A Drop of Rain Read online

  There is a photograph that I can hardly bear to look at. It was taken after I started to work at the college, study for the Master’s degree, and go out with Joe. In Hanna’s eyes, there is terrible grief and exhaustion.

  The mental illness grew slowly. There were little signs of it for several years.

  She began to claim that people were following her.

  She also claimed that, when she was attending a community college in Montreal, someone poured chemicals on her from above. She claimed that, when she was getting off a bus, someone jabbed her with a needle. “Maybe the needle had AIDS in it,” she said.

  The person sitting beside me on the bus to Montreal was a spy, she claimed, even though she herself had not been on the bus. The police were out to get her, she claimed, so they would try to get me. The police got a young friend of hers at the college, she claimed, because the young friend tried to help her.

  At the time, I thought her claims were nonsensical. I thought they were symptoms of illness.

  “This is paranoia,” I said to Hanna. “These suspicions are crazy. This is not Nazi Germany. This is not Stalinist Poland. This is modern Canada. You worry too much. You are not eating right. You are identifying with your mother. You should see a doctor.”

  She would not talk in her apartment. This was not new. This was a holdover from the past in Poland, when the apartment could be “bugged” with listening devices. When we went outside, and she did begin to talk, the words became crazier and crazier.

  “There is a conspiracy,” she would say. “Multinational companies, drug companies. Capitalism is as bad as Nazism. I went to the hospital, and I saw that they just leave people in the hallways to die. I met my young friend there, my first adopted son. I kidnapped him from the hospital.”

  “The hospitals are overcrowded,” I would say. “That’s all. You need help. You need a doctor. You need a decent job. I found you a job near where I work, but you wouldn’t take it. Why?”

  “I don’t need help,” she would say. “I must stay here. I must stay with my people.”

  “Maybe you should go back to Poland,” I would say. “Maybe you would feel better there. Your difficulties in Canada are driving you mad. That horrible job sewing in the garment district—what happened? Did someone hurt you? Why won’t you talk about it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Nothing happened,” she said.

  “But after that you were never the same,” I said.

  “The job with the ‘artistic pictures’ was just as bad,” she said.

  “You didn’t tell me about that either,” I said. “You are always trying to protect me. You should have asked me what ‘artistic pictures’ means here. How could you know they were making pornographic calendars?”

  “Nothing happened. I left as soon as I saw what they were doing.”

  “Something happened! Something is wrong with you! This has come from the past. This is not Canada today. You need help. Let me get help for you.”

  “The doctors are in it too. You can’t trust them. I can’t leave my people. I belong here. I belong among the poorest of the poor. Young people here have no hope for a decent future. I have seen the suicide statistics for young people.”

  “We are in a new society. Canada is very different from Poland. We can’t judge what is happening here. We just need to concentrate on ourselves, on putting down roots.”

  “I am staying here in Montreal. In the poorest district. These are my people. The poorest French Canadians are my people. The young, the unemployed, the sick are my people. Maybe I can do something here.”

  Finally, I went to my own doctor in Mapleville to get advice about Hanna. My doctor is an English Canadian. He is one of these typical doctors who is finished with you in two minutes, because he’s processing one hundred patients a day. I made an appointment for myself for a complete checkup, so I’d have a whole ten minutes. I spent my time describing Hanna’s symptoms.

  “It is very difficult for me to judge your sister’s condition without examining her,” my doctor commented. “Then too there are cultural differences. My initial impression is that she has some sort of Christ complex, but don’t quote me on that. I mean, she thinks she has to behave like Christ. Anyway, here in Canada it is difficult to commit a person to a psychiatric hospital without his or her consent. The only way one can do this is by proving that the person is going to harm himself or someone else. And that ‘harm’ has to be serious . . . like suicide or murder. Has your sister attempted suicide? Don’t forget that you need irrefutable proof, such as evidence from a police officer or social worker. Can you take a policeman with you next time you visit her?”

