A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles Page B

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.”
    â€œYeah, me too. I almost fall asleep.” Lizzie joins us in her yellow cotton nightie.
    â€œGo put on your dressing gown, love.” Lizzie screws up her face but disappears back into the bedroom.
    â€œSometimes 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?”
    â€œYou got that stuff too?”
    â€œSure 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.
    â€œMaybe they don’t think gold rushes and Indians and building railroads are as important as kings and queens and wars.”
    â€œTrue, 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.”
    â€œAnyway, why should history be about wars? Why not about people and what they did to get along with each other?”
    â€œNow 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.”
    â€¢ • •
    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.
    â€œYou 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?
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œFor a long time I chose to ignore what happened. The polio. Her dying. I thought I did something wrong to bring the