by Lisa Grekul
“Go tell the priest. Please, Dad. Please. Tell him I’ve changed my mind.”
Dad puts his hands on my shoulders. “What would Sister Maria tell you right now? If she were here, what would she say to you? Would she let you quit?”
I don’t know. I shrug. I have no idea what she’d say.
“Come on, think!” says Dad. “Before a recital, before a festival. What would she say?”
I blow my nose into the red hanky. “Concentrate. She’d say concentrate and focus.”
“All right, then.” Dad grabs my hand as he makes his way toward the organ. There are special pews behind the organ for the organist, choir singers, and soloists. “I’m going to sit right here next to you. I’m going to be with you the whole time. And I’m going to concentrate with you. We’re going to concentrate together.”
But I can’t concentrate on Father Levasseur’s words, the prayers or the hymns. I stare out into the crowd, into the sea of faces I’ve never seen before. The women dab their eyes with tissue, the men sit up straight and stoic. When they stand, I stand; when they kneel, I kneel. At the front of the church, up near the priest, lies Sister Maria. Her casket is open – half of it, anyway; flowers cover the rest of the casket. Bright pink and white orchids, pink roses, and deep green tendrils of ivy. There are bouquets of carnations and daisies on either side of the casket, too, and, beside the organ, an enormous basket of stargazer lilies. I’m close enough to the lilies that I can taste them. Not close enough to see Sister Maria’s face. Not close enough to touch her.
From time to time while Father Levasseur talks, I watch the organist, Monique Delongchamps. I watch her for signs of nerves – shaky hands, missed chords, tempo problems – to see if she’s as scared as I am. She doesn’t make any mistakes. It’s amazing. Not a single mistake. I look closely at her legs working the pedals of the organ. Her knees don’t tremble. I look at her hands between songs; she doesn’t wipe them on her lap, so they must not be sweating. She has flawless control – a true performer, a real professional. Sister Maria would be proud of Monique, playing her way through the service without so much as a wrong note. Years ago, Sister Maria was her teacher. I have to say that now, too. In the past tense. Sister Maria was my teacher, I was her student.
While I watch Monique, I try to go through “Ave Maria” in my head. The first time through, I mess up the words. “Dominus tecum, gratia plena” instead of “gratia plena, dominus tecum.” On my second try, I think “Santa Maria,” then remember that it’s “Sancta Maria,” then forget what comes after “Sancta Maria.” It’s the word “Maria.” I can’t get past it. And the smell of the lilies on the casket – such a thick, sweet smell, like incense – it makes me want to throw up. Sister Maria wouldn’t have liked them; she would have liked smaller flowers, odourless flowers. Wildflowers, maybe. They hardly smell. Or bright red poppies.
It seems clear to me, after my third failed attempt to recite “Ave Maria” in my head, that I need the words written out in front of me. Usually I don’t sing with words in front of me. In fact, I don’t think that I’ve ever sung with words in front of me. There’s something unpolished, Mom says, about a singer who can’t even memorize her words. Now, as I sit waiting to sing, I don’t care if I look at words. I don’t care if I look unpolished. A wave of panic ripples through me. Having the words in front of me is the only thing that will get me through this, I’m sure of it. If only I’d thought of it sooner. If only I’d brought a copy of “Ave Maria” with me.
“Monique. Pssst. Monique!” I give Monique a poke. “Do you have an extra copy of ‘Ave Maria’ with you?”
Monique shakes her head.
“Is it okay if I look off your copy then? I need the words and I forgot mine at home.”
“My copy doesn’t have words,” says Monique.
She shows me the music she uses for “Ave Maria.” It’s the original Bach Prelude, photocopied from The Well-Tempered Clavier. And she’s right – no words.
“Here,” she says, handing me a pencil and a funeral program. “Quick! Write the words out on the back of this.”
For a moment, I’m relieved. I’ll write the words out, I’ll be fine. I’ll have something in front of me to focus on instead of the casket and the flowers and the pews filled with sniffling women. Then I try to write. I try to write but – besides “Ave” and “Maria” – I can’t remember a single word of the song. It’s crazy. I’ve known “Ave Maria” for years. I’ve practised it at least a hundred times, I know it inside and out. Backwards and forwards.