  I couldn’t take a policeman, of course, because Hanna was so paranoid about the Quebec police. And my French wasn’t good enough that I could seek a social worker in Montreal.

  Now I wonder whether Hanna had objective reasons to be paranoid about the police. Tonight I found the following note among the boxes:

  Thursday, May 3 about eleven o’clock in the evening, in front of the door of Apartment _______ in building ______ on ________ Street (near the corner of ______ Street and _______ Avenue), I was witness to a scene of police brutality (five big policemen against one person outstretched on the floor, feet tied).

  This bleeding person (there were spots of blood in the corridor), was rolled up to his hair in a blanket, was deposited like a package on the edge of the sidewalk before being placed in police car no. ________.

  At least six people besides me were present in the corridor of the third floor during the event.

  I should like to have contact with the person arrested, his lawyer and a woman who happened to be in front of Apartment ______ at the moment described above.

  I believe that I perhaps know the arrested person and could give testimony in his favour.

  Joe

  Eva was crying on the phone this evening about her sister wanting to die. Eva seems so strong, then she suddenly breaks down. All I could do was listen.

  Gave Jill one thousand dollars—the last of the money earned by driving trucks all summer. And the academic year has barely started! I suggested to Jill that I should have some say in where she spends the money I give her, but of course she told me to “F--- off.”

  I can’t stand that woman’s vulgarity. How did I get involved? Forty-year-old, bald guy with no self confidence due to failed first marriage meets scheming female. That’s how.

  Eva is so selfless. I suppose she gets that from her role model, Hanna. Eva spends the minimum on herself. Naomi is such a contrast.

  I lusted after gorgeous alto cumulus clouds this morning while walking to work.

  Week Five

  Naomi

  Monday, October 11, 1999

  “Grey on grey!” That is what I said to myself when I first saw Mary. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey face. Her entire body beamed, “Unhappy! Unhappy! Unhappy!” She was like a lighthouse in the rain. But she was also stylish and graceful. Now I know that she makes her own clothes, and that she did gymnastics when she was young. She was even supposed to be in the Olympics when she was my age, but she got sick and couldn’t. Even though she is poor, she is always well dressed and attractive.

  Mary talked to me nonstop from the minute I started working with her. Even though I know some Polish words from listening to Mom and Hanna, I found Mary hard to understand at first. One day, for example, Mary talked on and on about some guy called “Pop-yeh-woosh-ko”. He was a Polish priest who was murdered. Mary’s English was so bad that I thought this was something that happened during World War II. But later, when I asked Mom if she knew about “Pop-yeh-woosh-ko”, Mom explained that he was murdered only about fifteen years ago, in 1984, during the Solidarity Uprising.

  Mom said I should already know about the Polish Solidarity movement, because my father was involved in it. (Thanks, Mom. I did know this about my father.) Mom also said, “Pop-yeh-woosh-ko” is spelled Popieluszko. There’s a slanted stroke through the L which makes it
pronounced like an English W.

  Mary doesn’t talk about politics much. She says she “hates” politics because it is only about “who is going to sit on the chair.” Mostly she talks about her life in Poland and Canada. About her parents and brother and sisters. About her kids. About being a doctor.

  While Mary talks, she also works. She’s a perfectionist, and she thinks the Rec Plex should be as clean as a hospital. She makes sure I’m doing everything right. She tells me to check that the buckets, mops and rags are clean before I start and after I finish. She shows me how to hose the shower area, how to use the institutional washer and dryer, and so on.

  My second day at work, when Mary covered for me because I was feeling sick, I realized that she is very kind. She is going to teach me how to sew fashionable clothes. And she doesn’t just talk. She listens too. She must have been a good doctor and mother. She has three kids back in Poland. I think she already suspects I am depressed about the situation at home. Of course, I am also depressed because Curtis is ignoring me. Plus Sarah ignores me after school now too. Sarah has a new boyfriend who plays football and goes to the college.

