Dancing in
the Rain
SHELLEY
HRDLITSCHKA
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2016 Shelley Hrdlitschka
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hrdlitschka, Shelley, 1956–, author
Dancing in the rain / Shelley Hrdlitschka.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1065-5 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1066-2 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1067-9 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8565.R44D36 2016 jC813'.54 C2016-900463-5
C2016-900464-3
First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933652
Summary: In this novel for teens, sixteen-year-old Brenna tries to make sense of her life after her beloved adoptive mother dies.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover images by Dreamstime.com and iStock.com
Design by Teresa Bubela
Author photo by Leslie Thomas
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1
For Sharon Brain
Playmate
Theater date
Mentor
Beloved friend
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Acknowledgments
one
I only miss you when I’m breathing.
(JASON DERULO, “BREATHING”)
Brenna tugs a wad of tissue from her pocket and passes a couple of pieces to her father. She takes some for herself and hands the rest to her sister, Naysa, who sits in the pew to her left. Someone behind her honks noisily into his own hanky, and sniffles come from every corner of the chapel. With each new sob she hears, it gets harder to keep from giving in to the flood of her own tears, but she knows that once she starts crying it will be impossible to stop. She slumps forward, fighting the urge to bolt, and allows her father to rub circles on her back. His hand is large and warm through her jacket.
Reverend Justin Reid, a minister her mom had connected with shortly before she died, reads the poem that she chose for her own memorial service.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glint upon the snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
You feel me as gentle morning rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the sweet uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
Brenna frowns. I did not die? What is that supposed to mean? Her mother is dead. Dead! She liked the poem until he got to that line.
A poster-sized photo of her mom rests on a tripod beside the minister’s podium. Brenna studies her face, that incredibly alive face. The picture was taken before her mother got sick. In it she is still beautiful. Her blue eyes gaze back at Brenna, eyes that lots of people think Brenna has inherited. Eyes that were always warm, always kind. Until the last few months, that is, when they were filled with pain or glazed over from the numbing drugs.
The minister takes two tapered candles from a shelf in the back of the podium and steps over to a chalice, where a lone candle flickers. He looks over at the sisters. “Brenna and Naysa, please join me.”
Brenna grips Naysa’s hand, and they take the few steps over to the chalice. The minister passes a candle to each girl. “Joanna has left two daughters behind,” he says to the gathered people. “They will look to you, their community, to draw strength.” He looks down at the girls. “You may light your candles now,” he says quietly.
They each touch the end of their candle to the burning one. Brenna notices the tremble in Naysa’s hand. She uses her own free hand to blot a tear she feels meandering down her cheek.
The minister reads from the pages in his hand. “In our time of grief, we light a flame of sharing, the flame of ongoing life. In this time when we search for understanding and serenity in the face of loss, we light this as a sign of our quest for truth, meaning and community.”
Following the minister’s quietly spoken instructions, the girls place their candles on either side of the one that was there and return to their pew. Brenna’s father moves so that she can scoot past, so one daughter sits on each side of him. He opens his arms and draws them close. The sniffling around the chapel increases in volume. Brenna finally gives in to the tears and sobs openly.
“We will now listen to Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D, selected by Joanna herself,” the minister says. “Following the music, Joanna’s husband, Brett, will give the eulogy, and then anyone who would like to is welcome to come up to the sanctuary and light one of these for Joanna.” He holds up a tray of small tapered candles. “Once it’s lit, stand it in here,” he says, lightly touching the side of a wide bowl filled with sand. “Then, if you wish, you may share a memory of Joanna.”
With a shuddering sigh, Brenna slouches down and rubs her eyes. It feels like the service will never end, but she allows the music to wash over her, and her mind begins to drift. She has had months to prepare herself for this day—they all knew her mother was dying—but there is something about being gathered together like this, all the family, all of Joanna’s friends, with all their combined pain, that makes it even more overwhelming. She knows the service is supposed to bring her comfort, bring some meaning to her mother’s death, some closure, but if anything, the pain she’s feeling now is even worse than in those last few agonizing hours before her mother died.
The music ends, and her father slips out of the pew to approach the podium. He pulls folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket, smooths them out and puts on his reading glasses. He takes a long, deep breath but then removes his glasses and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
“Take your time, Brett,” the minister says.
After a few more deep breaths, Brenna’s dad begins to read from his notes. Brenna doesn’t need to listen—she helped him write the eulogy. He seems to pull himself together as he reads, finding strength in the summary of his wife’s life, but when he gets to the part where Brenna came into their lives, his voice quavers again. His eyes look up from his notes and meet her gaze.
