A Hole in My Heart (7 page)

Sunday morning I wake to a sweet fragrance wafting from the kitchen and scramble into my around-the-house clothes. No church clothes here like in Penticton. Dad never goes to church now and doesn't insist that us girls go either. That's okay because I don't think I believe in God or church or Heaven anymore.

“Bran muffins for breakfast straight from the oven.” Janet scrapes around the sides of each muffin with a knife and flicks them up to cool.

“So how come you're being so nice?”

“Is that the thanks I get for all this work, and on my day off?” Janet whacks me gently on the head with her oven mitts. I pick out a muffin that sits at a jaunty angle in the muffin pan.

“Thanks, Jan and ...
mmmm
... you put dates in them. My favourite.” I take a crumbly bite and drop it back out onto a plate, waving away the heat from my mouth. “Yikes, they're scalding hot.”

“I told you they were straight out of the oven.”

“Can you show me how to make them, Jan? Maybe Mrs. Quinn would let me and kids make some too.”

Janet hands me a stained three-inch by five-inch card. “Here's Mum's recipe. It's really clear. Take it. But make sure you ask Mrs. Quinn first.”

I grab a small plate for under my mouth to catch the crumbs. “I'll copy it.”

At the top of a new recipe card I print
Rita Mackenzie's Date and Bran
Muffins
, adding curly tails to the capital letters to make them look fancy. “So I put the flour and baking soda in one bowl and the hot water and dates in another?”

“Yeah, do the dates first. And make sure you cut them really small so you don't miss a pit. You don't want any broken teeth.”

“And the egg and milk go in another bowl. Then you pour the dates and the milk mixture all into the flour and stuff, right?”

“Yup. Pour it all in at one time and mix, just enough to get all the dry ingredients wet.” Janet bends over the table. “See, Mum wrote ...”

“Jan, does it hurt to see Mum's handwriting on the card?”

“Oh, Norrie, of course it does.”

“Then why don't you tell me?” My words sound lumpy and weird. Not muffin lumpy. “I thought it was just me.”

“Because it hurts too much. It's easier to be bossy and mean.” She gives my head a stroke

“You're bossy, but not mean like Dot. Can you teach me to cook? How can I learn without Mum around?”

“Sure, kiddliwinks. It's a deal. But Dad says you already cook great meals.”

“Stew, stew, and stew. Oh and a pathetic spaghetti sauce. I want to learn how to make fancy cookies and cakes. Maybe even pies.”

“That's more than a start. We'll do some simple baked things together. You've got lots of years to learn all the rest.”

I continue to write, humming “We're Off to See the Wizard.” Jan doesn't seem to mind. She rattles the dishes in the sink as I copy.

“Where's Dot? Still in bed?”

“I guess. Would you like me to play that on the piano? We have the sheet music.” Janet digs in the piano bench.

“We'll wake Dot.”

“So? Ah, here it is.” Janet drops the lid and plops down on the bench. I slip in beside her. Just like old times. Only it used to be Mum playing. We'd sing from our tattered red
Canada
Sings
book: “Old Lang Syne,” “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” “O My Darling Clementine.”

“I'd like to be able to play like you, Jan. And Mum. Can you teach me that too?”

“Get Dad to find you a real teacher. A good teacher, kiddliwinks. I wouldn't know how, and anyway, I'm your sister. Remember, I'm bossy. I'd be too bossy about your practising.”

She gives me a sideways hug. It's been such a long time since I've had hugs from her, in our non-huggy family. Good, genuine hugs.

We sing and sing — from
The Wizard of Oz, My Fair Lady, The King and I
. In a while, even Dad joins us in his lush tenor, mug of instant coffee in one hand and muffin in the other. “The Red River Valley,” “Cockles and Mussels,” “Annie Laurie.”

“I really got a kick out of that, girls.” Dad puts his coffee down as if to leave. “Thanks. That's the nicest time I've had in many moons.” Dad talks in a lumpy sort of way — with his mouth full of a second (or is it a third?) muffin. “These are great, Jan.”

“Not so great for me. You guys woke me up.” Dorothy stomps up the stairs, sleepy-eyed in her crinkled flannelette pyjamas and mussed-up hair. “You could at least have waited until I was up.”

“Any decent person should be awake by nine a.m.” I think it, but Jan says it.

“I smell muffins.” She turns to the kitchen.

