A Drop of Rain Read online

  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

  Published by Napoleon Publishing

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  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.

  PS8571.I636D76 2004

  jC813'.6

  C2004-900010-1

  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

  1999

  Week One

  Naomi

  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.

  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.

  Curtis

  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?

  Eva

  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.

  Joe

  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 b
ack 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.

  Week Two

  Naomi

  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.