Mom says, if you’re cranky, go draw.
So I do. I draw every day to stay floating, like Babci’s angels. They work on her prayers and I work on my Babci book. When I get to the end, my yellow flag jacket is not so yellow anymore, like apples left at the top of the tree for the winter birds.
Enchanted Forest
It’s time, she says.
Mom sits down on the sofa beside my sunroom desk. I unplug my glue gun, the best eighth birthday present ever. I leave my creation not quite done, but I’ll finish it at lunch. It’s a windmill, like in Holland, like in the book the principal, Mr. Daniels, is reading us in the library. I’m making it with a moving wheel from cut-up toilet paper rolls. I need to paint it. Orange?
Hurry up. The boys...
And they grab Orange Crush pop cans, whooping like they just scored, and scoop up two-dollar bills: a Dad lunch today. Usually there’s a pile of sandwiches and squares and chocolate milk for them to take, junior high athlete food, but today there’s none. The boys shoulder-hit and down bananas and toast-to-go, peanut butter dripping down the sleeves of their half-on jean jackets. Mom doesn’t stand up.
Dad splash-fills his mug, takes a giant gulp and leans down to coffee-kiss Mom on his way out.
I’ll take them for cleats as soon as I get home, he says. Then burgers. Take it easy. Call me later.
Coffee makes her gag, the smell of it. And burgers, even the word.
Mom uses her elbow to feel her way down on the sofa, then lands her head and pulls her feet up. It’s only morning, but the tummy baby has eaten up all her energy already. It doesn’t like people food yet. Mom and Dad told the boys and Stella and me about the new baby on Valentine’s Day. Mom can only nibble crackers. And sip warm water.
But I’m starving, so I eat up my Shreddies quick and get back to my desk. I wonder if a tack would work better for my pinwheel and if I can find one—
You’re going to have to walk Stella today, Mom says low, like the tummy baby is listening. I don’t want Stella to make you late, so check on her? Bring her home at lunch, too.
But my hands are full.
Mom tries to fine-line a smile on her too-tight face. I let the sweaty centres of my pinwheel flap open and stomp upstairs to get Stella ready for kindergarten.
At lunch, Stella is a little faster walking home in the slush because she’s hungry. She didn’t eat her Corn Flakes because I made them too milky. And I wouldn’t make her more, because then she’d get spoiled. I need to eat lunch quick and get back for The Wheel on the School at library time and she gets to watch “The Flintstones,” but I still have to pull her along. As Mom says, Stella distracts easy. Any slushy puddle, every little bird, each interesting stick. But in the alley we smell grilled cheese sandwiches and Stella rushes ahead because that means Babci is there.
Where’s Mom?
They’re checking her up.
At the hospital?
You go after school. With Daddy.
Is it the baby?
No worry about that. Eat you lunch.
Stella has two of Babci’s buttery crisp sandwiches dunked in ketchup. I give her my second one when Babci’s not looking, girl cheese Stella calls them, and go to my desk. I clear the pinwheel out of the way for later and fold some paper for a card. I want to draw a Dutch stork like Mr. Daniels showed us in The Wheel on the School, but I saw a real robin on the way home and that’s a sign of spring. Mom likes birds. She keeps her bird feeder full in the winter, but now it’s empty. Mine is a skinny robin, but I make its tummy extra red. It reminds me of her. How it pecks at the ground, like Mom bites her little crackers, so the tummy baby won’t notice.
Babci is talking to Stella. Eat you good lunch. Eat, eat! In case you lost in the woods!
But up in my cloud, concentrating on my card, I hear Babci say it to my robin. Eat, eat! My robin looks for worms and can’t find any, so she hop-flies to a patch of brown grass left by the snow. You can see her orange-red belly and how hard she is trying. I wonder how she finds her worm. How can she see them under the ground? Does she listen to know where they are? But she’s hungry so she has to keep going. She might have babies to feed.
I used to think the woods in Babci’s talk were a magic, enchanted forest, until I got lost. I keep drawing to stay up and float, because I sink if I think about it. I keep marking feathers on my robin with my charcoal pencil, to not be lost in the woods.
Only Stella still says Mommy. When I got lost I was six and Mom was Mommy.
