A Hole in My Heart (2 page)

I figure I'd got through the shoe business without too much bother but Janet comes into my room the next evening, just before supper, peeling off her apron. I know something's up. “Shove over.” She squeezes in beside me on the bed. “So how come your shoes were outside in the bushes?”

I know I'll cry if I tell her. No one cries in my family except me, and I know I'm not supposed to. It's not the crying I mind, actually, but the wet and wilted feeling afterward. No strength. Nothing inside. Like a slobbery, squished balloon. Why is it just me who cries?

Pushing myself up sideways on my left elbow, I crank up the corners of my mouth to meet my cheeks and reply to Jan with my own question. “What happened at nursing school this week? Anything neat?”

“Yeah, we got to make beds.” She grins and seems to forget she asked me a question.

“You call making beds neat?”

“The class is called ‘Nursing Arts.' We practise doing stuff we'll have to do on wards.”

“But you've made your own bed since you were little. What's the point?”

“Not the way they want them — with special tight corners and pulling the bottom sheet so hard your fingers almost break. Plus, we have to make the bed with someone in it.” She grabs the blankets and gives them a yank like she's straightening my covers. I topple onto my back.

“Hey, stop that.” I laugh a little bit.

“Miss Mackie, our nursing instructor, pulls the bed apart if the corners aren't just right. Then we have to start all over again.” She grimaces. “My bed was fine except I forgot to put the folded-in end of the pillowcase away from the door. Imagine. There's even a right direction for pillows.” Jan tosses her balled-up apron at me. It unravels into long arms of cloth.

“Did she make you do it again?”

“No, thank heavens. But don't tell, okay?

“Don't tell what?”

“When you've promised not to say anything, I'll tell you.” Even though I hate promising like that, this seems pretty safe.

“I promise.” I cross my heart.

“Dot had to do hers twice over.” Now we both laugh, for real. I pitch the apron back at Jan. She crams it down my shirt. And then, right when I think we're far away from my shoes and school and me, she says, “So how come your shoes were outside?”

I focus on her hair, as if I haven't heard. “How do you like your new hairdo?” She got it cut really short to start nursing.

“Easy to look after and great for when we get our nursing caps.” She sweeps her hands along the sides of her hair towards the ducktail at the back. In my opinion, she looks like a girl version of Elvis Presley. “I couldn't fiddle with it and put it up every day the way Dot does.” She pokes me in the stomach. “You can't avoid answering forever. How come your shoes were outside?”

I take a deep breath. “I hate it here. No one likes me.” Darn. I feel the tears rising.

“You've been at school one week. That's all. Liking a new place takes time.”

“But we've been in North Vancouver three weeks and you like nursing already, don't you?”

“Yeah, but that's different. I'm there with a purpose — to learn to be a nurse. The others all want to be nurses too. High school's different.”

“Not that different.”

She can't drop it. “Did something bad happen on Friday?”

“My shoes.” I squinch up my eyes, forcing the tears back. “And not just then. They tease me about them all the time. That's why I kicked them into the chrysanthemums.”

“Your shoes? I thought you loved those shoes. I remember you and Mum getting them last spring.”

Why does she have to remind me? As if I can forget. Mum and I went shopping together at that shoe store on Main Street. Mum told a corny elephant joke. Something about “How do you tell an elephant from an egg?” I hooted with laughter when she replied in a pretend snotty sort of voice, “Well, I'm not going to send you out for a dozen eggs.” She was all rosy and happy then.

“A lot of the girls in Penticton wear oxfords and saddle shoes. At least they did last spring. Here they wear dainty slingbacks, pretty shoes made of patent leather, or penny loafers, not big, ugly, clumpy oxfords. And my shoes always look extra crappy because I get smudges of white polish all over the black patches. I told Dad but he says I can't have new ones. I have to wear sensible shoes, not even penny loafers. No one here wears sensible shoes.” My tear squinching fails. I'm full-blown crying. I shift my cheek away from the wet-smeared patch on my pillowcase. “I don't like being laughed at. They even tease me about my clothes. I want to go back to Penticton. I want things the way they were.”

“Oh kiddliwinks. We all do. But Mum's not coming back. Just try to be happy. Try to look on the bright side.”

“Oh, you sound like Dad. Or old Mrs. Garnett. She patted me on the head at Mum's funeral and said, ‘Things will be fine, dear. Your mother would want you to be happy.' Well, I'm not happy. And I'll never be happy again. Nothing's ever going to be the same.”

“I didn't say things were ever going to be the same.” Jan strokes my back. “It's not the same for me either.”

