A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles

porch.
    â€œLook, Nora, those dangly bits have fallen off.”
    â€œYah, they did last week.”
    â€œWhat’re they for.”
    â€œThey’re called umbilical cords. The babies are attached to their mother that way inside her stomach. You were too.” Stella’s eyes open.
    â€œHow do you know this stuff?”
    â€œBecause 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.
    â€¢ • •
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

14

    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.