Dancing in the Rain

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  Earlier in the afternoon Danika had trapped her in the hallway when she stepped out of the bathroom. How are you doing? she’d asked.

  All Brenna could do was shrug.

  Danika had leaned into her. I’ve heard that it’s the first time for every occasion that’s the hardest after a death, she said. The first birthday, first Christmas, first Mother’s Day and so on. Next year will be easier. She spoke with authority, like she was imparting great wisdom.

  Yeah right, Brenna thought. Easy for her to say. Her mother is alive and well.

  Brenna had shrugged again and pushed past, leaving Danika standing in the hall.

  When the day is over and everyone has finally gone, Brenna retreats to her bedroom with the scrapbook. Sitting on her bed, she flips through the pages slowly, savoring the unfolding story of her mother’s life. She pauses at the page with the picture of her parents holding her, a brand-new baby. They are smiling into the camera, and clearly they are happy…but there’s something else in their expressions, something Brenna can’t quite read.

  A soft tap on her door breaks her trance. The door opens and her dad’s face appears. “May I come in?” he asks.

  Brenna nods, noting once again the dark circles under his eyes. A stab of worry passes through her—what would happen if her dad up and died on them too? She couldn’t handle it.

  He sits on the end of her bed, and it’s then that she notices the wrapped packages in his hands. “I hope your birthday was okay, honey, as good as it could be, anyway.”

  She nods. “Thanks for the driving lessons. I know they cost a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. They say it’s not good for a parent to teach their kid to drive, not good for their relationship.”

  “You’d be a good teacher,” Brenna tells him, “but you can get tested sooner if you take lessons.”

  He nods. “So I heard.”

  A silence falls between them, and Brenna wonders what’s going through his mind. And what’s in the packages? Why didn’t he give them to her earlier? When he doesn’t say anything, she turns back to the scrapbook. “Dad?”

  “Uh-huh?” He looks up, clearly coming out of some deep thought.

  “Who took this photo of us?” She hands the scrapbook to him and watches as he studies the picture. He stares at it for so long that Brenna wonders if he’s forgotten the question. She asks another one. “Where was the picture taken?”

  “In the hospital.” There’s another long silence before he adds, “In the chapel of the hospital.”

  “The chapel?”

  “Uh-huh. Your birth mom’s minister had created an adoption ceremony.”

  Brenna doesn’t comment but watches her father’s face as a range of emotion sweeps across it.

  “It was a beautiful ceremony. He reflected on what a momentous day it was in our lives and also acknowledged all the feelings in the room.”

  “What kind of feelings?”

  “Well, your birth mom was grieving because of what she had to do—give you up—but your mom and I were overjoyed to be receiving you, yet…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  “Yet?”

  “Yet…” He pauses. “Yet our hearts broke for her too. And for her parents, who were also there. It was terribly hard for her to hand you over to us.”

  Her parents. Brenna’s biological grandparents.

  Brenna had been given the facts about her birth mom, Kia, and why she felt she had to give her baby up for adoption, but she’d never understood how hard that would have been. She peers into the faces of her parents, their sixteen-years-younger faces. That explains their bittersweet expressions; they were feeling sad for her birth mom.

  “So was it my biological father who took the picture?”

  Her dad shakes his head, still staring at the photo. “No, your biological father was a teenager who…who wasn’t there. Apparently he struggled with your birth mom’s decision to go through with the pregnancy.”

  Brenna doesn’t say anything as she absorbs this information. She wonders why she’s never asked about him before now. “So who took the picture then?”

  “Justin, I guess—or Reverend Reid as he’s now known. He was Kia’s friend then, before he became a minister, the one who spoke at your mom’s service. There were just the eight of us in the chapel,” he says, remembering, “including you and Kia’s minister. So it must have been Justin.”

  “Was Justin her boyfriend?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He was quite a bit older than Kia, and he ran the church youth group.”

  “He spoke to me after Mom’s service and told me he was at my birth.”

