A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles Page A

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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€¢ • •
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.
    â€¢ • •
    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.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œWhich one’s your suitcase, Lizzie?” I ask. Uncle Robert points and I grab the red one.
    â€¢ • •
    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.
    â€¢ • •
    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.
    â€œAah, 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.
    â€œGood 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?”
    â€œWell, The Wizard of Oz is good. But the rest is about the same. In Social Studies I sit near the