A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles Page A

reminds me of Mum. “How about a cup of tea? You like tea, don’t you, with lots of milk?”
    I tuck my feet up on the seat of the chair, fold my arms around my legs, and nod. I can’t help staring at Aunt Mary. It’s like looking at Mum. I never noticed before. They have the same dark hair, the same cute ski-jump noses, the same twinkly eyes. Hers are blue but Mum’s were brown. I feel my eyes well. Again.
    â€œOh, Aunt Mary, seeing you makes me miss Mum all the more.”
    She pours boiling water into the teapot. “It’s the same for me, Nora. You look just like your mum when she was your age.” My eyes widen, my head cocks to one side. “But it’s wonderful too. Because it’s a little bit like having Rita back. We were sisters but, don’t forget, we were also best friends.”
    I pour tea into my mug. Then into my aunt’s. “And you sound exactly like Mum.”
    â€œThe four of us girls, my sisters and I, we were close. I love Alice and Beth, but they’re older.” Mary pours milk into both mugs. “That okay?” She nods to my milky tea. “But Rita and I were less than two years apart. And because we were both tall and strong we got to do the picking in the orchard, not having brothers and all.” Aunt Mary sips her steamy tea, eyes smiling off into the distance. “Then we’d run all the way down the hill to the beach to swim, climb half the way up again, turn around, and go back down because we were already hot, laughing all the way. Meanwhile, Alice and Elisabeth were in the house helping mother with supper. I used to begrudge the time they got to be with her. It’s crazy because, despite the hard work of picking, I wouldn’t have wanted to be indoors all the time either.”
    Hearing about Mum when she was young, I feel my loneliness lift.
    â€œYou have that same long and lean body that she had, the same hair.” She pauses. “Is there something wrong with the tea?”
    â€œNo, no. It’s good.” I come back to the present, add more milk, and slurp. “But my hair isn’t like Mum’s. Hers was dark. Mine’s a mousy brown.”
    â€œHers was like that too at your age but became a deep chestnut colour later. She wore it long, in a French braid. Really lovely.”
    â€œCould you do my hair up like that tomorrow morning?”
    Aunt Mary empties her teacup. “How about tomorrow night we can have a girl session of doing each other’s hair. Maybe you can even practise the French braid on yourself.”
    I uncurl and give my aunt another hug. “I’m glad you’re here. Dad never talks to me about Mum or Penticton. Even what he’s doing. Sometimes I don’t think he knows I’m around.”
    Aunt Mary pushes me out of our hug, holds me by both shoulders, and looks me straight in the eye. “Don’t forget your dad misses Rita too.”
    â€œBut he talks to Dot and Janet.”
    â€œMaybe he thinks you’re too young — which you aren’t — or maybe you remind him too much of your mother. And some men don’t like to talk about feelings, you know. They think they have to be strong all the time — which is silly — and they think crying means they’re not — which is also silly.”
    â€œNo one even mentioned Mum on her birthday.”
    â€œOh, my dear. I thought of it but just imagined you people were having a special evening to yourselves.” Aunt Mary gives me another hug. A long, long squeeze. “I’m so sorry. I should have called.”
    â€œWhat did she die of?” I look up at her from our hug. I don’t want to let her go.
    â€œDidn’t you know? A type of cancer called leukemia.”
    â€œI’m sure they told me but things didn’t stick in my brain very well back then. It was so fast.” Ooops. Here come the tears again.
    â€œDon’t forget we’re all