A Drop of Rain (2 page)

Grandma only takes one drink before dinner. But George is really an alcoholic. He's not a wino on the street. He's rich and respectable, but he still has a drinking problem.

“He's been so depressed since Wayne Gretzky retired last winter,” Grandma says.

“Maybe he's just bored with having nothing to do except golf,” I say.

Grandma Whitehead (also known as “Maggy” or Magda) is in her fifties. George Whitehead (my step-grandfather) is in his sixties. George is a retired executive. All summer, he golfs around Edmonton. All winter, when he and Grandma go to Arizona or Hawaii, he golfs around those places.

They have “a nice life”, Grandma says. “The Good Life”, George says.

They bar-b-q pork, bar-b-q chicken, bar-b-q beef.

Mom says they eat too much meat.

I am diving, swimming, floating. I am lying on a beach towel and smelling the meat and listening to the music.

George listens to incredibly old singers like Pat Boone, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

I listen to rap and heavy metal sometimes, and Puff
Daddy, Jay-Z, and Korn. But my favourite singer is Jann Arden. She has a soft voice and nice lyrics.

At Grandma's, I listen to the CDs that Grandma gives me the money to buy. My favourite CD right now is
Happy?
by Jann Arden. My favourite song on it is “Hangin' by a Thread”. Jann is from Alberta. She makes up her own songs.

At Grandma's, I also watch
TV
shows like
Felicity, Friends, Dawson's Creek
and
South Park
. And John Candy movies.

At home, Mom and I don't have a CD player or
TV
, only an upright piano. That's why I catch up with normal stuff at Grandma's.

At Grandma's, I also go shopping for clothes. At home, Mom never lets me spend much money on stylish clothes. They have to be practical for school.

On the flight back to Toronto from Edmonton last week, I started humming Rita MacNeil's “Flyin' on Your Own”. My mother likes this song, so when I think about her, I think about the song. Sitting beside me was an appealing guy. He looked a few years older than me. He was thin but muscular. He had sand-coloured, wavy hair and deep-blue eyes. The expression in his eyes was the loneliest I have ever seen. He was looking at the pictures of birds in a book called
John James Audubon: Writings and Drawings
. But he also kept glancing intensely at me.

“Sorry about the noise,” I say to the guy.

“That's okay. I do solo vocals too,” the guy says.

“You like music too? Wow! That's great!” I gush.
“My father had his own band when he was my age, and I've always wished I could too.”

“Actually, I do bird calls,” he says. “My father gave me some tapes of bird songs, and I'm learning how to imitate different species.”

“I saw your address on your hand luggage,” I say. “I live in Mapleville too. We probably go to the same school.”

“I don't think I've seen you before,” he says.

“Mom and I moved from the west end of town last June,” I explain. “Mom bought a house near East Collegiate, so I could walk to high school, and she could walk to work. She teaches at the college. I don't know anybody who goes to East. Do you always read such huge books?”

“No,” says the guy. “This was a present from my father too. I like drawing birds and other wildlife, so Dad thought I'd like this new book. And actually I do. Audubon was a famous bird painter in the States.”

The guy's name is Curtis Brown. He's three years older than me. We talked for the whole flight. Or rather, I talked, and he listened. When we separated at the airport, he said he'd call me, but so far he hasn't. It's only been a week since we met, but already I am worried that maybe he won't call. I have never had a boyfriend before, and I think it's time I did. More importantly, I really like Curtis. He is unique.

Woo-oo! Mysterious and lovely She Wolf sighted. Small. Feminine. Black, watchful eyes. Black, glossy hair.

What would she think if I told her about Dad? Would she tell other kids at school? Getting funny looks because I'm a bird watcher is bad enough. Forget the girl! Forget school! Just think about drawing.

Bye, Girl. Hi, Owl.

Hoo! Hoo!

Blink. Blink.

Eyes like orbs from outer space open into darkness. Golden and luminous.

Well hello there, my stuffed friend. How shall I draw thee? Let me count the ways. Let me count the feathers. Hundreds of bee-yoo-ti-ful feathers. One thin line, then another, then another. And then I'm gone. Into the golden eyes. Into the artwork.

I was looking at the drawing I did of a female downy woodpecker last summer, before I went to Dad's. I ran up to the bird just after it hit the picture window of our house. I watched the life fade from its eyes. I felt the body grow cold.

That was my best drawing yet. Naturally, Steve thought I was a wimp for spending hours doing it.

As I buried the bird, I got the strange idea that it had brought me a message.

What message?

I felt like the man who woke up one morning and found that he had become an insect. The man was in Franz Kafka's famous story,
The Metamorphosis
.

I found Hanna lying almost paralyzed in that little rented room in Montreal. I took her to the nearest
hospital. The doctor said she had breast cancer that had spread to her spine. He showed me how her breast was becoming like a bleeding heart emerging from her chest. I began to scream silently. I was a huge, Kafkaesque insect, upside down, screaming silently.

After I boarded the bus to return home, I turned to the window, closed my eyes and silently screamed and screamed. The bus ride was about seven hours. For the first few hours, I was oblivious to my surroundings. I had no idea who was sitting beside me. Someone was beside me, however, because there was a persistant nudging. Nudge, nudge, nudge.

I continued to scream silently in the silence. I felt as though I were at the end of the Earth, in some far-off place too strange even for strangers. The nudging persisted. Eventually, I uncurled and straightened up. I was still at the end of the Earth. I was a huge insect, upside down at the end of the Earth, screaming silently.

A big old black woman was sitting beside me. It was she who had been nudging. That's who dwells at the end of the Earth, I found—an old woman in a bright, flowery dress and a pink Sunday hat.

She began talking, this woman. I could barely understand her, because her Jamaican accent was so thick. I can't remember what she said. Maybe she said: “Tell me what is wrong, child.”

