A Hole in My Heart, page 2
3
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
4
“It’s for me.” Janet jumps off the couch towards the ringing telephone.
“No, it’s Jerry. He said he’d call.” Dorothy rounds the door from the bathroom, grabbing the receiver off the wall. She runs her fingers though her blonde hair and takes in a big quietening breath. “Mackenzie residence. Dorothy speaking.” A scowl. “Yes, she’s here.”
Janet holds out her hand with an I-told-you-it’d-be-for-me look on her face.
Dorothy puts her hand over the receiver. “Bummer. It’s for you.” She rolls her eyes. “Who in the heck can be calling her?” They forget I’m sitting at the dining room table researching a Social Studies project in the encyclopedia. My stupid sisters.
“Bummer. The telephone’s for you.” This time she yells. “Hurry up, Nora. They haven’t got all day.”
“I only answer to Nora.” I snatch the receiver from behind her. The curly cord stretches and dances.
“Hello. Nora speaking.” I can’t believe it. It’s a response to my advertisement at the library. Yesterday I took my books back and got out Anne of the Island. While I was there I put up a notice: Grade eight girl on 11th Street would like babysitting job, weekends. If I’m going to get new shoes or go back to Penticton, I figure I’ll have to earn the money myself. “That’s fine. Thursday at four-thirty. Just let me get a pencil, please.” Dot hovers. I cover the receiver and grit my teeth. “Can’t I have a telephone conversation in private?” I rummage in the desk drawer for paper. “Yes?” I scribble 523 East 8th Street and repeat it into the receiver. “Thanks. I’ll see you then.” I paste the note to my chest and stomp to my room.
“What’s going on?” Dad’s johnny-on-the-spot when there’s anything possibly negative involving me.
“What d’ya know. Bummer got a phone call.” You’d think they’d say it quietly if they’re going to talk like that.
“Don’t you call her that. You know she doesn’t like it. Maybe she has a friend.”
I can’t believe it. Dad is actually taking my side for a change.
• • •
The Quinns’ house is old and rambling, several blocks south and east of our place, with a large back garden and rickety-pickety fence. Well, picket fence. I just like the rickety-pickety rhyme. Mrs. Quinn meets me at the door.
“Hi. I’m Mrs. Quinn. Come in, come in. You must be Nora.” I shake out my blue umbrella. The white flowers on it squish and spread. “You look like a drowned rat.” My stomach twinges. Mum always said that when I came in from swimming. “And this leech hanging from my leg is Colin.”
“Hi, leech.” I can’t help grinning. He’s so cute — big brown eyes and a black cowlick that stands bolt upright from his short-back-and-sides cropped head.
Colin grins back. “I’m Colin. And I’m three years old.”
“You can’t be. You’re much bigger than that.” I hand my coat to Mrs. Quinn. “You must be at least four.”
Colin lets go of his mother’s leg and stretches up tall. “When will I be four, Mummy?” He holds up five fingers.
“Not until January, dear.”
“You know your numbers already?” I bend over and fold down his thumb. At the same time I step out of my rain boots.
Mrs. Quinn ushers me into the living room. “These are my other two scallywags, Maureen and Patricia. Two girls jump up and down on the chesterfield and bat each other with pillows, laughing.
“Girls, girls. This is Nora. She’s coming to help us out on Saturdays. She won’t want to look after you if you act like a bunch of orangutans.”
I wonder if three kids will be too much. Even though I’m tall and in grade eight, I’m not thirteen until November because I skipped grade two. But four hours at fifty cents an hour — two dollars a week — is a gold mine. I think again of new shoes and a bus ticket to Penticton.
“As I told you on the phone, I work Saturdays from one to five at the five-to-a-dollar store. My sitter left a few weeks back. Her own mother needed more looking after so she had to quit. I’ve been trying to find a permanent sitter ever since.”
I glance around as Mrs. Quinn speaks. Games and books and blankets are strewn over the floor and a small black-and-white TV sits in the corner. The girls stop jumping.