“Sorry, there're all eaten.” It's Dad. I can't believe he said that.

“You mean and nasty people. And thoughtless. And greedy.”

He laughs. “And someone sure is gullible. Do you think we could eat a whole dozen muffins between us?” He nudges Dorothy towards the kitchen. “And your whining will not spoil the nice time I've just had. Go get your breakfast. And thank your sister Jan for the fresh baking.”

Dorothy scowls. Janet pokes me in the ribs with her elbows.

• • •

After supper, there's a knock on my bedroom door. I like it closed. It's my space, especially when Jan and Dot are home. But they've gone back to the hospital and now I've finished my homework. Dad plops down on the bed.

“I've seen it, Nora. It's just hard.” For a moment I don't know what he's talking about. He nods towards the blackboard — the talk-to-me-about-Mum stuff. “But today, all that singing makes it easier for some reason.”

“Why is it hard, Dad?”

“Lots of reasons. I miss your mother very much. I miss her for you girls too. I'm not good at being both dad and mum to you. But mostly because I should have been able to save her. Or, at least I should have known earlier she was so sick.”

“That doesn't help me, Dad. Now.” I swivel around. The chair legs scrape on the floor.

“You're right. Guess I'm being selfish.”

“You're not selfish, Dad.” I want to reach forward and give him a hug but don't. The non-huggy-type family again. “Maybe you're unhappy like me.”

“You're a wise young woman.” I don't think I've ever seen his face squinchy before.

“Not really. Aunt Mary reminded me, that's all.” He reaches out and pats my knee.

“That singing was wonderful. When I first heard it this morning, I was back with Rita. Do you know that's how I met your mother?”

“I thought you grew up together.”

“Yes and no. We both grew up just up the road from Penticton, in Summerland. It was even smaller than it is now but our family went to the downtown church, the Gladwins went to the uptown church.”

I uncurl my legs and watch Dad as he runs his hands through the waves of his hair. He has a little grey at the temples now too. The sadness is gone. His large blue eyes are smiley, remembering.

“We both were in
The Mikado
. You know, the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Back then, before the war, the Singers and Players put on a Gilbert and Sullivan piece every year. I played Nanki-Poo.”

“I knew you had a good voice, but not that good.”

“Actually, I was not bad.” He starts humming “A Wand'ring Minstrel, I.”
“
Mostly it was great fun.” Dad chuckles. It's so good to hear him laugh. And sing too. “Your mother was in the chorus. She was the prettiest girl in the whole place. Funny how I'd never seen her in Summerland before — but I was two years ahead of her in school and I worked in the cannery down by the lake. She lived out by Giant's Head. Our lives were much narrower then — our social life was church and work and school. If it wasn't the same church or work or grade at school, you didn't meet.”

I don't interrupt. I can't ever remember a time when my dad told stories like this. We played games, sure, but he never was a storyteller, never talked about the past.

“I was in medicine at the Vancouver General. But early in the fall I got sick from drinking water from a flume. You remember, we irrigated the fruit trees by running water through flumes back then. Anyway, I was off sick for about two months. I had lost too much time to go back to medical school so I worked the rest of the year at the cannery. That winter we had such a merry time in the Singers and Players. The next year, I went back into medicine. I went out with lots of girls in Vancouver, but when your mother came back from nursing training in Alberta, I had eyes for no one but her.” The talking makes Mum more real again, even her face and voice are clear to me.

“Did Mum really have cancer?”

“Acute leukemia. That's cancer of the blood. It gets bad very fast.”

The feeling in the room changes, the warm mood of before is gone. The gentleness in his eyes has altered to ... I'm not sure what. Anger? Regret? Sadness?

“That's what Aunt Mary said, but I still don't see why you had to change jobs, why we had to leave Penticton.” I think out loud.

“Maybe we didn't. Maybe we should have stayed. But then we wouldn't see Dorothy and Janet so often. It's hard enough for me to lose your mother, without having two of my daughters move away almost at the same time. Plus, we wouldn't have had this fun today. And then we wouldn't be here for Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert.” He takes a deep breath. A cheery, I-must-be-cheery, sort of breath.

“Dad, I was wondering if I could have piano lessons. Janet and Dot got them. I didn't.”

“We'll see.” That means
no
.

“But I'd really like to play like Mum.”