On my walk home from school, my skipping rope is a tail. Down the long block of houses of people I don’t know. Past the spy tree. The grumpy sky wants to burp. I skip my rope now, slow and slappy to make the rain burst.
The lines in the sidewalk are fences and I’m a horse jumping high. Green and yellow gardens grow in the cracks. Snap-a-swish-swish, my pink rainbow rope goes, sweeping the wind.
My jumps are just right. I’m keeping the beat, and if I step on a crack, I don’t break anyone’s back. No, and I don’t need that stick-stick-stick ticker Mommy bought for the piano, either, because I’m good at the beat now. Miss Trepanier said. She plays violin to the Grade Ones when we need a rest. Mr. Bow flows like the seaweed inside our class aquarium. Miss Trepanier says to count bouncing bubbles in my head, like she does with her violin, to keep my piano fingers on time. I don’t like the gnome in the metronome. Sometimes Charlie and Tommy put it on presto and play machine gun with it when Mommy is in the backyard digging carrots.
Run the skinny sidewalk, up the four steps, swing the screen wide, and... the front door is locked. I ring the doorbell, slam hard on the door with my hand and... no one’s there.
The sky looks growly. Not burpy anymore, but mad. The stinky yellow and orange daisy flowers on the side of the house are dangly. They close up without the sun.
The back door, locked, too. Louis sleeps in his doghouse and doesn’t even get up. My ropey tail drags in the yellows and rips one out. I pick up the flower and pull out each skinny yellow petal. The curtains, closed. I sit on the front steps.
She loves me, she loves me not, I sing, louder than the wind. Where is Mommy?
The sky wants to cry.
I wrap my pink skipping rope around my waist, and tie one end to the railing. I make a desk with my knees and fold my arms on it and put my head down for a rest, like Miss Trepanier always says after recess. I go to my memory bank and listen. I listen for her voice, for her violin, but I’m hungry. My skipping rope under my shoe is a giant spit-out string of bubblegum.
Miss Trepanier says read if you’re hungry so the time will trot until snacks. I look in the mailbox.
There’s a magazine, Chat-Elaine. Miss Trepanier has a French name, too. Chat is for cat. And Elaine is a girl. We have Elaine in our class. She’s quiet, like a cat. But no cats here, just ladies and perfume. There’s a tear-off one, and I open it, because Mommy always lets me have them. It’s pee-yew, like chat-pee.
There’s some letters for Dad, Mr. David Penn. Two Ns just because. Like a pen that writes dark with no goobers or missed spots, a good pen. We only use fat pencils for printing in Grade One. I wish our name had a Y. Then I’d be a Penny. A lucky Penny.
I look again and there’s also a little pink letter in the mailbox and it’s for ...Miss Kasia Penn! 9020-145 Street, Edmonton, Alberta. Only Babci calls me Kasia. I can tell her writing, swirly and standing straight up. The stamp is queen blue. Babci loves the queen like I love Miss Trepanier. Babci has a picture of the queen with her crown on, in a blue coat, the same royal blue as the one Babci made me this year for Easter. And one for my doll Rosa, with white satin lining and a matching blue bonnet that ties under her baby chin. Stella loves Rosa.
It’s my first mail. Inside the envelope is a shining Jesus with sparkles on it. For my little birdie. Easter Blessings 1987. Love and kisses from Babci. My finger gets sparkles on it. I wipe
them on my forehead like Jesus, to be lucky like him, because he didn’t die. And so I sparkle like a penny. I put the card back in the little pink envelope and close it. Then take it out and read it some more.
I’m Babci’s birdie except I can’t fly because I’m tied to the railing and the stinky perfume is on my fingers and I wipe my eyes and they sting and the tears spill out.
Mommy opens the door.
Cassie, there you are!
Where were you?
I was on the phone, honey.
But I rang the doorbell!
I came to the door, but no one was here! I thought it was a knock-a-door Ginger!
The back door was locked, too!
I just got home, and put Stella down for her nap. I forgot to unlock the doors.
I give her the mail, but not mine. She unties my rope. My heart beats quick. We have a little hug. There are grocery bags all over the floor of the kitchen.