“Yeah, but you chose to leave Penticton. I didn't.” I flip over. “Oh, Jan, don't adults realize things are never going to be happy or nice or wonderful? When Mrs. Garnett said that with her gushy smile, I just wanted Mum to sit up in her coffin and tell her to go jump in the lake. That would have scared the pants off her.”

I can see Jan trying not to smile, but she does. I sort of do too.

“It's not fair. You and Dot had Mum much longer than I did. Besides, you have each other. I have nobody.”

“What do you mean
nobody?
You've got Dad.”

“No I don't. He's always in his office or behind a newspaper or staring out the window.” I groan into my pillow. “If I had nice shoes at least, I'd have friends.” Jan takes a big breath, then lets it out long and slowly like a sigh.

“Mum always used to say if kids tease you they like you, they want your attention.”

“Yeah, when were you ever teased at school?”

“You have to ignore them, try not to react. Make some smart-aleck comment like,
You're just jealous. Don't know style when you see it
. Something like that.”

“Sure, Jan.” My blackboard glowers down at us.

Why did you want to leave me, Mum?

Why did you have to die?

I want you back

“And by the way, Mum didn't want to die, Nor. She got sick and Dad couldn't save her. What do you think it was like for her, having to leave her lovely youngest daughter who is only twelve years old?”

I jump off the bed, rub out the chalk words and replace them with:

I will never be happy and have friends here if I have to wear saddle shoes.

So there!!!

• • •

It's Sunday. I'm on my bed as usual. Janet and Dot have gone back to St. Paul's. I stare at the ceiling or off into space, with Lizzie's letter on my chest, arms curled under my head. A spider crawls along the crinkly crack that runs towards the window. It's not fair. Vicki Matthews is my best friend. Or was. I wrote but she hasn't written back. I even asked her to come for a visit. Now she has another best friend. I don't. And here everybody's snooty. So I'm snooty back.

I wander along the hall after Art class the next afternoon, daydreaming as usual. I'm no good at art but the pro-ject we have right now is cool. We wax-crayon a sheet of paper in crazy shapes of red, green, pink, yellow, or whatever, then go over it with another thick layer of black. With something not too sharp — I'm using an old letter opener from home — we scratch a design in the black to reveal the colours below. I planned a garden scene with trees, flowers, tools, and a wheelbarrow. But when I actually drew it out on the paper, the tools were too big and the flowers in the wrong place. So the flowers turned out green and the wheelbarrow looked like an octopus with two arms. What do you call a two-armed octopus? A diptopus?

But I still liked the project.

Anyway, so there I am sauntering down the hallway to Math, trying to figure out in my head how to redraw it, when
whammo
. Someone sticks out a foot and I'm on the floor along with my books. I reach out to stop my fall. My hands catch at a boy's pants. “Hey, what the ...” The guy grabs at his trousers and other kids start laughing.

I duck into the girls' washroom right around the corner. I can feel my face burning. I'm breathing fast. Why is it always me? I hear catcalls from behind. “Hey, she likes you, Gord. Trying to pull your pants down. Ha. Ha. What about her pants, Gord?”

Funn-eee. Hardi har har
, I say to myself.

The next thing I hear is a whoop, a glug, and a slop, from inside the washroom. More wretching and throw-up sounds. Out of one of the stalls comes a girl in my Science class, her face wet and green. She glares.

“Don't you breathe a word.” I hand her some paper towels. She has wisps of hair plastered to the sides of her cheeks, one curl on either side. Her kiss curls and black hair remind me of Debbie Charlton back in Penticton. We weren't friends but she was popular, especially with certain guys. Her glare turns to a scowl. “I said, don't you breathe a word.”

“Why would I?” I reply. In my head I think,
Who would I tell anyway?
Actually, I'm still too shaken by my fall to think. I skedaddle to Math class.

• • •

My lockers are on the bottom floor of the north wing of the school, three down from the green double doors to outside. As I exit after school, a voice calls out. There are two girls slouched on the low cement wall, cigarettes dangling from their hands.

“You're new here, eh?” It's the girl from the washroom. “What's your name?” She has that same eye fluttery sort of way Debbie has too. “I'm Dolores and this here's my friend Trudy.”

“I'm Nora. Aren't you in my Science class?” Dolores wears a tight mauve sweater set and matching purple skirt. Trudy too, only her sweater and skirt are blue. I assume Dolores is going to mention the up-chucking. But no.

“Wanna smoke?” I hesitate for a moment. My dad doesn't approve of smoking, especially for girls. He says it makes them look cheap. I sort of agree.