  It’s not that I don’t love Hanna. I do, even though she’s definitely weird. I know she’s always been there for Mom and me, even though I haven’t seen her for the past four years. Hanna is sort of like a nun. She doesn’t care about worldly things like clothes. Yet Hanna often disagrees with the Catholic Church. I guess Hanna is so intellectual that I can’t understand her. I am not stupid, but I think reality is more important than ideas.

  Anyway, for the past few years, Mom has been very worried about Hanna. Mom has been so obsessed about Hanna’s strange behaviour, that she has been phoning her all the time, and going to Montreal to visit her, even when she had other things to do. Like work. And school. And take care of me. Mom kept saying: “Hanna is going to drown herself in the St. Lawrence River some day!”

  Mom never neglected me or anything, but she stopped seeing our life objectively.

  Since I got back at the beginning of September to Mapleville, life at our house has revolved around Hanna. I guess that’s natural when someone is so sick, but it is depressing. Hanna doesn’t make any demands. She says we don’t have to visit her. She says she is content to lie in her room alone. But we can’t forget about her. How can we? If you knew there was a wild animal under your porch suffering and dying, could you forget about it? And what if it was not a wild animal, but a pet you had loved for a long time?

  Is life worth living? Good question. I wish I knew.

  I like Mary because she is funny and fun. Sarah has these same qualities. But Sarah is different from Mary, because she is tall and beautiful, young and inexperienced. Also, Sarah is not interested in helping other people, while Mary is. Sarah is spoiled. Sarah thinks she will always get exactly what she wants. She’s not snobbish, however, and I know she likes me. We always hang around together in school, even though I can’t really talk to her, and even though she disappears after school. She says she “admires” me for getting a job to make my own money.

  We had our Thanksgiving dinner tonight after I finished work. Joe ate at our house, because his boys are with their mother. Then he and Mom went over to his house to watch videos.

  Mrs. Henderson, I’m very flattered that you like “The Blind Man’s Song” so much. I will try setting it to music, like you suggested. You’re the first teacher who has said I have writing talent. I guess I get that from my father’s side of the family, although Mom says that her father also used to write poetry when he was young, and she did too.

  I’m doing a big history project about Poland. I’m planning to send a copy of it to my father to impress him, so he’ll invite me to come and see him. Mr. Dunlop said it doesn’t matter that I don’t have access to the Internet at home. He says the Internet is an unreliable source for research anyway, and he wants us to be able to use “primary and print” resources efficiently too.

  Mom knows all about high tech stuff, but her own computer is fifteen years old. Mom says that she can’t afford upgrades or Internet charges. She uses the college computers a lot.

  I can do my history project easily by interviewing Mary. Mary talks frequently about Poland during the war and communism.

  Here is what a Polish history book says about the beginning of World War II. The English version of this book is titled History of Poland. It was written by A. Gieysztor, and others, and published in Warsaw in 1979. It says: “The German attack on Poland began at dawn on September 1, 1939. Within a few weeks the Polish army, in spite of its heroic struggle, was defeated.” The Polish nation experienced frightful “oppression and destruction” for almost six years under Nazi occupation.

  Here is what the History of Poland says about how Polish people behaved during World War II: “There were no traitors in Poland during the Second World War. The Poles unanimously rejected Hitler’s ultimatum of total destruction for their people and their country and were the first in Europe to offer him armed resistance. . . . The people tried to survive and despite everything dealt the enemy many a painful blow.”

  Joe came in last night when he brought Mom home. When I told him about the big history project I’m doing, he said he had the perfect title: “The Decline and Fall of the Soviet Empire, Or My Weird Life.” I always feel like Joe is teasing me.

  Curtis

  I showed Mr. Speers, my old art teacher, my drawing of the woodpecker: “The Fallen Bird”. He said I should definitely apply for art college. He said I have the talent to be any kind of artist I want. I could go into fine art or commercial art.

