A Drop of Rain

a drop
of rain

Heather Kirk

Text © 2004 Heather Kirk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover art: June Lawrason

Napoleon Publishing acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for our publishing programme.

08 07 06 05 04           5 4 3 2 1

Kirk, Heather, date-

A drop of rain / Heather Kirk.

ISBN 1-894917-10-3

I. Title.

For Wanda

Human life is not just an abstraction; human life is the concrete reality of a being that lives, that acts, that grows and develops; human life is the concrete reality of a being that is capable of love, and of service to humanity.

-Pope John Paul II

Saturday, September 11, 1999

Do I Have AIDS?

Don't worry, Mrs. Henderson, I probably don't. But I
might
. I'd better explain.

My mother's older sister, Hanna, “adopted” two young men who had AIDS. Aunt Hanna took care of these men as they were dying. Now Hanna is dying too, and she is staying at our house. She has no one else to take care of her.

Hanna has cancer. But she thinks she might have AIDS too, and the test results are not back yet. My mother and the head nurse told me I won't get AIDS from living in the same house as Hanna, as long as everyone is careful. But how careful is careful? I saw the head nurse's report today. It says the nurses have to use “universal precautions” with Hanna.

If the nurses have to wear gloves, maybe Mom and I should too.

I am very angry with Hanna. Why did she get into so
much trouble? Aren't adults supposed to know better? Hanna has ruined my life. And I don't just mean that she might have given me AIDS. I have other problems too, but I don't feel like writing about them now.

Seven minutes down and fifty-three to go. Have to keep writing for “at least one hour”, you said. “One thousand words minimum. Once a week. Until the eve of the new millenium. A time capsule. Automatic writing. Let your thoughts flow. Get in touch with your feelings. One half of your final mark.”

I guess I can do this. My mother has started a journal too. A nurse said that she could do this to “help her sort out her feelings”. Is that the same as “getting in touch”? Mom is depressed because Hanna is dying.

What am I going to write about?

You said to introduce ourselves, so here goes.

Mom says I was named after a girl in a poem by Mr. Irving Layton, a famous Canadian poet. The poem is called “Song for Naomi.” Mr. Layton wrote it for his daughter. A copy of it is framed and hanging in the room where I am right now. When I was born, Mom was at university. She was taking an English course, as well as engineering courses.

I read in a magazine recently that Mr. Layton didn't care about his kids, only about his great career. That's
what his son David said. So I guess the poem was hypocritical.

Sometimes I think my mother thinks more about her career than about me. Every summer for the past four years, I have gone to Grandma's house. I did this so Mom could live cheaply and study quietly. (She was taking her Master's degree.) I like going to Grandma's, but I don't like getting out of the way. I disappear not only so Mom can study, but also so she can spend time with Joe and Aunt Hanna.

Joe Dekkers is my mother's “manfriend”, My mother is divorced from my father, whose name is Mark Janasiewicz. Mom left Dad before I was born. I have never met Dad. He lives in another country, and my parents can't afford to send me to visit him. Dad is a successful translator. But in his country, Poland, being successful doesn't mean you make much money.

Mrs. Henderson, you asked us to tell you about our greatest desire in life. Mine is to to be comfortable with myself. Happy with myself. I have no other goals. This bothers my mother. My second greatest desire is to meet my father. This also bothers my mother. In our family, we have a history of never seeing our fathers.

“What happened exactly 60 years ago, on September 10, 1939?” asked Mr. Dunlop yesterday in history class. Then he paused dramatically.

The pause got longer and longer.

Nobody could answer the question.

“Canada entered the Second World War,” Mr. Dunlop said.

Nobody looked interested.

“I am shocked that none of you knew that,” Mr. Dunlop went on. “Most of you have at least one grandfather or great uncle who fought in that war.”

Then, for homework, he told us to interview a relative who has memories of the war.

I explained to Mr. Dunlop that the only older relative I have handy is my Aunt Hanna, who was just a little kid in Poland during the war. He said I should interview her anyway. I said I would do this. I did not tell him that I am not looking forward to the experience.

Mrs. Henderson, I hope you are not shocked by what I just wrote. I am only being honest. I have good reasons to be angry with Aunt Hanna. Furthermore, history seems like a boring subject to me. I prefer real life right now.

Clear blue Alberta sky and bright yellow summer sun. Turquoise water of the swimming pool. Grandma's backyard seems like a resort with a pool, deck chairs, tables and wide umbrellas for shade. There is even a bar for fancy drinks, such as “Pink Lady”, and “Shirley Temple”, and “Screwdriver”.

Mom would be furious if she knew George invited me to drink alchohol sometimes, when Grandma wasn't around. Mom and Hanna don't drink at all, and neither does Joe. As for me, I don't like the taste
of liquor, so I don't touch the stuff, even when I'm invited to.

George definitely drinks too much, like Mom says. But I don't think Grandma takes too many pills, like Mom also says. Maybe she used to when Mom was my age, but she doesn't any more. Grandma says she's more confident than she used to be. I love Grandma. We see many things the same way.