“Brenna, you were truly a gift from heaven,” he says, blinking back tears. “Every single day since you came into our lives, your mom thanked the young woman who trusted us to raise you as our own.” He glances at the minister, who smiles gently.
Brenna nods at her father and blinks away her own tears. She’s sur
prised that he mentioned her adoption. Not that it’s a secret, but it isn’t something they refer to very often, especially in public. She’s been told that this minister was also involved in her adoption, though the details around that were never explained to her.
“And you, Naysa,” their father continues. “You were a miracle, which is exactly what your name means. We were told that it was unlikely we’d be able to conceive children, and then along you came. That was one amazing day for us when you were born.”
Brenna reaches for her sister’s hand and gives it a squeeze.
Her dad returns to the scripted eulogy, but Brenna’s mind wanders again, his words echoing in her brain… the young woman who trusted us to raise you as our own. In a sense, she thinks, she still has a mother out there, a woman she hasn’t seen in almost sixteen years. She wonders how that woman would feel if she knew that the mother she had chosen especially for her baby had died before her daughter’s sixteenth birthday. She doubts that was part of the plan.
When her dad finishes, he takes his place again between his daughters. Then, one by one, a dozen or more people line up at the front of the chapel, light candles and begin to share stories. Many are poignant. Just as many are funny, and tears are punctuated with laughter. The line of people seems to grow longer rather than shorter, and the light from the flickering candles gets brighter as more and more are added to the bowl. There’s a sense of desperation, as if they can somehow keep her alive as long as they are sharing the moments of her life.
“Joanna hired me when I first moved to Canada,” a male voice says. The Australian accent is familiar.
Brenna looks up from the tissue she is slowly shredding and makes eye contact with the young man at the podium. She knows him. He works on Grouse Mountain, where her mother had worked and where she herself now volunteers.
“She never forgot my name,” he continues. He’s still looking at Brenna. “Whenever I ran into her, she always took the time to ask how I was. She was so kind. I’ll never forget her.”
He nods at Brenna and returns to his pew. Brenna returns to shredding the tissue, but her mood feels marginally lighter. Her mom really was kind, and even a cool guy like Ryan saw that. He said he’d never forget her. It helps.
Eventually the line dwindles, and when there are no more people to share stories, the minister returns to the chalice that holds the three tall candles. He steadies a candle snuffer over the center flame and looks out at the gathered people. “We extinguish this flame to mark Joanna’s physical death,” he says, snuffing out only the center candle.
Brenna crumples in the pew.
“Yet the memories of her special character and gifts remain in our lives, as we can see by the glow of candles that continue to burn. Her beautiful spirit is indomitable,” he continues, his voice deep and gravelly. “As long as we keep her in our hearts and in our thoughts, she lives on.
“Amen.”
Brenna accepts another hug and excuses herself from the stranger. The reception is agonizing. Everyone feels they have to seek her out, offer their condolences and then after an awkward silence, melt away into the crowd or over to the food table. She looks around for Naysa, wondering if she’s faring any better. She sees her pressed up to their father’s side, his arm wrapped protectively around her. Brenna takes the opportunity to slip out of the room and back into the chapel. With a sigh of relief she slumps into a pew and closes her burning eyes.
A moment later she hears the door to the chapel creak open and feels the pew groan slightly as someone sits at the far end. She opens her eyes and sees the minister there.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he says.
“No.” She shakes her head. “It just got to be a bit much in there.”
“I can imagine.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a while. Then the minister clears his throat. “Obviously, you don’t remember, but I was at your birth.”
“You were?” Brenna regards the man, taking in his kind eyes, his long narrow face. “I knew you had something to do with my adoption…”
“Your birth mom, Kia, was a friend. Back then I ran a church youth group, and Kia was in the group. I wasn’t a minister yet.”
Brenna nods, encouraging him to continue.
“I haven’t seen your parents since the day they took you home, but I was deeply honored that they tracked me down and asked me to officiate at her memorial service. I guess they learned from Kia some time ago that I had gone into the ministry.”
Brenna is not surprised. Her family doesn’t attend a church, and it would be like Joanna to find someone she had a connection with to preside at her service. A stranger wouldn’t do.
“I’ve often wondered about you, Brenna. I held you the moment you were born, and nothing in my life has ever come close to being as amazing as that. Witnessing life’s first breath? Well” —he wipes his eyes—“I’m getting seriously choked up just thinking about it.”
