you like.”

“Really? Oh thanks, Mrs. Taylor. I'll call her Juniper.”

“Me too, Aunt Grace?”

“That depends on what your mother says.”

• • •

In Thursday's practice I sit next to Ava. Alvina is home sick with a cold. I see Jonathon and Trudy sitting beside each other. I try to smile. My Mackenzie gran always says, “Don't forget to turn the sides of your mouth up.” Honestly, lately I have tried. But it doesn't seem to help much in the friendship department here.

• • •

Dear Nora,

Three little rules we all should keep

To make life happy and bright

Smile in the morning, smile at noon

And keep on smiling at night.

Sincerely, Mrs. Jenkins

Honestly, I have tried Mrs. Jenkins.

• • •

Saturday, I take the children to the park for about an hour until raindrops-that-threaten-to-be-a-downpour start. The rest of the afternoon we read
The Wizard of Oz
. I got the book out of the library. When the kids get wiggly I teach them songs.

“Mrs. Quinn, my cousin's coming down, not this Friday, but next, for an operation. Can she come babysitting with me here on Saturday? That is, if she is up to it.”

“How old is she?”

“She turned thirteen last week.”

“Well, I'm quite sure it'll be fine. As long as you remember you're the one responsible for the children. What kind of operation is she having?”

“I don't know what it's called, but they're fixing a hole in her heart.”

“That's really serious.” I can see the colour drain from Mrs. Quinn's face. “I'm glad to hear they can do an operation for it now. I knew a small boy who died because of a hole in his heart.” Her body straightens. “I didn't tell you about our Beatrice, did I?” I can feel something coming. “She had polio. She was late getting the inoculation because we were living in northern Alberta at the time.” Mrs. Quinn takes a deep breath. Her face returns to its normal colour. “I look forward to meeting your cousin. What did you say her name was?”

• • •

Penticton, B.C., Canada

The World, The Solar System

The Universe

October 18, 1959

Dear Nora,

Thanks for the letter. “At last,” I said when it came. And thanks for the gorgeous birthday card you made. I counted the candles the first time and got fourteen. “Whoops,” I said to myself. But it was me, not you. There were definitely thirteen. We had a little party. Mum made the usual cake with a matchstick, button, and thimble, as well as a penny, dime, and a quarter wrapped in waxed paper and baked inside. Jack and Dougie got the penny and dime. I got the quarter. I think Mum must somehow mark the cake so she knows where to cut so we each get something good. On my second piece of cake (yes, yes I was a little piggy) I got the thimble. That means I'll never marry.

Dad gave me a diary to write in while I am in hospital and Mum made me a pretty nightie for the hospital too. The boys went together (with Mum's help obviously) and got me a book about animals and birds. They said it was for when I was in Vancouver, but I think really it's so I can teach them that stuff later. I guess that's a mean thing to say. It was a good day.

When I came home to your place from the hospital last month, I didn't want to talk about it or think about it. The hospital, I mean. Now that's all I want to do. Do you mind if I tell you? You can skip this part if you want.

It was only two days, but I hated the poking and prodding, the blood work and the X-rays, first one nurse then another, one doctor, then another. I felt like a slab of meat being thrown around. Sometimes I wondered if any of them even knew I had a name. But the worst part was, not because it was painful but because it was embarrassing, they stuck a tube down my throat to look at my heart (That's what I thought they said, but how can they see my heart through my throat?). Afterwards I threw up all over myself and the bed. Egads.

I liked our time together in North Vancouver. I know you miss Penticton and everyone, and of course your mum, but I think you're lucky to have your dad and sisters close by. Just imagine if you were in Penticton, you wouldn't have Jan and Dorothy, except at Christmas probably. And you've got the Quinns. It's like they're your family, too, but you get paid to look after them. I'm always looking after Jack and Dougie and never get paid.

On the bus coming back, I told Mum I was scared about the operation not working. She said a part of her was scared, too, but really she knew it would be fine. I asked her how she knew, and she said, “Because it has to be. Because I keep saying it will be fine and you (meaning me) have to think that way too. You will grow up and be my Lizzie long after I die.” I could feel the tears coming up into my eyes. I can feel my throat squeeze in even now.

Then the conversation went like this: “Oh, Mum. Don't say that. You'll never die.”

“Oh, dear. It feels like that and I want to stay around as long as possible.”

“Just don't die on me like Auntie Rita, I couldn't stand that.”

“Then, you don't die on me either. You come through that operation with flying colours. Do we have a deal?”

I remember saying, “It's a deal.” But Nor, I'm still scared. It may sound crazy, but for a while I was cross that no one asked if I wanted this operation or not. I didn't have the nerve to say anything. But I know I do want it for sure. For absolutely for sure. But I wished someone had asked. I'm sick and tired of sitting on the sidelines of my life. I always watch. I give out bibs in field hockey. I read at the beach. If this operation works, I can have a life. It's my one chance for a big life. And I'm taking it.

Gotta run. Maybe I should start using my new diary for writing all this stuff instead of my letters to you. Sorry. But I did warn you.

Lizzie

PS See you soon and thanks again for the card.