“I said, we'll see.” He pats me on the shoulder and rises. He's clearly had enough of our talking. I don't like his non-answer about lessons but I figure I can always look for a piano teacher myself. Maybe Mrs. Bramley will know.

• • •

I'm almost halfway through
Anne of the Island
. Now I realize why Lizzie didn't finish it. Ruby, one of the Anne's friends, is dying. Of “galloping consumption” it says. My
Highroads Dictionary
says that's tuberculosis. I assume the galloping part means it's getting worse fast, galloping along like a horse. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Ruby is dying. Not that I like the character Ruby. What I really don't like is that everybody seems to know she's dying except Ruby and her family. Was it the same with me? Did everyone at school, everyone at church in Penticton
know
that my mother was going to die?

What about Lizzie? Do all the kids at Pen High think she's going to die? Are Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert and even my dad pretending too? Despite what they say?

• • •

To my favourite little sister, Nora—

Love many

Trust few

Always paddle your own canoe.

July 3/59

Janet L. Mackenzie

I wonder why Jan wrote that? Does she wonder who she can trust?

Why do people have to die?

Who can I trust to tell me the truth?

Can I trust myself?

At 6:45 I arrive on the Quinns' doorstep. This is the first time I get a chance to babysit during the week. Dad was reluctant, but Mrs. Quinn said it was for only two hours.

“Thanks, dear. You're a life saver. The meeting should be over by eight-thirty, and I'll be back as soon as I can after that.” She slips her arms into her coat.

“Glad I can help, Mrs. Quinn.”

“Oh,” she pauses with the door half closed behind her. “Maureen and Patricia want a bath. But they have to be in bed by eight. Colin hates baths so don't worry about him. He's normally in bed earlier — seven-thirty or so. Just do your best.” And off she goes into the dark night.

The bathroom door is open and the room all lit up. Maureen kneels on the counter, twisting her hair into skinny corkscrew wisps and trying to touch the end of her tongue to her nose. She laughs at her faces in the mirror. Patricia sits on the toilet with the lid down, reddy-golden curls tumbling over the shoulders of her green dressing gown. Colin runs his metal truck up and down the tile lines on the floor and wall with a
vroom vroom
to match the crackle and bounce of the tires. He's already in his pyjamas.

“Oh, hi, Nor. Can we turn the tap on now?”

Through the mist of steam the girls strip down and tuck their toes into the water. I run to the kitchen for two plastic bowls. They dip and dump them over each other, squealing with delight. Colin and I seem to get as much water on us as they do.

“Can I go in too?” Colin's already peeling off his bottoms.

“No. You hate baths.” Patricia stretches her legs out straight to take up as much space in the tub as possible.

“No, I don't.” Colin's pyjama top lands in the sink, as he scrambles in between the two girls. He bends and slops water over his head too.

“Your mum said you didn't like baths.”

“Mum scrubs us like we're dirty parsnips. That's what she calls us.” Colin throws a load of water at me. “And I hate parsnips.” I jump sideways. He laughs.

“Oh no you don't, young man.” I dump a wriggling wet body on the squishy bathmat. “Now wrap up in this towel and sit.” The word
sit
comes out hard and firm, like I'm training a puppy. I guess I am.

Colin's room has a mattress under the window with a dresser beside it. The walls are plastered with pictures of animals: elephants, tigers, bears, crocodiles, kangaroos, wolves, and monkeys. I find pyjamas rolled up in the bottom drawer. Sighing, I tuck three library books under my arm and trot back towards the noise. This is not easy babysitting. Patricia's fingers massage a frothy mass of golden curls. Maureen's eyes squeeze shut, soap drizzles over her cheeks and drips off her chin.

“I'll help you girls with the rinsing. But let me sort Colin out first.” I swivel around. Where's Colin? A small naked boy stands in the sink, a tall, ice-blue bottle in hand, drinking.

I grab the bottle and sweep Colin up in a towel. White gloppy stuff rolls down over his belly. How much has he drunk? I run to the phone.
Answer quick, Dad. Please. Please.

“It's Colin, Dad. He's drunk something. Come quick. I don't want him to die.”

• • •

Three minutes seem like three hours. I wait at the door, Colin on a chair beside me, wrapped up in a big blue towel. Not a word out of him.

“Well, young man. What have you been drinking instead of playing in the bath?” Dad-in-doctor-mode says to Colin when he arrives.