“Sure. Why not?” I blurt out. I squeeze the lit cigarette between my index and middle fingers and take a puff. It takes all my concentration not to cough or choke, and to will my mouth and eyes to look calm. I imagine myself a glamorous movie star like Kim Novak, in the poster my sister Dot has on her wall, dancing and smoking with Frank Sinatra. It doesn't help. The air in my throat burns. I cough and sputter.

“See, I told you she wouldn't know how to inhale.” Trudy laughs a sharp, piercing laugh. Dolores takes one last drag on her cigarette and tosses it at my feet.

“Who got you those? Your grandma?” She smirks and stomps out the cigarette. The two of them are off.

My shoes again.

Of course I don't answer back with something clever. Her words go inside and sit like lumpy porridge. And I hate porridge — even without lumps.

• • •

It's 5:15 now and I rattle around in the kitchen making supper — spaghetti again. I fry up some onions and ground beef, add sauce from a can, and let it simmer while I boil the water for the pasta. I set the table for two, with a container of grated Parmesan cheese in the middle, the tea pot ready for Dad's tea, and a plate of cookies for dessert.

By six, I'm starving and I go ahead and eat, even though Dad's not home from the hospital. In Penticton he was a family doctor but now he's learning to be a surgeon at the Vancouver General. That's why we moved to the Coast. Or part of the reason. I open my library book to read as I slurp up the mound of spaghetti. The meal doesn't take long to finish, so I read a bit more, sipping on my milk and ignoring the call of the cookies. I decide to leave them to share with Dad later. Eventually, I dump my dirty dishes and cutlery into the sink and run the water for washing up.

I startle as the door opens. Dad drops his briefcase on the floor, shrugs his coat into the hall closet, and heads up the stairs towards me in the kitchen.

“I couldn't get away earlier,” he mumbles as he upturns the cold glob of cooked spaghetti pasta into a large bowl, dumps the remaining lukewarm sauce over it, and heads back down the stairs to his office.

“Aren't you going to eat with me?” I call out.

“You've eaten.”

“I was going to have my dessert with you….” But he's already disappeared into the basement.

I add soap to the dishwater and plunge in my hands. First my milk glass, then my plate, spoon and fork, the cutting board and knives. One after the other I scrub them, harder than usual.
Why do I always have to do everything?
One after the other I rinse each item under the tap.
Why won't he eat with me?
I can feel my breathing get faster.
And can't he even say hello?
I grab the large pasta pot lined with the goo of cooked spaghetti, lift it to shoulder height, and smash it down into the water. Gobs of greasy pink water splatter all over — on my apron, the cupboards, the countertop, the surrounding clean dishes, and even on the floor. I ball up my apron, fling it to the floor and stomp out, yelling, “I hate it here, absolutely hate it here. And you don't care one little bit.”

I slam the door to my bedroom behind me.

I bury, or pretend to bury, my head in my Math homework. In my scribbler I draw a careful line with a ruler beneath the last question the way we're supposed to. But my hands are shaky like the rest of me and I have to rub it out twice before I get it right. I start on number fourteen. I really don't mind Math. Not because it's fascinating or dead easy, but because, unlike in Penticton, Mr. Keen doesn't make us work on the blackboard or answer questions in front of the class. He says virtually the same thing every day, changing the numbers of course. “Read page thirty-two and do questions two to seventeen in your scribbler.”

Anyway, there I am doing the next question and the door opens. Dad sticks his head in. “So you hate it here,” he barks. I'm sure he'd talk to one of his patients better than that. I scrunch my shoulders to my ears, squeeze tears back — again — and cross to the closet mirror.

“Well, for starters they laugh at me.” I point at my reflection in the mirror. “Look at my shoes, my dumb plaid skirt. And yellow sweater, for heaven's sake.” I glare back at myself. “Janice, the other new girl in homeroom,” —
with her big expanding chest
, I say in my head — “she wears a black, swirly skirt with a pink poodle on it and a tight, matching, pink angora sweater
.
And there's ugly” —
flat chested
, I add again in my head — “me wearing this.” I yank at my woollen pleats. “No wonder they call me a country bumpkin.”

“Buck up, Nora. I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense.” The door begins to close.

I raise my voice. “You don't know what it's like to be a girl.” I watch my blotchy face, surrounded by straggly bits of mouse-brown hair sticking out from my equally straggly ponytail, disappear and reappear, as I move the sliding mirror door back and forth. “I need Mum. I want her back.”

“We all do.” He drums his fingers against the door frame. “But can't you be —”

“I know exactly what you're going to say,” I interrupt. “You're like all the other adults.” I curl my face up and mimic back to him. “Your mother would want you to be happy.” I scowl into the mirror. “Well I'm not happy. So there.” Dad scowls and sighs a bad-tempered sigh.