“Dad!” I tug on the sleeve of Dad’s suit jacket. “Dad! I can’t remember the words. What am I going to do?”
“Shhh,” says Dad. “Try to relax, take a deep breath. When you get up there to sing, the words will be there. Don’t worry. It’s just nerves.”
He puts his arm around me, pulling me close to his side.
“You’ll be fine.”
But when it’s time for me to sing – when I’m standing up, behind the microphone, beside the organ – I’m not fine. The lily smell makes me dizzy and I sway while Monique plays the introduction. She plays it just like we practised – two bars of arpeggios – and then she gives me the bass-note cue, just like we practised. I sway in silence, listening to my cue come and go. Monique plays the two-bar introduction again, this time looking at me while she plays, her eyebrows raised. After her third time through the introduction, I open my mouth, get the first words out – “Aaaaa-veeee Mariiiiiii-aaaa” – then nothing. I can’t remember the rest. Not one word of the rest of the song. While I stand, twisting the Kleenex in my hands, Monique keeps playing.
Finally, after ten or twelve bars, I motion for her to stop.
The organ music stops.
“I’m sorry,” I say into the microphone.
My voice fills the cathedral.
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember the words.”
Two hundred, three hundred faces turn to stare at me. There is whispering and the rustling of funeral programs. The nuns fidget in their pews. Father Levasseur, frowning, starts to get up from his chair at the very front of the church – to take over, I suppose. But I go on. I have to. I owe it to Sister Maria.
“I hope you understand.” This is really hard. I clear my throat. “I think that Sister Maria would understand.”
With the mention of Sister Maria’s name, the church falls still and silent. Everyone stops whispering, the nuns quietly clasp their hands together across their laps. Though Father Levasseur looks positively mortified, he sits down again. He glares at me as he returns to his seat.
“I’m going to try this one more time,” I say.
My voice trembles a little and my nose starts to drip. I stop to blow my nose into the red hanky, get a hold of myself. Pull myself together.
As I return to the microphone, an idea comes to me – why didn’t I think of it before? – and, with the idea, a feeling of calm. Utter calm. As though the crowd and the casket and the flowers have receded far into the distance, as though Father Levasseur has melted into the stained glass windows. I can almost feel Sister Maria behind me, nodding her encouragement; I can almost hear her voice. As if this is just another piano lesson, just another hour with her.
I say nothing by way of an introduction. The song needs no introduction, really. It’s sad and slow and solemn – the traditional Ukrainian funeral song, “Vichnaia Pam’iat.” Maybe the idea comes from her, maybe it’s what she wants – to have it sung for her. Though I’ve heard it a few times, I’ve never actually sung it myself. This is my first time. Monique can’t play along, of course, because she doesn’t know how.
It doesn’t sound right, one voice singing “Vichnaia Pam’iat.” Everyone should be singing – men and women, little kids – everyone. One voice. I go on but it just doesn’t sound right.
Dad must think the same thing – that it doesn’t sound right with one voice – because before long I hear him join in. I hear his voice, an octave lower than mine, strong and deep. I glance over
my shoulder. He is standing up with his hands clasped in front of him and his mouth open wide.
Then I see my mother rise and I see her lips moving, too. She sings softly at first, in perfect unison with Dad and me, then louder. We are the only three people in the cathedral who are standing and who are singing.
Together, we sing the words to the song – “vichnaia pam’iat” – the same words, over and over again. “Vichnaia pam’iat.” And because I’m not singing alone, it’s all right if I cry. When my voice falters and breaks, their voices fill the cathedral. “Vichnaia pam’iat, Vichnaia pam’iat.” In everlasting memory of Sister Maria.
In everlasting memory
In everlasting memory
In everlasting memory
Seven
“You must be Colleen!”At my scholarship interview, a girl meets me outside the doors of the office building in downtown Edmonton. She is Barbie Christianson, a recent alumnus of the Lester B. Pearson United World College of the Pacific near Victoria, British Columbia.