  As Brenna’s dad continues to stare at the photo, she remembers something. Climbing off her bed, she goes to her dresser and pulls open the bottom drawer. She slides her hand under the folded T-shirts and pulls out a large, thick envelope. Back on the bed she opens it and shakes out a bunch of greeting cards.

  “Why did she quit sending these to me?” Brenna asks her dad, picking one up and reading the inscription on the inside.

  Dear Brenna,

  Wishing you tons of fun, presents, cake and surprises on your 4th birthday!

  I love you so much and think of you every day.

  Love, Kia

  She rummages through the rest: Valentine’s Day, Easter, Christmas and birthday cards. She’d enjoyed receiving them—they made her reflect briefly on the woman she’d never known—but she hadn’t thought about it much when they stopped arriving. Until now.

  “I don’t know why she stopped sending them, honey. Kia would be…hmmm, about thirty-three now. I think the last one came when you were around twelve. Who knows what may have happened. Maybe she’s had more children, and it was too hard for her to keep on pining for the one she couldn’t keep.”

  Or maybe she forgot about me, Brenna thinks.

  “Anyway,” her dad continues, “it’s interesting that we’re talking about her…”

  Brenna meets his gaze. He looks concerned. She cocks her head, waiting.

  “I have two more gifts here for you, but…well…”

  “What, Dad?”

  “They might be a little painful to receive.”

  “Then don’t give them to me.” She flops back against her pillows. The day had been challenging enough already, with her mom being so noticeably absent from her birthday party.

  “I promised your mom.”

  That catches Brenna’s attention. “Well then, let’s get it over with.” Her mind is whirling, trying to imagine what her mother may have left behind to be given to her on her sixteenth birthday.

  Her dad hands her one of the two packages. She opens the card first. The outside flap says For My Daughter. When she turns to the inside, she’s startled to see the words Love, Mom written in her mother’s elegant handwriting below a poem. A folded sheet is tucked inside.

  “She signed it before she died,” her dad explains. “Obviously.”

  Brenna unfolds the enclosed letter with trembling hands.

  Dear Brenna,

  I’m sorry if it feels creepy to receive this letter after I’m gone, but I had always hoped to pass this gift on to you on the occasion of your 16th birthday.

  This journal was given to your father and me during your adoption ceremony. Kia (your birth mom) told us that she started writing it when she first discovered she was pregnant. She didn’t realize she was writing it for you, but the night before you were born she reread it and thought that you should have it. She felt that by reading it you would understand what she’d been through and why she chose to give you to us.

  I always felt you’d be ready for it when you turned 16, the same age your mother was when she conceived you.

  We haven’t talked about Kia for a long time, but I want you to know that she was a lovely young woman, sensitive and wise. I often see her again when I look at you because you’ve inherited her beauty, both inner and outer.

  The nature vs. nurture debate—which component has the greater i
nfluence on a child—has always intrigued me, but of course there is no doubt that it is nature that gave you your physical qualities. However, I’d like to believe that your father and I provided you with an environment in which you could thrive and reach your potential. That is what we promised Kia we would do.

  My early death changes everything, of course, but I have had almost 16 years with you and hope you’ll always feel that I was the best mother I could be in that time. I have loved you with all my heart. I hope you know that. How I would love to see you finish growing up, and maybe even get to know my grandchildren, but it seems that is not to be.

  Happy 16th birthday, my darling daughter, and I hope this journal helps you better understand who your birth mother is. I can now feel satisfied that I have carried out her wishes in delivering it.

  Love,

  Mom

  Brenna looks up from the letter, a lone tear running down her cheek. Slowly, carefully, she unwraps the small book. The cover is rough, made from recycled paper. Seeds and delicate flower petals are pressed into it. She fans through the pages, noticing the neat handwriting. Each piece of paper is unique, as delicate as butterfly wings and flecked with bits of pastel-colored tissue that has bled, creating a mottled effect. She notices an inscription on the front flap.

