A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles Page B

sad but we handle it in different ways. That includes your sisters. Maybe you just have to tell your dad that you need to talk to him, about school and about your mother. I can certainly mention to him about your clothes and shoes. Lots of times men don’t understand the importance of clothes for girls.” Aunt Mary untangles my arms and turns back to the counter. “But I’ve got to get a move on and make this soup. Which do you want to do — chop the beets or the onions?” She pulls out the under-the-counter cutting board and hands me a knife. You like beet soup don’t you? And apple crumble? Lizzie and I brought as many apples from our tree as we could fit into our suitcases.” Aunt Mary gives me a broad smile and an unexpected hug. Actually, the hugs are all somewhat unexpected because our family is not usually the huggiest in the world. I wish we were. I can never get too many hugs.
    â€œYes and yes. I like them both. And I’ll chop the beets — the onions will make me cry.” I curl up my mouth in a half grin. “And I don’t need any more help with that than I already have.”
    â€œSpeaking of Lizzie, look what the cat dragged in.”
    â€¢ • •
    That evening Lizzie and I run next door — well Lizzie doesn’t run, it’s more of a go-next-door slowly — and check out Fluffy/Carmody to see if she is still kitten-less. She is. While we hand her back and forth, stroke her and listen to the responding purr, we chatter about Penticton and school and Jenny and Vicki and homework until it gets late. Then we curl up in the twin beds in the basement and play our usual word game. One person whispers a word, the other a word it reminds them of, going back and forth until we either fall asleep or burst out laughing at the silliness. But tonight it neither sends us to sleep nor into gales of laughter.
    â€œHow are you really?” It’s Lizzie who breaks the silence.
    â€œReally really?”
    â€œYes, really really.”
    â€œAbout school, you mean?”
    â€œWell, maybe. I also mean about Aunt Rita.”
    â€œI don’t know. I thought moving here would be easier. The kids in Penticton all treated me like I had some sort of disease. Mother-dying disease, I guess. Like they’d catch it. No one asked what it was like for me. The only person who really said anything was Marion Carmichael. She cried at Mum’s funeral and kept saying, ‘I’m soooo sorry,’ over and over. I yelled at her. ‘It was my mum who died not yours. So why are you crying?’ I guess that wasn’t very nice.”
    â€œIt’s hard to know what to say.”
    â€œYeah.” Like at the Quinns’ , I think.
    â€œAnd we don’t want the same thing to happen to our mothers.”
    â€œSometimes at night I can’t even see her face any more. Oh, Lizzie! I’m scared I’ll forget her.”
    There’s silence in the room except for the tick of the alarm clock and creak of floor boards above.

9

    Friday after school I trudge down Lonsdale Avenue with Dolores and Trudy. Half the time I stare at the others’ feet as they skip around puddles and I wonder why I’m here. Lizzie and Aunt Mary went back this morning and I’m already looking forward to their return.
    The air is heavy with moisture, but it’s not raining any more. The first time in days. I draw to the side to avoid the splash of grimy water from passing cars. Boys eye Dolores as we pass. She dips her head and flaps her eyelids a little faster than usual.
    In the café, Trudy and Dolores plunk their coats and books in the booth and shove in facing each other. I stand there feeling foolish. “Oh yeah, you’re here.” Dolores gets up. I scrunch in next to the wet coats. “We’re getting a Coke and jelly donut,” says Dolores. “You too?”
    â€œJust an Orange Crush.”
    â€œNo donut? Getting too