Before telling me about herself, Barbie locks my hand into a death grip, then pumps it with all her might. My fingers are tingling by the time she’s finished shaking my hand. She looks like a Barbie doll – tall, thin, tanned. No makeup, blonde hair swept off her forehead and pulled into a single braid down her back. Barbie’s never had a pimple in her life, I can tell. My face, on the other hand, is a whole other story. It broke out the day of Sister Maria’s funeral. I’ve got a constellation of pimples across my chin and the North Star on the tip of my nose.
“Coffee, decaf or regular. Tea, juice, water. Help yourself,” says Barbie, as she leads me into the office lounge.
There are doughnuts and muffins on a coffee table in the centre of the room; a fruit tray, too, plus a plate covered in tiny triangular sandwiches arranged in a circle with sprigs of parsley for garnish and radishes carved into the shape of roses. The sight of food makes me nauseous. Mom and Dad and I stopped at McDonald’s for lunch. I only ate half a Big Mac, but I hardly got it down before I threw it up again. The taste of vomit still lingers in my throat.
Since Sister Maria’s funeral, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve hardly been sleeping at all, in fact, and I haven’t had much of an appetite. For the past few days, at suppertime, I’ve been staying in my room. When Mom and Dad knock on my door, I tell them that I’m not hungry. Sophie and Wes take turns bringing me snacks – licorice allsorts, chocolate chip cookies. My favourite potato chips. I just don’t feel like eating. I lie on my bed – on my back, on my stomach, on my side – trying to find a comfortable position. Trying to avoid looking at the boxes of Sister Maria’s music stacked up against the wall in my room.
Dad picked up the boxes from the convent. All of Sister Maria’s books and her sheet music, her record collection, her cassette and video tapes. Stacks of manuscript paper covered in her handwriting. He offered to store the boxes in the garage for the time being – until I feel ready to go through it all. But I couldn’t bear the thought of Sister Maria’s music lying in some dusty corner of the garage any more than I can bear to look at it in my room.
I want to believe that Sister Maria is with me, that she is watching over me while I sit in the waiting room, getting ready for my interview. I want to believe that she’s cheering me on, giving me courage to get through this morning. On my own, I don’t feel very brave.
At the far end of the lounge, a couple and their daughter are seated around a tv set and a vcr. Barbie tells me that they’re watching the latest uwc promo video, shot at various locations around the world.
“That’s Vanessa,” says Barbie, pointing to the daughter. “She’s a candidate, just like you!” Barbie smiles a flawless Barbie smile.
Vanessa waves to me from across the room.
“Super person,” Barbie whispers. “And super parents. Just super. So supportive! Are your parents parking their car or something?”
I nod.
Mom and Dad dropped me off so that they could hit a few malls with Sophie and Wes while I do my interview. We’re meeting at the Eaton Centre in two hours.
Barbie joins Vanessa’s parents as they finish watching the promo video. Vanessa bounces over to me.
“I’m, like, so glad,” says Vanessa, “that someone else decided to wear pants! I was, like, so worried that I was, you know, under-dressed or something!”
Vanessa is wearing cream-coloured silk slacks with gold threads woven into the fabric. Her blouse is gold-coloured silk with gold buttons. All of her accessories are gold. There are gold sandals on her feet, a gold bracelet on her wrist, a thick gold chain around her neck, and gold teardrop earrings on her ears. My pants wrinkled on the car-ride from St. Paul. I’ve got a small dark stain on the collar of my shirt where I dropped a piece of lettuce covered in Big Mac sauce. I want to tell Vanessa that she is, like, so full of it.
To get away from Vanessa, I wander toward the coffee urn. She follows.
“Oh my God. I, like, so admire you for drinking coffee now. I’m so nervous. Coffee would, like, totally put me over the edge.”
I try to block out the sound of Vanessa’s voice. Her man-nerisms might rub off on me. I take my coffee to a chair in the corner – a good place, I think, to tune my guitar, run through the words of the song I’m going to sing. I’ve brought a lyric sheet with me so that there is no repeat of my performance at Sister Maria’s funeral.
Vanessa is about to plop herself into a chair next to mine when her name is called. She gives a little yelp, her parents dash across the room to embrace her.
Vanessa says, “Oh my God!”
