A Hole in My Heart (8 page)

It's Friday, the fourth of November. Lizzie's coming. I rush home after school to bring in the laundry. Despite the clouds, everything has blown dry in the wind. The full washing line squeaks and squeals as I yank it in, arm over arm. First, I roll up Dad's socks in pairs, after relieving them of their sock stretchers. I toss his long pants, my blouses, the tea towels, and handkerchiefs into the basket for ironing later. Then the towels and pillow cases. The sheets, what I need most, are the last of course.

I breathe in the wonderful smell of freshness and outdoors as I make up my mattress on the floor. Lizzie has my bed. It reminds me of when we used to sleep out in our tent in the backyard in Penticton. I scrawl a new message on my blackboard.

WELCOME

LIZZIE

WELCOME

Dad has put a roast in the oven. I peel carrots and potatoes and add them around the pot. Then I put an extra leaf in the Arborite table and set it for seven — placemats, serviettes and large plates, knives, forks, and spoons. Salt and pepper in the middle. I search the garden for flowers — Mum always had them on the table — but there are only a few droopy chrysanthemums that desperately need throwing away. I check the front steps. Yes. The milkman has brought the extra bottles we ordered.

Six o'clock and Janet and Dorothy blow in as usual. The clouds have settled in with a solid rain.

“If it's raining southeast of here, they'll have had to take it slowly,” Dad says when I start to chew my nails. “There might even be snow on Allison Pass.” I iron the blouses, tea towels, and hankies without being asked — to keep my mind off worrying.

• • •

Dear Nora,

I saw you in the ocean

I saw you in the sea

I saw you in the bathtub

Oops, excuse me.

Yours 'til the kitchen sinks, Brian

Dear Nora,

Starkle starkle little twink

I wonder why you are I think

Bet you wish you could be me

Starkle starkle little twink.

Your pal, Steven

Honestly, guys write the stupidest things.

• • •

It's ten to seven. I hear the car turn into the gravel drive and run to the door. In front of the others, Lizzie puffs and pants up the stairs. Her black curly hair bounces. She smiles. But the smile that used to be broad, lighting up her whole face, is only with her eyes now. And the light shining through those deep blue eyes is even less than a few weeks ago.

“The snow was quite heavy in the Pass with those big, fluffy, spattery flakes on the windshield,” explains Uncle Robert. “As we came down into the valley it turned to ice rain and then rain. It was not fun.”

“And the traffic. I don't know how people cope with it all the time.” Aunt Mary sighs a tired sigh. “But something sure smells delicious.” She smiles at me and brightens. “Nora. Turn around. Let me see.” I obey. “Hey, you've really got the hang of that French braid now. Good for you.” I beam back. It's nice someone notices.

“You and Robert, go put your feet up for a few minutes before supper,” says Dad. “We'll call you when the vegetables are done. Jan and Dot can put the finishing touches on the meal.”

“Which one's your suitcase, Lizzie?” I ask. Uncle Robert points and I grab the red one.

• • •

After supper we head straight for bed. That is, Lizzie and me. That sounds corny. Sort of like we're going to sleep at 7:45. We're not. We have so much to talk about and it's easier cuddled up in bed under layers of blankets. We talk about school, friends, and more school, and we end with our usual game of ... well, we don't have a name for it. Dirt — earth — sky — blue — bird — fly — mosquito — bee — honey — toast — breakfast — eggs — bacon — pig — spider — (“Where did you get spider from pig?” asks Lizzie. “Oh, I get it,
Charlotte's Web.
”) — web ... and as always one of us drifts off. This time it's Lizzie.

I'm left thinking. But not for long.

• • •

Saturday morning I crawl into Lizzie's bed — my bed but hers now — and tell her about Juniper and the other kittens. I'm just about to say I hope I can have one, when a whiff of something wonderfully wonderful slips in and invades the room.

“Aah, I know what that smell is,” says Lizzie. “We brought down a box of Newtown apples for you. I bet that's Mum making her special applesauce to go with her usual at-home Saturday morning pancakes.”

I throw my dressing gown on and run to the kitchen. “Oh, you don't know how good it is to have you here.”
Almost as good as having Mum
, I say to myself. I fling my arms around her middle.

“Good morning, my dear. Sit yourself down and tell me about school these days.” Aunt Mary extracts herself from my hug and lifts the first lot of pancakes onto a plate in the warming oven. “Do you like it any better?”

“Well,
The Wizard of Oz
is good. But the rest is about the same. In Social Studies I sit near the window and stare outside most of the time. I can't remember which kings of England are which and who is on what side of what in all their wars.”

“Yeah, me too. I almost fall asleep.” Lizzie joins us in her yellow cotton nightie.

“Go put on your dressing gown, love.” Lizzie screws up her face but disappears back into the bedroom.

“Sometimes I think I'll actually nod off and the teacher will find me snoring with my chin in my hands.”

Aunt Mary laughs. “Is it that bad, girls?” She flips the next three pancakes as Lizzie comes back into the kitchen and drags out another chair. “Don't they make it more exciting than when I was your age?”

“You got that stuff too?”

“Sure mike. I could never remember where York was in England and why it was important compared to London. I don't understand why they don't give you the history of Canada or B.C. The early trail for the gold rush to the Klondike came right through Penticton for heaven's sake. Now that's exciting.” She places the second load of pancakes on the plate in the warming oven.

“Maybe they don't think gold rushes and Indians and building railroads are as important as kings and queens and wars.”

“True, but there were wars here too.” She drizzles more batter into the cast iron frying pan. “I guess they see their wars as more important than our wars.”