Brenna can only stare at him as he pulls himself together. After a moment he smiles at her. “I’m so glad I’ve had this chance to meet you again, even if it is under such sad circumstances.” He takes a business card out of his pocket and hands it to her before stepping out of the pew and into the aisle. “I’ll leave you in peace,” he says, “but please feel free to call me if you need anything. I’m a good listener.”
The door to the chapel creaks open and shut again. Brenna glances at the minister’s business card and then looks into the eyes of her mom, whose picture still sits at the front of the room. “Thank you,” she whispers.
two
When one person is missing, the whole world seems empty.
(PAT SCHWIEBERT, TEAR SOUP: A RECIPE FOR HEALING AFTER LOSS)
Someone flicks the overhead lights to get everyone’s attention. All heads turn to look toward the kitchen doorway, where Naysa is holding a birthday cake with sixteen burning candles.
“Happy birthday to you,” sings Brenna’s father. “Happy birthday to you.” The whole family joins in. “Happy birthday, dear Brenna, happy birthday to you.”
Naysa sets the cake down on the coffee table. “Make a wish.”
Brenna closes her eyes. Make a wish. There is only one thing she wishes for now: that her mom hadn’t become sick and died.
“No boyfriends?” Grandpa Will asks when the candles have been extinguished.
Brenna shakes her head and attempts to smile, humoring her grandfather.
“Well, maybe no boyfriends, but definitely hundreds of admirers,” he says.
Brenna notices that the crinkles that appear around his eyes when he smiles are identical to the ones around her father’s eyes. She studies the faces of the other people gathered in their living room. This is her family: her father, her sister, both sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and seven cousins. In the past they rarely managed to get everyone together to celebrate birthdays, but this summer has been different. In the month since her mother passed away, they’ve seen a lot of each other.
Half of the family—those on her father’s side—are of Asian descent. The other half are Caucasian. Naysa is a blend of both races. Brenna knows that she too has some Asian roots, but she looks more Caucasian than Naysa does.
As she eats her cake she notices other family similarities. Her cousin Danika, and Danika’s mom, Brenna’s aunt Tamara, have the exact same laugh. Joe and his father, Uncle Brian, both stroke their noses when they’re listening. Jillian and Michelle look more like sisters than cousins, right down to the way their hands flutter about when they talk. She wonders if she shares any similarities, any at all, with her family. Certainly not eye color. She is now the only one present with blue eyes. Joanna had been the other one.
When the cake has been taken away, presents and cards are placed on the table in front of her. As she unwraps them, Brenna notices that a lot of thought has been put into each one. Her aunt Laura, her mom’s sister, gives her a necklace with an angel charm strung onto it. There is a diamond chip at its
heart.
“Her heart sparkles, like your mom’s did.”
“Thanks. It’s really special.” Brenna puts it around her neck, and her aunt closes the clasp. Brenna sees her blink back tears as she admires it.
The remaining gifts include candles, books and framed photos. Her grandmother hands her a scrapbook filled with pictures of Joanna, badges she’d earned as a Girl Guide, certificates of achievement from school, copies of scholarship offers she received upon her high school graduation.
“That’s for both you and Naysa,” her grandmother says. “But I thought this would be a good occasion to give it to you.”
Brenna nods at her grandmother, and Naysa slides onto the couch beside Brenna to look at it. Every member of the family is somehow represented on these pages, in photos and sidebar notes. On the second-to-last page is a picture of her mom and dad holding her, a newborn baby, beside another one of them holding newborn Naysa. On the final page is a photo of the entire family, everyone in the room, taken shortly after Joanna received the news of her cancer. She’d rallied everyone together without mentioning why it was so important to get it done promptly. They only figured that out after the fact.
The afternoon drags on, but as hard as everyone tries, it does not feel particularly festive. Joanna’s presence is huge in its absence. There are gaps in the chatter as everyone seems to notice, at the same time, that something is missing.
Finally the cousins gather in the family room, and Joe pulls the game of Cranium off the shelf. He quickly divides them into teams, and the game begins. Brenna finds she can’t concentrate. Her mind keeps wandering back to the scrapbook. She wishes everyone would leave so she could leaf through it again, absorbing her mother’s life.
“Brenna!” Joe barks. She looks up and sees everyone staring at her. “Spell tarantula backward.”
Slowly, and with long pauses, she begins to spell. “A…l…u…t…n…a…r…a…t.”
“You got it!”
As Brenna’s teammates move their marker around the board, she sits back and lets her mind wander again. Looking up, she finds Naysa’s eyes on her, those sad brown eyes. She’s having trouble concentrating on the game too. Brenna gives her a little smile. Naysa nods back. Thank goodness we have each other, Brenna thinks. No one else can really know what it’s like.
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