A Hole in My Heart (9 page)

“Us too. I thought you're running away from home, though. Are you sure you're all right?”

Dolores punches Stella's shoulder. The little girl winces. “Ouch. Don't do that.”

“Of course we're all right.”

“See you Monday, then. And Dolores, don't hit her. She's a nice kid. And my friend.”

Monday morning, just before I leave for school, Lizzie crawls into the back of their wine-coloured Austin, off to the hospital. Off to her operation. Will I ever see her again alive? I swallow hard. Are the others thinking the same? But their faces are all smiles. Their masks. I hear the mournful
whooo-hooo
of a foghorn. Over and over. Over and over. Lizzie unrolls the window.

“Hey, Nora. That foghorn. That's a descending fourth. Remember that when you start learning the piano.” She says it loud enough for Dad to hear — Lizzie's way of reminding him I want to play. I still haven't had a response from my advertisement at the library and I keep forgetting to ask Mrs. Bramley.

Uncle Robert gets into the driver's seat of course, with Aunt Mary next to him. I watch her crane her neck at the snow-glazed mountains above the foggy harbour as the car disappears into the gloom. Will I ever get used to the fog and the rain?

• • •

In Science class Dolores is missing. She's really good in Science. You wouldn't think it because she doesn't answer in class or show off. At the beginning of the year she was nearly always top of the class on the quizzes. According to Trudy, her father worked on the bridge that fell down and he has heaps of science books at home. Maybe Dolores reads them for fun. But lately her marks have dropped.

• • •

February 27, 1959

My Dearest Nora,

Good better best,

Never let it rest

Till your good is better

and your better best.

Love, Dad

• • •

After school I check in on the kittens. Like Dolores, Stella's not there either. Juniper is still my favourite. She walks in a wobbly sort of way, falling over herself and her brothers and sister. Her ears stand right up now and she actually purrs. The other kittens don't. I don't know whether it's because they can't or don't want to. Like me. I can purr but usually I don't want to.

• • •

The Lions Gate Bridge still looms out of the misty grey when Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert come home in the late afternoon without Lizzie. Aunt Mary and I prepare supper side by side in the kitchen as she tells me every detail of her day.

“We got to the paediatric clinic right on time. Finding a place to park in the lot was the hardest part, it was so full. The clinic itself felt familiar — we've been there so often over the years. The doctor was running a few minutes late, so we sat. I must say your Uncle Rob fidgeted. I almost told him to go to the corner and play with the toys.” Aunt Mary grins. But I can feel the anxiety behind her attempt at humour. I finish peeling the potatoes.

“Thanks, dear. Let's do some squash and carrots too. We can put them all together in the oven.” She pushes the carrots towards me and begins hacking at the squash with a large knife. “When the door to the doctor's office finally opened, another girl came out with her parents. She looked younger than Lizzie and pretty frail. The nurse introduced her to us as Karen. She has the same heart problem as Lizzie and is going to be operated on tomorrow too.”

“But I thought Lizzie said the girl who was to be operated on the same day was called Ingrid.”

“You're right. That's what they told us last time.” Aunt Mary's face clouds. “Afterwards, Lizzie asked the nurse about her. She said Ingrid died last week. Her face looked grey. I couldn't be a nurse. So much sadness.” I'm sure my face is grey too. I wish I hadn't asked the question. Aunt Mary probably wishes I hadn't as well.

“The nurse tried to get the girls to talk. Your Uncle Rob and I shook hands with Karen's parents and mumbled something about seeing them on the ward. It was awkward — it's hard to know what to say. Apparently the girls won't be in the same room. They get private ones because the nurses and doctors need to watch them closely and they want them in contact with as few germs as possible.”

“Will I get to see her? Lizzie, I mean.” I chop the peeled carrots into large chunks and add them to the potato pile.

“I'm not sure. We'll try to arrange it, unofficially, even.”

“Anyway, at this point the doctor called us in. He did the usual stuff and we asked the same old questions and found our way to the ward by lunch.”

“What's the food like?”

“You and your stomach.” Aunt Mary laughs at me. “Lizzie's tray didn't look bad, though — an egg sandwich, applesauce, milk, and a rolled-oat cookie — and we had to go down to the cafeteria.”

“What's her room like?”

