by Kit Pearson
“Not Oncle Albert!” I screamed and threw myself into Maman’s arms.
I’m still crying as I’m writing, Journal. I’m devastated. It’s so unfair. SEVEN MINERS DIED. SEVEN!
We’re going to see Aunt Harriet and Colette later. Maman will cook tons of food to bring them. Laura and I will make heaps of sandwiches. No school for us today. Poor Colette! Losing a parent must be heartbreaking, and much more so in an accident like that!
Sunday, December 11
The funeral yesterday was the saddest moment of my life. Saint-Alphonse Church was full, and hundreds more people were massed outside, even in the rotten weather we had. I never thought adults could cry so hard. Seeing the seven coffins aligned side by side … it’s indescribable. People were sobbing. Even Martine and Charles started crying nervously when Maman burst into tears during the ceremony. Laura and I had to sit them on our laps and rock them gently until they stopped. But as soon as they were soothed, they started racing up and down the aisle and we had to run after them to calm them down. Poor little kids! They are too young to figure out what’s happening.
As I was sitting there in church, though, it wasn’t only sadness that I felt. Yes, we lost our house to fire last summer, but we all escaped safely and were given a chance to rebuild our lives. But my uncle died in this accident. Death is so definite.
Colette is alone with Aunt Harriet now. How will they cope? They were really brave during the last few days, receiving condolences from all the relatives and friends. But now they’re back in their empty house, without him. It will be a depressing Christmas for them.
I spent hours with Colette without ever being able to find words to comfort her. I was so sad myself. We just cried together. Once she talked about the land Oncle Albert wanted to buy on that lake — now a shattered dream. Another time, she started to reminisce. How great a father he was, how thoughtful and kind, how he liked to sing and clown around … I just listened. Later, she thanked me for being with her when she needed to talk.
I’m not crying anymore, Journal. Sad as I am that Oncle Albert’s gone, I’m filled with a frantic sense of joy that Maman, Papa and the rest of us didn’t die in the fire. All of us are still alive. What a strange feeling of relief! We’re not as happy as before, but we’re all together. I wouldn’t want to lose any of them, not even Bernard. Maybe I don’t really hate him, after all.
I thought Maman would be depressed when we returned home after the funeral, but she must have been reasoning just like me, because she gathered us around her for a prayer of thanks. She and Papa said beautiful words of praise to God, and we answered Amen.
Maman said she will not complain anymore. From now on, she’ll make the most with what comes our way. “This house will become a happy home,” she declared, and all of a sudden she seemed as pretty as I remembered her from before.
Thursday, December 15
Journal, I’m writing by Maman’s bed. She’s been sick with the flu for the last two days — fever, bad cough and sore throat. Laura and I miss school to take care of her, feed the family and keep the house clean. Bernard and Grand-Papa even did the laundry, and the little ones had a great time playing hide-and-seek among the clothes hanging haphazardly around the house. Everything is in upheaval.
Before Maman caught this flu, things were really getting better. She and Papa had stopped fighting, and Grand-Papa was even reconsidering Papa’s idea of selling other types of food at the store.
But Maman started feeling feverish Tuesday, and had to lie down. She hasn’t been out of bed since. We feed her light broth and give her the medicine Dr. Gosselin prescribed. And we keep her company when we have a chance.
Thank goodness Dr. Gosselin lives only three houses away, and that he’s an old friend of Papa’s. He comes to see Maman every day. Last night I heard him say that she was overworked and anaemic. He was sitting at the kitchen table with Papa, and both of them seemed so gloomy that I had goosebumps all over. Could Maman be that sick? “Her body is begging for rest,” Dr. Gosselin explained. “That would account for the high fever.”
And since the fever did not come down by this morning, Dr. Gosselin is making arrangements to have Maman admitted to the hospital. I feel so bad I lost all my appetite.
Journal, I heard Maman say she might die. She was moaning, her eyes closed, her forehead burning, half asleep and a bit delirious. Still … hearing her say that gave me chills. Could that really happen? I’ve been praying non-stop ever since. Please God, save Maman. Don’t call her to you. We need her. Please God. I even knelt and said a rosary.
I saw Bernard wipe a tear when he was chopping wood today. He’s been moody ever since Oncle Albert died, and even more so since Maman took to her bed. He doesn’t tease me anymore. Not that I miss it, but it makes me feel that something is very wrong. Laura tries to seem cheerful with the little ones, but it’s false. When Martine and Charles are not with her, she’s upset.
Must stop. Maman wants water …
Saturday, December 17
Maman has been in the hospital since yesterday morning and things don’t look too good. Bernard, Laura and I are sitting in the living room with Grand-Papa, waiting anxiously for the doctor and Papa to come back from the hospital with some news. The little ones are asleep, but the rest of us can’t even think of going to bed tonight. It’s 10 p.m. and my insides are so tight I have a hard time breathing.