  This morning at breakfast, when I told Mom what Mr. Speers said, she got all quiet. I could tell she’s still worried that I’ll turn out like Dad.

  “Don’t get your hopes up for art college unless you plan on paying for it yourself or getting into debt with loans,” she said finally, instead of saying what she was really thinking.

  “Dad has never missed a support payment, except when he was bankrupt,” I reminded her. “Dad told me that he will back me financially on whatever I decide to do. Once his business is going well, he will help me through art school.”

  Mom didn’t say anything more, but she frowned. Luckily, she had to go to work, and I had to go to school. Otherwise we might have started arguing again.

  After school I biked over to the pond behind the old power plant. The pond is full of garbage, but mallard ducks and Canada geese still flock there. So do trumpeter swans from the Wendake Wildlife Centre.

  No sign of Steve. (Thumbs up.) No sign of She Wolf. (Thumbs down.)

  Mom says I can’t take her car for a weekend sketching trip to Point Pelee Park. The car supposedly needs repairs. Not true. She’s just overly protective. Of me, not the car.

  Meanwhile, I’m going to take a bus to Toronto to see some art galleries, like Mr. Speers suggested.

  Mary

  Miracles

  One day during the war, as I am walking along the road, I hear the air raid sirens. I jump into the ditch, lie down, close my eyes and wait for the whines. The enemy airplanes fly in Vs like geese. Usually three planes, called “Stukas”, fly together. As the Stukas swoop down, you hear a whine. As the bombs fall, you hear a whistle. As the bombs explode—boom!

  But before I hear a whine, a voice inside my head says, “Not here!” So I jump out of the ditch, run into the field and throw myself down on the black earth. Just in time. Whine, whistle boom. Whine, whistle, boom. Whine, whistle, boom. Boom, boom, boom.

  One bomb drops right where I had lain in the ditch! Boom! Dirt showers me like dry rain. There’s a great big hole over there, but I am safe.

  Another day, my brother gets into serious trouble. It’s evening after dark, and Johnny is playing with matches near the forest on the bridge near our house. With a much older boy who should know better, Johnny lights match after match. The two boys drop the burning matches into the stream.

  After my brother comes home, and we are getting ready for b
ed, Nazi soldiers burst into our house. They point their guns at us. Their leader orders us to stand against the wall.

  “You are hiding Polish soldiers!” the leader says, pointing his gun at Mommy.

  “No, we’re not,” says Mommy.

  “We don’t believe you,” says the leader. “We saw their lights at the bridge near your house. They were signalling. We saw them.”

  “Honestly,” says Mommy, standing against the wall with her hands in the air. “We are not hiding partisans. You can see for yourself.”

  The soldiers keep pointing their guns at us. Elizabeth and I start crying. Johnny remains silent and still, staring at the soldiers.

  Then, for some reason, the soldiers decide that they believe Mommy, and they go away without even searching our house.

  After they leave, my brother starts to giggle. Then he explains that it was he and his friend, not Polish soldiers, who had been lighting matches near the bridge.

  Grandpa takes his belt out of his pants. He whips my brother hard! My brother nearly got us all killed!

  Then, one day, we are really hungry. A bomb hit our potato field, and Nazi soldiers stole all our other food too. That day more Nazi soldiers come by, driving a herd of cows.

  Grandpa knew the soldiers and cows were coming. A neighbour told him. Grandpa hobbled around as fast as he could, getting ready. Then he asked Mommy, Elizabeth, and Johnny to stay out of sight at the neighbours.

  Grandpa leans on our gate as those enemy soldiers approach. He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a small bottle, and uncorks it just as the soldiers go by with the herd of cows. He seems to take a drink from the bottle. I wonder what he’s doing, because he’s never done this before. Anyway, I can see his throat isn’t moving, so he’s only pretending to drink.