Was it Daddy?
Mr. Daniels.
What for?
Miss Trepanier is sick.
I know. We had a sub today a-gain!
He says Miss Trepanier is so sick that she can’t come back to teach.
Why?
It would be too hard.
She says we can do anything if we try. She says I don’t have to stop, point and check anymore at silent reading. She says I’m engrossed.
I know. I love her, too. But she needs to go to the hospital.
How could she be so sick? She’s not even married yet. She’s a Miss, like me. She has the best shiny smile. And she has soft sweaters and hugs. Mr. Cane, her helper, comes to school. He’s wooden, with a hook to go on her chair. He comes out for recess with her to hold her up. She wears scarves to keep her head warm. Even inside. She gets coughs. She sips cinnamon tea.
Is she going to say goodbye?
She is sending a letter to the class. And the class will write one to her.
And draw pictures?
Yes. Mr. Daniels said she especially asked for one from you.
Miss Trepanier touches you on the back of your neck like she’s poking her sun smile into your head, giving your brain some light, so that’s what I draw. Even though I can’t see her I feel her sun. When I float, her sun reaches me.
I wish Miss Trepanier could have waited for Freddy to grow up to be a genius so he could fix her, but Miss Trepanier is one of my angels now.
I find a robin-egg blue envelope from Mom’s desk drawer and put in my robin card and lick it closed.
Dad takes us all for hamburgers on the way to the hospital.
Babci prays her pearly pink rosary the whole way, even at the A & W drive-in, sipping her baby root beer, which is all she ever gets. She only eats her own food to keep her waist. Babci says, for women, no matter what’s on top and bottom, only have a waist.
Charlie and Tommy wear their new cleats to get used to them. They are in French fry heaven. The car smells of sweaty runners and onion rings. The boys beg for my last half of hamburger so I rip it in two pieces.
Then we drop off Babci. She says, I have my sewing now.
Babci hates the hospital, because Dziadziu died there. I was really little because I don’t remember. When Stella was born, Mom got stitches on her tummy. That’s the only time I went to the hospital. I never got to go when Miss Trepanier was there. Mom said no. Babci didn’t go the time Mom was there with Stella, either. Instead, she had hot borscht and sour cream and crusty buns ready when we got home.
Daddy takes the boys to Emergency when they get hurt, to stitch up knees and lips and chins. They take the stitching day off but go back to playing their sports the next day. Mom can’t watch the boys get stitches. Neither could I. They keep count of their stitches so far: Charlie has nine and Tommy has twelve.
Dad helps Babci out of the van and promises to phone her from the hospital. Babci doesn’t stop her praying the whole time. One hand has her beads, the other her key, and I don’t wave either.
My hand sweats on my card because it is hot as a swimming pool in the hospital. The air makes my head heavy. In the bed, Mom hardly moves. Just her eyes and mouth.
The baby came out before it was ready, she says. It wasn’t growing right, like a cake that flops.
My tummy flips. I lean against the high bed.
Tommy butts in. Was it a boy?
Not really a baby yet. It was a miss.
I’m a miss. I’m Miss Cassie Penn.
No, Daddy says, lifting me on to the bed. Like a soccer goal you miss.
Like a mistake, says Tommy.
Charlie starts to bump him. Daddy takes the boys and Stella to get some cold water for Mom and to phone Babci.
Any stitches? I ask.
No stitches. You can look.
Mom tries to pull down the covers, but her arm is too sleepy, so I do it. I pat her tummy. It’s not stretched like before. It’s soft and squishy.
What’s a miss?
A miscarriage. Lots of mommies have one.
I cover her back up and open the blue envelope for her to hold the card I made.
It’s a robin looking for the enchanted forest. For the other robins.
So spring is here?
Not really. This robin came too early. Like the miss.
Oh, and one big tear drips down from Mom. I catch it with the scrunchy sheet.
I look at the hungry robin again. It’s got me in it, because I made it, and it’s got Mom, because it’s for her. But there’s something else in it that only we can see. The miss.
Memory Tree
Mom stays on the phone a lot. She makes the boys’ lunches and even puts Old Dutch BBQ potato chips in. When she goes into the bathroom, she cries. She’s put my robin card in a purple wood frame on the wall behind the mirror, so it peeks behind you when you brush your teeth. I wonder if the robin makes her cry.