“There's a nice bright window overlooking the parking lot, a small locker for her clothes, and a bedside table. Lizzie put her three favourite books there:
The Secret Garden, Swallows and Amazons,
and, of course,
Anne of Green Gables
.” Aunt Mary daubs the squash pieces with butter and brown sugar and pops them in the oven. “What about you? Are they favourites of yours too?”

“I've never read
Swallows and Amazons.
But
The Secret Garden
and
Anne
, of course.” I reach for the pile of potatoes and carrots. “Do we put these in the oven now too, Aunt Mary?”

“Not yet, dear. We'll wait until the squash cooks a little.” She tosses oil and salt and pepper through the vegetables in the rectangular pan. “I told Lizzie she was not even to think about homework while she's in hospital. There will be lots of time later.”

“And I can help her.” My head whispers,
I sure hope so.
“What did the doctor say about the operation, about her chances?” I can see the shadow return to my aunt's face. Why does my tongue flap so easily? I didn't need to ask. I already know the answer. Maybe I just hope it'll be a different one this time.

“He said there's a fifty-fifty chance of the operation working. If it goes well, Lizzie will live to a ripe old age, grow up as a normal woman. Even marry and have children if she wants.”

“And what happens if it doesn't go well?”

“Dr. Robertson said then they might do the operation again at a later date.” My aunt's body suddenly looks small, her face more lined than I remembered. She removes a pan from the refrigerator. “I almost forgot to put the meat loaf in.” The whoosh of hot dry air hits me as she opens the oven again.

Lines of fear and worry grip and crisscross my aunt's face. I think of how, for all these days and weeks and even the months after Mum died, I've been thinking only of me. Last month Aunt Mary reminded me that all the family was sad and unhappy about my mother. Now, I realize — how stupid could I have been — the same is happening with this operation. All what's in my head is probably in Aunt Mary's head, in Uncle Robert's head, in Dad's head. Even in Lizzie's grandmother's head.

At supper no one mentions Lizzie's empty chair.

• • •

I don't sleep much that night. When I finally do, I wake up shouting, “That's wrong. That's wrong. What have you done?” In my dream Lizzie had her leg cut off. She was lying in a pool of blood, her left leg off to the side but looking more like the leg of a deer on the side of the road. I lie awake for another hour, my brain troubled and confused.

In the morning, Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert look like they haven't slept well either, their faces are drawn and pale. They go off early, unsure of exactly when the surgery is to be because the other girl is first. I guess they just need to be with Lizzie. I wish I could be there too.

Instead, my body goes to school. My mind doesn't.
Please God, look after Lizzie.
I thought I didn't believe in God.
I promise to be better, not to be so mean. Or think bad thoughts
. I've been feeling sorry for me when I should be strong. Strong like Lizzie. Strong for Lizzie.
Please God. Please.

• • •

On the way to HPD — much easier to say than Health and Personal Development — I dash into the washroom. There are two others waiting in line for the toilets. One is Dolores. She's in an old pleated skirt and a baggy sweater this time, no makeup. I try to make conversation.

“How are things?” Meaning of course, the running away.

“Fine.” She's back to the can't-you-get-it-that-I-don't-want-to-talk mode.

“How's Stella? She's really nice.”

“Fine.” It's definitely can't-you-get-it-that-I-don't-want-to-talk. The four stalls all empty out together. Dolores and I sit quietly as the others wash and leave.

I call to her. “Your eyes are a really pretty blue, Dolores. I never noticed them before.” With the mascara, all I'd ever seen was the flipping lashes. There's a grunt from the other stall. “I'm serious. The casual look suits you.” The pee-dribbling sound from next door stops. I hear the scuffle of toilet paper, clothes, the door open, and a very quick exit. Oh well.

• • •

After school I run next door to see Juniper again. This time Stella is there.

“Aren't they adorable? Their heads are so big and their tails stand up like little sticks.” Not coming every day, she sees an even bigger change than I do.

“Are you going to get a kitten too?”

She snuggles one ball of fluff under her chin. “I don't think Dad will let us.”

“How is Mrs. Taylor related to you?” I grab Juniper as she tumbles out of the cat bed.

“She's Dad's sister. But he doesn't like her very much. He says she's really bossy. Especially about us not going to church and all. But I like her. Do you like your Dad, Nora?”