Later on
Maman’s flu has turned into pneumonia, Journal. She’s really fighting for her life tonight. A girl in my class lost her mother to that monster disease just last month. My tummy hurts and I feel light-headed. Maman can’t die, can she? Dr. Gosselin is trying to make things look good, but he’s really worried, I can tell. “We are trying a new medication on her,” he explained. “It has given good results in the past in similar cases. So, there’s hope yet.” Then he took Papa aside and started whispering, but so loud that we could hear everything. He was pointing out that Oncle Albert’s death, in addition to all Maman went through since the fire, had drained her endurance.
The doctor’s next words were terrifying. “I’m not sure she has the strength to hold tight and fight this infection. She’s worn out, Raymond. I’m sorry, but I can’t be more optimistic … You’ll have to pray for a miracle.”
Papa accompanied Dr. Gosselin to the door, but we remained seated, unable to move. Grand-Papa retired to his room a few minutes ago. Papa is keeping away from us, hiding his tears. It’s past midnight, Journal, and I’m not even sleepy. When he left, the doctor told Papa that he was driving back to the hospital, and I won’t be able to close my eyes until we get further news. Writing helps me pass the time, but my stomach is so tight I’m afraid I’ll be sick.
December 18
Early in the morning
It was about one o’clock when Bernard stood up all of a sudden, took my arm and Laura’s and drew us upstairs into his room. He had an intense look on his face. He had been crying, as we all had. He closed the door. “We must do something,” he whispered urgently. “But what?” asked Laura, fighting tears. Bernard was silent for a long, long time. Then he said, “Let’s pray God for a miracle, like the doctor suggested.”
Kneeling down, we said the Lord’s Prayer and a decade of the rosary, then prayed silently. I closed my eyes, begging God to save Maman. I was terrified that she could indeed be dying.
After some time, Bernard stood up and started to talk, but ever so slowly. He was struggling to find words. His voice failed him often. “Dear God, there’s … something I must tell you, with my sisters here as witnesses.” He cleared his throat. “You have … been calling me, God, and I have denied your calling, burying it under a million distractions. I knew deep down that I must eventually address it, but I thought that it could wait. Well, with what’s happened recently — our uncle dying and Maman being so sick — I will delay no longer.”
Bernard was silent for a moment, sweat oozing from his forehead. He seemed overcome by a powerful emotion. He ev
entually collected himself and continued: “My answer is YES, God. If you want me, I will … seriously … consider becoming a priest.”
I pinched myself hard, Journal, but I wasn’t dreaming. Bernard was really making that pledge, in a solemn tone that bewildered me. I was covered with gooseflesh.
“I beg you, God, heal our mother,” he added in a hoarse voice.
Laura got up and went to him. He took her in his arms. He was trembling.
And then my sister spoke. She said she was willing to give her life to save Maman’s. “If you must take a life, God, take mine. As the soul of the family, Maman is needed more than I am …” Her voice faded away.
I gasped. Laura just couldn’t die. Not at fifteen. It was unthinkable. I didn’t want to lose my sister.
I was stunned by the two of them … I wasn’t ready to offer such a giant sacrifice myself. I lacked their courage. Still, it seemed it was my turn to talk, although I had no idea of what I would say, so I slowly got to my feet, in a silence that was filled with an overpowering sense of exaltation.
Words did come to my mind, but couldn’t pass my lips. I soundlessly vowed to become a better person — but that seemed so vague — and to fight against my laziness. I silently promised God to seriously work on my angry mood, to tone down my tantrums. But when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t get the words out.
“I know what you could promise, Yvonne,” Bernard said in an indefinable tone, and I shot him a suspicious look. He seemed sheepish all of a sudden.
“But first … I have a confession to make.” He told me that a few weeks ago he had stolen you, Journal, and read some entries. “And I must admit that you write beautifully,” he added. “Would you believe that I was moved at times?”
I felt so angry at Bernard for violating my most intimate secrets. I fought the urge to jump in his face and shout, “You had no right!” But looking at him, I saw shame and remorse, so I burst into tears. Too much was happening at the same time. Bernard said he realized he should never have done that, and asked for my forgiveness. So what could I do? I nodded silently, but I was shaking all over.
“If you want to promise something, why don’t you pledge to write the story of our family from the very beginning, especially what’s happened in the last few months?” Bernard suggested. “You could get a beautiful notebook to write in. This way, none of us could ever forget. With that writing talent of yours, it certainly would be an asset to the family archives.” His voice stopped, and then he managed to add, “Whatever the outcome of tonight …” Dread had overcome him again. I stared at him, unsure that he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t.
So I nodded again and, wiping away my tears, I gratefully said the promise, with as much solemnity as I could convey.
And then the doorbell rang and we rushed downstairs with pounding hearts.
December 18, noon
I just got up, Journal. Lazy me. But it was six o’clock in the morning when I finally fell asleep. So let me tell you what happened.
When Dr. Gosselin came in, he was covered in snow, looking like a polar bear. I was watching him closely, dreading the worst. I saw a very tired man. But I thought I noticed the slightest hint of a smile hiding behind his moustache. “Your mother is getting better,” he announced. “She’s still very weak, but the fever’s down and she’s breathing normally. In other words, she is going to be all right. It will take a while, mind you, but she’s on her way to recovery.”
Bernard and I both had the same reflex and turned toward Laura. He moved forward just in time to catch her in his arms.
She had fainted.