It knows how I feel, Mom says.
She starts making quilts. She makes a Log Cabin one for our sunroom, for Daddy’s little naps on the couch. She makes a Heart one for Auntie Magda, a Pine Tree for me and a Sunflower Sue for Stella. She sews all summer long, and even takes her sewing machine outside and Daddy plugs it in with an extension cord. I like looking at her pattern books, and helping her decide about colours. She wants to make a Star of Bethlehem to put on Babci’s ouchy couch, a Blue Birds of Happiness for our kitchen, and a Wild Goose Chase for the TV room on winter nights. Charlie and Tom surprise her when they say they want quilts, too. She thinks she’ll make matching Log Cabin designs, because the boys think they look like bulls’ eyes, in blue for Charlie and purple for Tom. I hint she should make them both in browns to match, because of the boys’ muddy jeans, with accents of blue for Charlie and bits of purple for Tom. And red for the centres of the log cabin blocks. And she does.
I have a bigger sketchbook now, as big as my Grade Four Duo-Tangs. Daddy and I went to the art store. It’s a jumble of every kind of art supply you could imagine stacked up on tall shelves. I’m like Daddy in Canadian Tire when I’m at the art store, in a kind of drooly daze. The art store guy, a real artist with a long grey ponytail, uses a black hard-covered sketchbook. He shows how the coil binding opens better to lie flat. He makes charcoal drawings of horses. Only horses. I buy new charcoal sticks with my own money. Daddy also buys me the coil black sketchbook and a small notebook for my idea. I’m making a special minibook for Mom. I’m going to use charcoal sticks for drawings and black fine liner for the words. The charcoal is okay for the ants and the seashells, but doing whole people is too much, so I just do the hands. Charcoal works for close-up drawing, especially for shells and balls. And hands. I do the action with my left hand while I draw it with the right one. The pages go in this order:
Feel Better List for Mom
Throw your crumbs outside for the ants.
Make your ho
ney lentil soup.
Wash your seashells.
Read. Your book, not a magazine.
Feed the dog.
Play ball with the boys.
Make tea and toast with your crabapple jelly.
Stitch your quilting.
Sneak some chocolate chips with your girls.
Flap your sheets in the wind.
I show Mom my pages and her hands are wet from the sink and some drops land on the sheet in the wind page and make the sheet blurry, like it’s moving. I splatter it some more with spit, but drips of water work better. Mom dries her hands and sits down with my pages. She’s got a smile on, finally. I ask if she can sneak the chocolate chips out of their hiding place but she won’t. Not now. She’s getting us ready.
Today Daddy’s taking the boys to a basketball tournament in Red Deer overnight, so Stella and I get to go on a holiday to Babci’s. Mom’s getting a day off from us.
Stella puts pink Barbie bubbles in Mom’s bath and I bring Mom her Chatelaine. Mom says it means like a queen, not a cat. In the steamy bathroom, I tell Miss Trepanier in my mind that she is une belle ange and my mom is la chatelaine forte. I take out the perfume cards from the magazine so they don’t get wet and wave them around the steaminess so it smells better than Barbie bubbles. Daddy pours Mom a little glass of something darker and stinkier than wine and puts the dog out and we go.
Daddy drives without ever stopping. He gets green lights like prizes all the way. He drives relaxed and happy and listens to a talk show on the radio, it never matters what. He listens and laughs. I’m in the front seat. Driving with Daddy in the dark puts me in dreamland. The boys actually quit punching each other, like they’re a bit hypnotized. Stella sleeps bundled up between them in the back, letting out little puffs.
It takes a long time to drive downtown to Babci’s, but finally we turn at the gravestone store. You can see the different shapes and colours of gravestones, and they have writing on them. It’s too dark to read it, but the writing makes me wonder. Did those people order them and then, not die? Or not pay? Or forget to have someone pick them up? I wonder if you can miss dying like Jesus, who pushed away his tombstone, way bigger than a gravestone. I wonder if you can miss dying like you can miss getting born.
Art Lessons Page 2