“Anyway, why should history be about wars? Why not about people and what they did to get along with each other?”

“Now that sounds like the words of a wise young woman.” Aunt Mary gives Lizzie a hug.
Or the history of the development of heart surgery
, I think but don't say because I don't want to break the happy mood. “Nora, run and tell everyone breakfast will be in two minutes.”

• • •

At 12:45 we arrive at the Quinns' doorstep. Lizzie finds the walk hard, even though half of it is downhill. Her lungs wheeze. We stop a lot. The afternoon goes quickly and easily, however. It fines-up so we play in the back garden. But when Mrs. Quinn returns she sits us down.

“You may not want to hear this, but there is something I have to say.” She turns to Lizzie. “I know you're going to have a serious operation in a couple of days. I'm also sure Nora told you about Beatrice, that she died of polio. My lovely girl who would be a year older than you girls now.” She pauses. A shadow crosses her face.

My mental brakes scream:
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I don't want to hear this. I wish adults would keep their mouths shut. We don't need whatever she's about to say. What's Mrs. Quinn up to?

“This might sound like a sermon, but here it is.” She barely takes a breath. Lizzie and I don't have time to interrupt or make an excuse about going. “Both of you have had hard lives. You, Nora, because your mother died. You, Lizzie, because you've had to live with a body that has threatened to give out on you since you were little.”

I see Lizzie squirm. Is she thinking like me? Here we go again. Another adult telling us what it's like or how we should be.

“I remember my Bea when she got ill. Very quickly she went from having her legs not work to being in an iron lung. All she could do was lie there. Some children got better. Others didn't. She was one of the unlucky ones. We couldn't even hug her. What I found the hardest though, after losing Bea, was other people. It was like they didn't want to talk about it.”

My head pounds. I like Mrs. Quinn. Why must she talk about dying? Can't she leave us alone? Does she think Lizzie is going to die? I feel my arms push on my legs as if to get me out of here but they don't move.

“For a long time I chose to ignore what happened. The polio. Her dying. I thought I did something wrong to bring the polio on her, that it was my fault.”

I glance at Lizzie. She's staring at the floor. I wonder if Aunt Mary also thinks she did something wrong to give Lizzie a hole in her heart.

“What I want to say is, if it's like that for you, if you're worried about things or you want to talk, do. Talk about it. Take off the mask of pretend that everything's fine.”

I feel my shoulders lift. That's it? The mask of pretend?
You should talk to Dad
, my head says. I want to get out of here, fast. For me. For Lizzie. The silence fills up with our breathing. I don't know what to say. I have no words. I should not have brought Lizzie here. Mrs. Quinn peers out the backdoor window.

“Looks like Colin needs rescuing from his big sisters.” She pauses as she heads for the door. “And Lizzie. Best of luck, and remember there are lots of us sitting on those doctors' shoulders — very gently of course — making sure the operation goes right.”

Lizzie's smile is weak.

• • •

We walk back slowly in silence, except for Lizzie's heavy breathing. The afternoon had been fun. We'd played dress-up at first, read stories, turned the skipping rope for the girls while Colin played in the damp sand pile. And then this
whammo
with Mrs. Quinn.

“No wonder you like Mrs. Quinn.”

My head doesn't know how or where to stop spinning. Lizzie's okay with it? “We've never talked about any of this before.”

“But she's right. I do wear a mask. Sometimes I've felt like giving up. Then I would consciously say,
This is my life
. My life's different, a sitting-on-the-sidelines-sort-of-life. But that's the way it is and it's all mine.”

“Oh, Lizzie.” I squeeze her hand. “You told me that in a letter. Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I don't know. I guess I thought you wouldn't understand.” She plunks down on the low wall bordering the sidewalk, her chest heaving.

“You're right. Maybe before I wouldn't have.”

“And now, Tuesday. I've been waiting for this day for as long as I can remember, hoping doctors would find a way to make me better without cutting me open. But I really always knew I was headed for this operation, whether I wanted it or not. Come what may. Like other girls knowing they'll grow up to be a teacher. But no one actually said it.” She pushes herself to standing. We turn the corner on Ridgeway. “Really I want it all to go away.”

“Yeah. But don't forget what you said in your letter. You're getting a big chance at a big life.” I squeeze her hand tight.

A shadow hovers beneath a young copper beech tree, its leaves still hanging on reddish in the late autumn evening. I stop. The shadow breaks into two. Two crouching girls.

“Dolores? Stella?”

“Hi, Nora,” says Stella in a small voice.

“What are you two doing here?” I barely recognize Dolores. Instead of the usual sweater set, swirly skirt, and makeup, she has on old baggy pants, no eyeliner or mascara, and definitely no red lipstick or kiss curls or cigarette.

“Nothing.” Dolores answers in a way that clearly says, “Leave us alone, don't talk to us.”

“What do you mean nothing? You look like two frightened rabbits.”

“We've run away from home.”

“Shush, Stella. How do you know Nora?” By the yellowish streetlight, the little girl's face shows stains of tears.

“She's the one that lives next to Aunt Irene's. Remember, I told you about her and the kittens.”

The penny drops. “You mean you're sisters?” Of course, I realize. Her big sister, Lori. Dolores. Why am I blown away? Because Stella is so nice and cute and sweet, and Dolores is, well, not? “This is my cousin Lizzie. She's from the Okanagan.” Lizzie leans against the tree.

“Oh, I've never been there.” Stella uncurls. She looks smaller than I remember. And tired. “Is it nice?”

“I think so.” Lizzie smiles.

“Well, we gotta go.” Dolores again with that don't-ask-any-more-questions voice.