  To my wise friend Kia. Your words deserve special paper. Keep on writing, girl!

  Luv ya, Shawna.

  Brenna closes the journal but continues holding it between her hands.

  “Are you okay, honey?” her dad asks after a few moments.

  She nods but continues to sit in silence, staring at the cover of the journal, a numbness spreading through her. Suddenly she opens the top drawer of her night table and slams the book inside. It’s too much.

  After a moment her father offers her the second gift. She knows before she pulls off the paper what it will be—it’s the exact same shape as the other journal.

  The cover is beautiful, with a large abstract heart painted on it, much like a child’s drawing. A small tile with the word love on it is glued into the center of the heart, and other tiles cascade down the side to form the phrase live with your whole heart. She opens it to the first page and notices the inscription on the inside cover.

  To Brenna,

  May you find solace in writing down your thoughts, just as Kia did.

  Love you deeply,

  Mom

  Brenna sinks back on the bed and holds the journal to her chest. The tears stream unchecked down her cheeks. With a final pat on her shoulder, her father gets up and quietly leaves the room.

  three

  You said move on; where do I go?

  (KATY PERRY, “THINKING OF YOU”)

  “So, what did you get for your birthday?” Georgialee asks as she rubs sunscreen onto her legs.

  The swimming pool in Georgialee’s backyard lies aqua blue and undisturbed in front of them. The girls are sprawled out on side-by-side loungers. Bentley, Georgialee’s chocolate-brown Labradoodle, rests his heavy head on Brenna’s thigh, staring adoringly into her face. She scratches him behind his ears.

  “Lots of things. A necklace, some clothes, driving lessons.”

  Brenna feels Georgialee’s glance and remembers that Georgialee’s parents had provided lessons for her, not as a gift but as if it was their parental responsibility. Their gifts were always extravagant.

  “Anything else?”

  “My grandmother put a scrapbook together for me and Naysa.”

  “A scrapbook?” Georgialee frowns, puzzled.

  “It was filled with pictures of my mom and lots of stuff from her life.”

  “That sounds nice,” Georgialee says with a total lack of enthusiasm. It doesn’t surprise Brenna. Georgialee always steers the conversation away from talk of Brenna’s mom and her death. She seems to think her role as a friend is to distract Brenna from her grief. Brenna decides not to tell her about the journal from her birth mom.

  “I sure wish you’d let me throw you a party,” Georgialee says. “Pool parties are a blast.”

  Bentley places a paw on Brenna’s leg, reminding her to keep scratching. “Thanks for not throwing one,” Brenna says.

  “Everyone deserves a sweet-sixteen party.”

  “I would have hated it.” She puts both hands under Bentley’s chin and scratches, smiling down at him.

  “Brenna,” Georgialee says. She waits until Brenna looks at her. “It’s been almost two months. You’ve really got to start moving on.”

  Brenna holds Georgialee’s gaze for a moment, stunned at what she’s just heard. Instead of responding, she gently pushes Bentley out of the way, climbs off her lounger and walks over to the edge of the pool. Bentley pads along beside her.

  Brenna dives into the pool and floats underwater, the weight of her misery holding her down. She can hear Bentley’s muffled barks growing more and more hysterical before he too plunges into the water and noses her inert body to the surface.

  Aug. 17

  My mother has been “laid to rest.” What does that mean? Is she simply resting? No, she is dead. Dead dead dead. She is not in the sunlight or in the stars. She is not the rain or the wind. She is dead. Gone forever. I will never see her again. And Georgialee thinks I should “move on.” Fuck Georgialee.

  Brenna rereads her entry and slams the journal shut. She knows she shouldn’t have used that language on the first page of a brand-new journal, yet it’s exactly what she’s feeling, and her mom had hoped she’d find solace by writing out her thoughts. Oddly enough, she does feel better.

  Sliding open the drawer to return the journal to its place, she notices the letter from her mom, neatly folded in half. It lies on top of Kia’s journal. Kia probably didn’t mar her journal with swearwords. Well, fuck her too, Brenna thinks, and immediately feels better yet.