“Oh sure. He's nice most of the time. I don't see him much because he's either away at work or in his room reading.”

“Do you like your Mum?”

I don't stop to think. I just blurt it out. “She died last May.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, Nora.” A long silence. I pat the cats, cursing again my flapping tongue. “I guess having a mean parent is better than not having one at all.”

She's a sweet kid.

• • •

To Nora,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Sugar is sweet

And so are you.

With love, Aunt Alice

To my friend Nora,

What does the bee gather?

That's right. Honey!

And that's what Nora is,

Just a honey, honey, honey.

Jeanie McQuaig

Can I say the same for me?

The phone rings. I jump. Dad jumps.

“Hello. The Mackenzie house, Alan speaking.” Pause. “Oh, Mrs. Quinn.” My face falls. “Thanks. I'll send her over for it.” The receiver clunks on the hook. “You left your umbrella at the Quinns'. She just noticed it.”

It's about eight o'clock. We've been waiting and waiting. Uncle Robert and Aunt Mary have not come home from the hospital. Dad and I made a big batch of Spanish rice, thinking that would feed everyone, but it sits warming in the oven, half eaten.

“Why don't they phone?” I shuffle the pack of cards and begin another game of Patience. Doing homework is impossible.

“Oh, there are not many phones, and I am sure others are trying to use them too.” Dad rattles the pages of the newspaper. I can tell he's trying to read. Or pretending.

“I'll go for the umbrella, Dad. I can't stand this sitting around any longer.”

• • •

Mrs. Quinn opens the door. “How's Lizzie, dear?” She hands me the umbrella.

“We haven't heard yet.”

“Poor lamb. I'm holding my breath too.”

• • •

I run back home even though half of it is uphill. Again as I turn the corner at Moody Avenue there are shadows. This time, not on the ground, but on the low cement wall. “Hi Dolores. Hi Stella. Do you run away every night?” That's not the nicest of things to say, or the most sensitive. But as usual my mouth and tongue move long before my brain kicks in.

“Our dad gets drunk and does bad things to her.” Stella cuddles up to her sister.

“Oh, shush Stella.” Stella ducks the swat and pushes away.

“Lori, it's true. That's what you say. You say that's why we run away.”

“Yeah, and he uses Mum as a punching bag when she's not at work. I don't know why Mum doesn't leave him.” Dolores all but shouts at me, spitting it out like it's all my fault. Like I caused it. “And when she's not home he does dirty things to me.”

The embarrassed silence seems to go on forever.

Finally I say, “Do you need some place to go?”

“We're fine.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“I said we're fine.” It's that I-don't-want-to-talk place again.

“Well. Okay. I gotta run because Lizzie had a big operation today and we haven't heard. But if you ever need somewhere to go you can always come to our place. See yah.”

Why did I say that? About Lizzie. About staying at our place.

Maybe this is what Mrs. Quinn was talking about. Maybe I'm taking off my mask.

• • •

We wait and wait. I will Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert to phone.
Phone. Phone. Now.
But no telephone call. Dad checks his watch.

“Nora. It's ten-thirty. Long past bedtime. Go now, and straight to sleep. You have school tomorrow.” My face contorts. I can feel it. “Yes, I know. You want to hear. But you'll hear in the morning. Losing sleep won't help them or Lizzie and it will definitely hurt you at school.” I go to bed. But not to sleep.

• • •

Much later I hear voices. I may have drifted off because I didn't hear the door open or them come up the stairs. I hear their hushed tones and tip-toe to the door. Something tells me not to run wildly into the living room.

“Oh, Alan.” It's Aunt Mary. “It was so hard. I know we should have phoned. But we wanted good news. And when the nurse asked them to move to another room and said she died....”

I take a deep breath and fly back to bed.
Lizzie dead. Lizzie dead. Lizzie dead.

How can it be?
Mum, oh Mum.

Not another one.

Lizzie dead.

I can't stand it.

What will I do with the Autograph book I bought Lizzie for Christmas?

What a stupid thing to think.

Lizzie dead. Lizzie dead. Lizzie dead.

Oh Mum, oh Mum, oh Mum.

• • •

To my dearest friend and cousin,

Away in a forest

Carved on a tree

Are two little words,

“Remember Me.”

Love, Lizzie