“This stuff. It's yummy.” Colin points to the almost empty bottle in my hand.

“Milk of Magnesia.” I read from the label.

Patricia and Maureen in dressing gowns, towels draped over their heads, watch from the stairs

“Ooof. How can you say that's yummy? It's horrid.” Maureen nods at her sister.

Dad kneels down to Colin. “How much did you drink, son?”

“Lots and lots.” Colin says with a grin.

“It was about half full, Mr. Mackenzie.” Patricia looks paler than usual. It's not that she's extra clean, I realize. “Mum takes it every once in a while.”

“There was lots on his stomach, Dad.” I open the towel. “See.” There's a chalky layer over Colin's belly and the inside of the towel.

“Milk of Magnesia is for when you find it hard to go to the bathroom.” He pats Colin's head. “I think the most you'll have, young man, is a stomach ache and the trots.”

“Yuck.”

“
Ooooh
, my stomach is sore. Really sore.” Colin curls down over his legs, a broad smile on his face.

My knees feel weak.

Dad collects Colin into his arms and seeks out the living room. “How about if I read to you, son.”

• • •

There's a quiet in the house. I can hear Dad's words, a low rumble from downstairs.

“Will you read to us, please, Nora?” Patricia and Maureen linger in the doorway, subdued, hair partly dried and brushed. My body aches from the strain. From the worry, I guess, too. I empty the water in the tub and mop the wet from the linoleum floor with the bathmat.

“Do your teeth first, girls. Then call me when you're settled in bed.”

I wipe out the tub, hang the soaked bathmat over the side, and fold the towels over the shower curtain pole to dry.

When I finally head downstairs, Colin's asleep on Dad's lap.

• • •

Dear Nora,

Nora, Nora in the tub

Mother forgot to put in the plug

Oh my heart, oh my soul,

There goes Nora down the hole.

Jenny

• • •

I've been going over to the Taylors' mostly every day after school to see the kittens. Each time I'm amazed by the change in them. I can almost see them grow. Stella hasn't been there in a while, but today she is, wearing a warm woollen coat. The weather feels like winter even though it's still October. Mrs. Taylor has brought the kitten-filled cat bed into the screened-in porch.

“Look, Nora, those dangly bits have fallen off.”

“Yah, they did last week.”

“What're they for.”

“They're called umbilical cords. The babies are attached to their mother that way inside her stomach. You were too.” Stella's eyes open.

“How do you know this stuff?”

“Because my dad's a doctor. Plus I have two big sisters who tell me things.” Having my dad a doctor is definitely useful. “Their eyes have started to open too.” The kittens wiggle and worm their way around, nuzzle each other and their mum, making tiny mewing sounds.

• • •

October 24, 1959

(eleven days until I see you again)

Dear Nora,

Jack has a bad cold. That means I have to be in bed too and take penicillin. That's always how we've done it from a way back. In order that I stay well, if one of us is sick, we all have to take medicine, and I have to stay home from school along with the sick one. I think we take more medicine in this family than all the people of Penticton together. That's an exaggeration, obviously, but it feels like it. I told Mum it was probably healthier to be at school than at home with Jack's drippy nose and snuffles and whines. But oh no. Mum says, “Your Uncle Alan says so and that's what we do.” I blame your dad for this one.

After I whined and whined like Jack, she looked at me with that awful stare she sometimes has and said, “We can't afford for you to get sick at this time. You need that operation.” She doesn't have to say more — her face says it for her.

Anyway, it means I get to lie around and write to you and finish off my Christmas presents for everyone. I've knitted a scarf for Dad, and toques for the boys (I made them to fit me, so if they don't fit now they'll grow into them).

By the way, thanks for the letter. It was “fantabulous, grandificient, marveltastic,” to quote you. I hope you get an answer for your piano teacher advertisement. Remember how fast you heard back from Mrs. Quinn?

Why didn't you try out for an individual part in
The Wizard of Oz
? Isn't there a good witch or something? Or you could have been the Cowardly Lion, who's brave underneath, because, even though you don't think so, you are enormously brave to move and go to a new school.

My teachers are giving me homework and more homework while I'm away in Vancouver. Maybe we can do it together when I get out of hospital?

Must go. I promised Mum I'd heat up the soup for her. Funny how I don't have to be in bed when it suits her!

See you soon.

Just call me Cowardly Lion, number 2.

Lizzie