Then my mouth starts running away from my brain. Like it blurts out things that have been inside my head for weeks but couldn't say out loud. “The Sunday school teacher used to say that God could see whatever we do. If Mum's with God, can she see me? Are they both — her and God — watching me? I don't mean watching over. I mean watching, watching. Like can they see me when I do something wrong? When I'm mean?” I gulp in some air. “And why does God have to be a man?”

Dad has this weird sort of look. Like how could this person be my daughter? He sighs again and turns his head as if to go, then stops. He takes a deep breath. “No, I don't believe your mother is watching you. Or watching me, either. Some people may. I was told the same thing about God when I was little, but now I think it's a way of trying to make children behave.”

“And then there's this hair.” I sweep back the stray ends with my hands and jam a bobby pin in place. “If the little ends don't droop over my eyes, they stand up. Like I'm going to lift off and fly away. Janice has curls that flounce and bounce, saying with each flounce and bounce,
Aren't I beautiful?
Why did they waste nice, red hair on the likes of you?”

Dad takes in another deep breath. Bigger this time. His face twists. “I don't have time for this. Stop it. You're working yourself up.” He closes the door, hard. Then opens it. “I don't want to hear any more about it. Forget it and get back to your studies. Tomorrow will be better.” This time the door slams shut.
Yeah, sure,
I say in my head. He's not twelve and alone and me. I hear his heavy footsteps march to the kitchen. “And clean up this mess.”

“
Argh
,” I yell. I make fists and lift them to strike the mirror, but hold back. I'm confused — about me, about God, about Mum, about Heaven, about how to be me. And angry too — at God, at Mum, at Dad. At me?

I open my Autograph book. Mum gave it to me last Christmas and wrote the first entry.

December 25, 1958

My Dear Nora,

First in your Album

First in your thoughts

First to be remembered —

Last to be forgot.

Mother

• • •

Penticton

September 11, 1959

Dear Nora,

Why aren't you writing? Maybe I'm writing too soon and a letter from you will come tomorrow. It's just that your last one sounded so down I was hoping you'd be feeling better.

Mum, Dad, Jack, and Dougie and I went for our usual Saturday “adventure,” as Dad calls it. I figure it's an adventure for them because they get to run all over the place while I sit around and read. This time Mum stayed back with me for some reason, which was nice. We had a picnic first and the boys and Dad went looking for mountain sheep while Mum and me (I guess I should say Mum and I but there's nobody here to correct my grammar) cleared up. At least it was sunny. We've had a few cloudy days, which I hate. They put me in bad humour. Mum read her new Agatha Christie murder mystery and I tried again to read
Anne of the Island
. The girls act silly. Do all girls act that silly when they're eighteen or nineteen? You should know with Dot and Jan. I know you won't be like that when you're eighteen or nineteen. I don't even like the chapter titles (“The Shadow of Change” is the first one). So why am I reading it?

Mum has been bugging me about practising the piano. I like piano but sometimes I wonder why I bother. I'm no way near as good as she is. Besides, what's the point? Who knows if I'll be around to use it. (I've never said that out loud before. You know what I mean, writing is sort of like saying something out loud.)

Sally (the girl who lives on the other side of Draper's orchard) and I went to the movies last Saturday. We saw
The Nun's Story
. It was okay. The only problem was coming home. I walk so slowly Sally got mad at me. What's so bad about walking slowly? You get to look at lots of things. Maybe mad's too strong a word. I know she really didn't want to go with me but none of her real friends were around.

Sometimes I don't like that I can't do stuff like everybody else. Like field hockey — in Physical Training the teacher is all so nicey nice and says golly-gee-whiz it would be SUCH a help if I'd keep score. Really, I'd rather be able to play. And hula hoop and swim. In fact, I think I'd rather have had polio. At least I'd have a brace on my leg like Cora and others would think it was neat. Besides, I could whack someone with it if I was really cross.

I guess I'm cross today. I miss having you here.

Mum and I were talking about your mum. I knew Aunt Rita was a nurse but didn't know she had trained in Alberta. Mum said she and her were like your two sisters, really close. They did everything together — swimming, dancing, picking in the orchard in the summer. And when Aunt Rita went so far away to training Mum missed her terribly. She still misses her terribly. She said when they were both having us, they were especially close all over again.

I wonder if we will be that close when we grow up. That's interesting. I never usually think of me growing up.

See you soon, I guess.

Yours, not as down in the dumps as I thought,

Lizzie