In unison, her parents say, “This is it!”
They hug, they kiss. They hug again.
I try to concentrate on opening my guitar case. But Vanessa runs over to me, giving my shoulder a poke.
“Wish me luck!”
“You, like, totally don’t need luck. You’re going to be, like, so awesome.”
It’s too late. She’s already rubbed off on me.
I’m about to take my guitar out of its case when another girl enters the lounge – another candidate, another set of parents. The girl looks like she’s ready to attend a wedding – hair pinned up in a French twist, long green dress, spiky green heels. Her parents are dressed no differently. The father wears a double-breasted suit, dark grey with a royal blue tie and a puff of royal blue in his breast pocket; the mother wears a matching royal blue suit, short and sleek, with dark grey gloves and a dark grey hat. Maybe it’s a good thing that my parents didn’t come with me. They drove to Edmonton today in shorts and t-shirts. My dad hates suits. My mother doesn’t own a hat.
This girl’s name is Caroline Thompson. Barbie leads her across the room to introduce us.
“Another musician!” says Barbie.
Caroline has a violin case in her hand.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Barbie says, “so that you can talk music! And uwcs!”
Caroline looks down at my guitar sitting in its case. The body of the guitar is covered with stickers – cfcw radio, Kehiwin First Nations, Jesus is Lord. It used to belong to an Indian guy, a gospel singer from Bonnyville. Dad bought it for me years ago at an auction sale when I first started talking about playing the guitar. Mom said that we shouldn’t spend too much money, in case I changed my mind. Dad paid forty dollars for the Jesus is Lord guitar. A few times, after they saw that I really was going to learn to play it, Mom and Dad offered to buy me a new one – a better one. But I love the sound of this guitar. I don’t care how beaten up it looks.
Caroline’s violin case is made of black leather. Several Air Canada luggage tags hang from the shoulder strap.
I snap my guitar case shut.
“So, you play the fiddle?” I ask.
I’m joking, of course. I can see that she plays the violin. I’m just making conversation.
“Violin,” says Caroline, correcting me. “I’m section leader for the Alberta Youth Orchestra and the Western Canadian Youth Orchestra. I als
o conduct two youth chamber groups and play in one professional chamber ensemble.”
I try very hard to be friendly. “Oh. Wow. That’s – wow. Doesn’t get much better than that, does it?”
“Actually, I’ve been invited to play with the International Youth Orchestra four times – once in Berlin, once in Moscow, once in Stockholm, once in Peking. This year, we’re meeting in Mexico City.”
Egomaniac, I think. Braggart.
“That must be exciting for you. Mexico City. What a change from Edmonton.”
“Actually, I’m from Calgary. But Mexico is a second home to me as well. My family and I spend our summers on the Yucatan Peninsula. I speak English, Spanish, and French. I’m in French immersion.”
Summers on the Yucatan Peninsula. I speak English, Spanish, and French.
How can I compete with her?
My stomach turns. I excuse myself politely from Caroline, then make my way to the bathroom as nonchalantly as possible. I have to throw up again.
Dry heaves. There’s nothing left to vomit. I should leave now, Mom was right. I don’t have a chance. I’m out of my league – way out. I press my face against the toilet bowl. Berlin, Moscow, Stockholm, Peking. I’ve hardly been out of Alberta, let alone overseas.
I’m still at the toilet bowl when Vanessa and her mother walk into the bathroom.
“Everything, Mom!” says Vanessa. “I could answer, like, everything they asked. They asked me a bunch of questions about multiculturalism and what is Canada and stuff – that was easy. Then there was this big question about crime and criminals and what I think of extradition and countries that use capital punishment and, like, you know how we had that debate on the death penalty in social studies last semester? Well I just recited, like, everything our team came up with and I’m just totally sure it was exactly what they wanted to hear, you know, about the sanctity of human life and the futility of an-eye-for-an-eye and all that. It was a total dream interview. A total dream.”
As Vanessa and her mother slip into their respective bathroom stalls, I slip out of the bathroom altogether. I’m going to grab my guitar from the lounge and run. We’ve never talked about capital punishment in our social studies class. Extradition? I have no clue what the word means.