I said something. I don't know what. I can't remember. Maybe I said: “My sister is dying and she didn't tell me.” Maybe I said: “My sister is like a mother to me.”

We talked and talked for the rest of the trip. I don't remember what I said. She said she was working as a
cook, and now she was going to her niece's wedding in Toronto.

I don't know what else she said. Maybe she told me some of her own problems. How else could she have been so comforting? I only know that the talk seemed to carry me along. It was that old woman who carried me home, not the bus.

I returned home to Mapleville, only to go back again to Montreal as soon as possible. This time I took Joe's truck, so I could fetch Hanna and her few possessions, mostly papers.

In the months since then, I have tried to understand what happened to Hanna. Sometimes I weep, sometimes I am angry, and sometimes I want to run away. I open Hanna's boxes randomly and read the papers I find. Scribbled notes mostly. And various documents.

Hanna can't or won't talk about her experiences.

I didn't talk to the old woman again. I never saw her again after we said goodbye at the bus station. Rather, I talked to the nurses and my partner, Joe. I couldn't talk to Naomi. She was visiting her grandmother in Edmonton all summer. I didn't want to say anything on the telephone or in a letter. I didn't want to burden her. Naomi is too young.

Thank God for Joe! He is so solid, so kind, so patient, so strong. Never intrusive. Amazingly intuitive. I long to lie in his arms again.

What a balancing act Joe has to do! His ex-wife, who has custody of his sons, lives a few blocks away from him in one direction. His ex-wife supposedly loathes him, but nevertheless continues to expect his help in raising their sons. I live a block away from Joe in the opposite
direction. I depend on him for emotional support.

Joe tells me not to be so obsessed with Hanna. How can I not be obsessed with Hanna? She is completely helpless now. Can't walk alone. Can't go to the toilet alone. She is in constant pain. She awakens in the night with pain. She is pale, gaunt and frail. Starved.

The nurse says that Hanna has been suffering from malnutrition for a long time.

Eva's daughter is back, but meanwhile Eva is overwhelmed with caring for her sister. She should get more help. Naomi probably won't help much.

I'm back to the bachelor's lonely life. To the thwarted photographer's frustrated life.

The noctilucent cloud pictures I got with the old Pentax outside Winnipeg are pretty good. Eva thinks I might get a decent mercury barometer and weather vane from an antique dealer. I phoned the local dealers this afternoon, but had no luck.

I'll have to phone the Toronto dealers. But when will I get time to go to Toronto?

Jerry and Jeff start school this week too, of course, so now I will see them only on weekends. Maybe it's a good thing that I have to go back to teaching. I'll be too busy to mind the quiet around here.

Glad I gave up the extra union work. Class preparation, plus marking, plus all the departmental meetings are enough.

Have started T'ai Chi. John Van der Velden says it's great for improving flexibility and concentration.
Weekend street hockey with Jerry and Jeff won't be enough exercise.

John Van der V. has incredible photographic equipment. All new. Of course, he does not have kids!

Eva, you are a goddess in the moonlight. When shall we two meet again? I await your weather reports.

Saturday, September 18, 1999

I return from my perfect holidays. I discover that I have to sleep in this tiny, windowless room. The room is located behind the furnace, in a corner of our ugly, unfinished basement. The room was built this summer by Joe. My real bedroom is upstairs. It is near our bathroom and front door. That is why Hanna is lying in a hospital bed in my room.

Joe and Mom don't say anything about this change while we are driving along the highway from the Toronto airport. They only say there will be a “bit of a surprise”. I don't ask if this will be a nice surprise, because I sense something is wrong. Mom is sad and quiet. Anyway, I don't usually talk much when Joe is around.

I answer Mom's questions about my holiday with single words like “Great!” and Fine!” Then I settle into polite silence until we get home, and until my mother and I are alone.

My mother is usually a strong woman who does
not depend on Joe, a sociology and psychology teacher at the college. Mom doesn't look like me at all. She is tall and chubby, and she dresses conservatively and practically. She wears suits and plain blouses that mix and match to make the perfect engineer-teacher's wardrobe. She is proud of her status as teaching staff in the Engineering Technology Department at the college. This high status is compatible with her basic self-image. Thus, she avoids frivolities like pink nail polish, frills like ruffles, and clutter like costume jewellery. These are the same frivolities, frills and clutter that Grandma and I consider absolutely necessary.

Anyway, I find out what the surprise is when, unsuspectingly, I walk in the front door, turn right in the front hall, enter my room, and see . . .

White, thin face. Long, greying, brown hair. Loose hair, foaming all over the pillow. Metal bars on sides of high hospital bed. Whole table by window filled with medical equipment like bed pan, surgical gauze, white tape, scissors, ointments, disinfectants. The only non-medical thing on the table is a green, potted, jade plant that used to be in the living room. It stretches toward the window for more light.

“Hanna?” I ask stupidly.

“Hello,” she says. And love pours out at me from her greyish-blue eyes. I don't remember her eyes being so grey before. Can eyes get grey when you are sick?

“Hello,” I say. I don't go and kiss her like I used to when I was a little kid. I just sort of smile wanly, wave and glide back into the front hall. Then I stare at Mom, who stares at me. Then Joe finishes bringing in
all my suitcases. (Grandma bought me two more suitcases to hold my new clothes.) Joe nods at me, kisses Mom on the cheek and leaves.

Mom puts her finger to her lips to tell me not to say anything. She shuts the front door quietly behind Joe. She says with this falsely cheerful voice: “Come and see the garden, darling. I have something to show you.” We go out to the back of our little back yard, where there are no vegetables or flowers, only weeds. But at least Hanna can't hear us, so we can talk freely.