Tuesday, December 20
Journal, this has been one chaotic week, what with Maman still in the hospital, and Laura being under the impression that God will come and get her any minute. The house is in turmoil, and Christmas is coming with nothing being ready. Maman is coming home in three days and we want to make everything nice for her. We’re lucky that Aunt Harriet comes to help every day. She’s an angel.
When Laura fainted, Bernard told Papa about Laura’s pledge to God. The doctor was still here, so he just took off his coat with a deep sigh and stayed by. Then Laura regained consciousness, convinced that she was about to die. Patiently, Bernard reminded her that she had not actually promised to give her life, only said she was willing to … “You said, If you must take a life, Laura. So let’s face it: God doesn’t want you up there yet. Maman is out of danger now, and you are not going to die.”
The doctor examined her thoroughly and gave her a sedative. But I couldn’t sleep a wink.
So I stayed up and immediately honoured part of my promise. I laid on paper every last detail of what happened the night Maman almost died, lest I forget. Since then, I’ve been writing secretly every chance I get — I stay up at night a lot to do so, because there’s just too much to do around the house during the day. I’ve tried to remember everything else about our family’s past. The story starts when Papa met Maman at the big celebration party that ended the War in 1918. I’ve been wearing Grand-Papa out with endless questions. Other than that, I work from memory, asking Papa for a detail here and a piece of information there, without ever telling him what I am doing. Yesterday, I bought a beautiful notebook at the general store across the street and I take every free minute I have to transcribe the whole story in it, with my best pen and ink. I’ll offer it to my family as a New Year’s present. Bernard says he wants Maman and Papa to learn about his getting the call while they’re reading the story, and not before. I hope my account accurately conveys that awesome moment.
Journal, what happened that night was very important, but part of it just can’t be put into words — the incredible whirlwind that suddenly cast a new light on everything.
Maman is getting better and it’s just wonderful. Was it the effect of the new medication? Or was it indeed a miracle? Well, perhaps the true miracle is that we are a happy family again, as close-knit as before, but now fully aware of how great a privilege it is to be so.
Mind you, Journal, Bernard-the-Pest still teases me every chance he gets, but — would you believe? — I just laugh it off.
Hattie has lived her whole life in Formosa, though her parents are Canadian. When her family moves back to Canada, there is so much to notice, and so much that is different from the small island where she grew up.
JEAN LITTLE herself immigrated to Canada from Formosa (now called Taiwan) in 1939 when she was seven years old, just before World War II broke out. It was a sort of reverse immigration for a girl who “looked “Canadian but knew so little of life in Canada.
Hattie’s Home
The Diary of Hattie Middleton
Vancouver to Toronto
July – September 1939
Monday, July 31, 1939
This morning, Mother said how excited she was to be coming home to Canada. I said, “It’s not MY home.”
“Poor Hattie,” Mother said. Then she went to the cabin and fetched this exercise book. She wants me to write a diary for one month about what it is like “coming home” to Canada. I said I would because I am sick of being stuck on this ship with nothing new to do.
Tuesday, August 1, 1939
I asked Mother how I should start and she said why not begin with a list of what makes Formosa feel like home.
So here goes.
Home is our missionary compound in Taipei. It has high walls and a big gate with flags above it, the Rising Sun for the Japanese and the Union Jack for the rest of us. I feel special when I walk through the gate, as though the compound belongs to me.
Home is our big house with its wide verandahs where we play.
Home is our Amah. She cried when we said goodbye. She came when I was a baby. I am ten now. She stayed to take care of Jonathan, who is eight, and then Will, who just turned three. Now Jon and I do lessons with Mother. In Canada, we’ll go to regular school with other children.
Home is food too. In Canada, Daddy says they don’t have mangoes and lichees and papayas.
They don’t eat with chopsticks. We don’t eat with them all the time either, but we do whenever we have proper Chinese food.
It is time to go to the dining room for dinner but I will be back. This is interesting.
After Dinner
Will wanted rice pudding for dessert but when he found out it had no raisins in it, he cried. What a baby! Jon and I laughed at him and Daddy sent us away from the table.
Daddy keeps talking about war. I do not understand it. I asked Mother if we were in a war and she said no, but that Daddy is worried about the way things are going in Europe. I did not understand any better.
Home is water buffaloes and rickshaws and mountains and lilies growing wild and people pointing at us sometimes and saying things like, “Look at her big feet.” We pretend we don’t know what they are saying.
The boys just dragged me up on deck because, very far away, you can see land. It has been a long time since we saw anything but the Pacific Ocean. Right now, the land is only a thin blue smudge far away. Sometimes a high wave hides it and then you see it again. Canada! I turned my back and caught Mother and Daddy gazing at it and grinning. They were holding hands! I felt left out.
Wednesday, August 2, 1939
The land looks real now. We will get there today. We will dock in Vancouver, and then go by train to Toronto. I asked if it was like Avonlea and Mother and Daddy laughed at me. Toronto is a big city, they say. Avonlea is a made-up village, not a real place.
Will I find a bosom friend like Diana Barry in Toronto? I have never had one. There were only a couple of boys my age in the compound, no girls.