  She takes out the letter from her mom and rereads it, stopping at the line How I would love to see you finish growing up, and maybe even get to know my grandchildren… She refolds the letter and then picks up Kia’s journal. A fresh wave of grief washes through her. She stares at the cover but cannot bring herself to open it. After a moment she returns both the journal and the letter to the drawer but takes her own journal back out. She adds a note to the bottom of the day’s entry.

  Two mothers. One dead who wants to see me grow up, and the other alive but who chooses not to be in my life.

  “Great to see you back, Brenna. I’ve missed you.” He smiles.

  “Thanks.” Brenna quickly meets Ryan’s eyes before looking away. The last time she saw him was at her mother’s memorial service, when he’d lit a candle and talked about how kind her mother was. His Australian accent charms her, even now. She struggles to act like talking to a cool guy is something she does every day.

  Ryan is one of the “trammies” who operate the two Grouse Mountain trams that travel up and down the mountain, carrying passengers to the “Peak of Vancouver.” In the winter the one-hundred-passenger tram, called the Skyride, delivers skiers, snowboarders and winter sports enthusiasts to the snow-covered slopes, but in the summer it is mostly tourists and hikers.

  “I hear Grinder and Coola have missed you too,” he says, referring to the two orphaned grizzly bears that Brenna helps care for as a wildlife-refuge volunteer.

  “I bet,” she says, her skin burning at the attention.

  The Skyride quickly fills up, and Brenna steps to the back, allowing a large family group to move between her and Ryan. The doors close and she feels the jolt as the tram leaves the valley station and begins its eight-minute ascent to the peak. A moment later Ryan’s voice is heard through the intercom, welcoming the tourists to the mountain and pointing out the landmarks in the view unfolding below them. She knows the spiel by heart but still enjoys listening to his voice. As the tram glides over the tower that marks the halfway point of the trip, it sways and there’s a chorus of “ooohs” from the tourists. Brenna looks toward Ryan and finds him watching her. He rolls his eyes. She smiles and looks awa
y.

  At the summit Brenna follows the tourists off the tram.

  “Hi to the bears from me,” Ryan says as she passes him in the doorway.

  She thinks about him as she crosses the alpine meadow on her way to the bear habitat and realizes that apart from his being a flirt and Australian, she doesn’t know much else about him. She figures he’s over eighteen—too old for her—but she likes his playful teasing. And for the duration of the tram ride, her numbing grief has been relieved.

  At the Refuge for Endangered Wildlife, Brenna busies herself preparing bear food. Into pails go twenty-five sweet potatoes and thirty apples. With a knife she tops thirty-six carrots, wondering again why the bears won’t eat the nubby ends. She doubts that grizzlies in the wild would be such picky eaters.

  Mark, the wildlife manager, comes into the cabin while she’s measuring out two buckets of protein kibble. He has a watermelon under each arm. “Hey, Brenna, great to see you back,” he says, echoing Ryan’s words.

  “Thanks. How are the bears?” she asks quickly, trying to divert the conversation away from the reason for her absence.

  “They’re good. Mostly hangin’ out in the ponds, keeping cool, entertaining the tourists with their antics. The usual.”

  “Special occasion?” she asks, taking a watermelon from him.

  “No,” he says, laying the other one on the counter. “But they need to start packing on weight for hibernation. We’ve been giving them salmon too.”

  As Mark outlines the chores that need to be done, Brenna reflects on how much more comfortable she is with her responsibilities now than she was a year ago. Her mom, who had been manager of human resources for the mountain, had helped her get this position so Brenna could start accumulating the volunteer hours she needed for graduation. She’d wondered whether she’d be welcomed back once her mom was gone, but recently she’d received a card from the owner of the mountain resort, saying that her friends on the mountain had made a contribution to the World Wildlife Fund in her mother’s memory and that they hoped Brenna would be back to her volunteer work soon.