Dancing in the Rain

by Shelley Hrdlitschka

  The bear habitat encompasses five acres of land that closely resembles the environment they’d live in if they were in the wild. Carrying the pails, Brenna walks around the fenced enclosure, tossing in food so the bears can forage for it. She thinks about how much her mom loved this mountain resort. Just being here makes her feel a little closer to her.

  “Grinder was found abandoned as a very small cub,” Mark tells the group of tourists that has gathered around him for the morning ranger talk. “He would never have survived on his own in the wild.”

  Standing to the side, Brenna listens to the familiar story.

  “Coola was found the same summer. His mother had been hit by a truck on a highway and killed, and he was also a very young and helpless cub.”

  The bears and I have something in common now, Brenna thinks. Dead mothers.

  “Will they ever be released?” a tourist asks.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Mark answers. “They’re far too accustomed to humans so might pose a threat if they were released. But we maintain their habitat to match—as closely as possible—what they would have in the wild.”

  Brenna feels a presence directly behind her.

  “I told you they’d missed you,” a voice whispers in her ear.

  She jumps, startled, and swings around. Ryan grins down at her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks quietly, not wanting to disrupt Mark’s presentation.

  “It’s my lunch break,” he whispers. “I thought I’d come and check on my favorite bears.”

  Their gazes return to the habitat. The bears have discovered the watermelons, and the tourists are laughing in delight. Each bear has cracked one open and is sitting back on his haunches, eating the sweet red flesh inside. Brenna watches as a couple of ravens hop about near the bears, hoping for some watermelon fall-out. Coola gets up and lumbers away, half a watermelon clamped firmly in his mouth.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, more to herself than Ryan. She never grows tired of watching them.

  “They really are.”

  A few minutes later Grinder gets up and follows Coola into the forest. The tourists begin to move away.

  “I really did like your mom,” Ryan says softly.

  Brenna’s shoulders stiffen.

  “She was kind of like a surrogate mother to me. My own mom is so far away.”

  Brenna nods, feigning intense interest in the ravens who are feasting on the leftover watermelon.

  “Anyway, I wanted you to know that.”

  “Thanks.” She clears her throat. “And thanks for speaking at her service.”

  A fresh breeze sweeps across Brenna’s face. She takes a deep breath.

  “I lost a brother a couple of years ago,” Ryan says. “I kind of know what it must feel like.”

  Now Brenna does glance at him. “What happened to him?”

  “Car accident. He was the passenger.” He stares into the distance. “The driver walked away. They’d been partying. A familiar story, I know.”

  “Oh my god. How old was he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says quietly and looks away. Why did he have to share that story? She has no tolerance for any more sadness right now.

  “Thanks. My mom never got over it. I felt like such a jerk when I moved here.” Ryan hesitates, as if trying to choose the right words. “She must feel like she’s lost two sons.”

  Brenna nods and glances at him, suspecting that he has left something unsaid. She wonders how her own mom would feel if something ever happened to her or Naysa, then remembers that this will never happen to her mom. She died first.

  “I have to get back to work,” Ryan says, snapping her back to the present. He squeezes her arm and looks directly into her eyes. “Hang in there, Brenna.”

  She blinks and looks away. Why does sympathy always make her start crying again? She can only nod.

  After a moment her gaze falls on his back, and she watches as he crosses the mountaintop on his way to the chalet.

  Aug. 16

  Is giving a baby up for adoption as tragic as losing a child to death? Probably not. With adoption, you know (or hope) the child will be fine, but the pain might be the same.

  Brenna slides her journal back into the drawer and glances at the other one, still unread. With a shake of her head she shuts the drawer. She turns off her reading light and pulls the quilt up to her shoulders, hoping sleep comes quickly and that she can stay asleep all night. She knows her dad has resorted to sleeping pills.

  “This is so disgusting.” Georgialee pinches her nose with one hand while bagging Bentley’s droppings with the other.

  Brenna shakes her head, unsympathetic. “You should try shoveling grizzly-bear poop. Dog poop is nothing.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Georgialee says, knotting the bag. “Or why.” She drops the heavy bag into a nearby garbage bin.

  The two girls continue rollerblading along the Stanley Park seawall, Bentley galloping beside them. As they pass under the Lions Gate Bridge, Brenna notices two girls jogging toward them. Their blond ponytails swing in unison, like a pair of windshield wipers.

  “Hey, Georgialee!” one of them says, slowing her pace as they pass each other.

  “Julia!” Georgialee glides to a stop. “Hey, hi!”

  The joggers keep running on the spot, keeping their heart rates up, Brenna figures. She doesn’t know them but decides they must be sisters, they look so much alike. Georgialee quickly introduces them before Brenna takes Bentley’s leash from her and lets him pull her away from the little group.

  “Getting ready for the Terry Fox run?” she hears Georgialee ask.

  “Yeah, and the Turkey Trot at Thanksgiving. How ’bout you?” They’ve slowed to walking on the spot.

  Brenna catches Georgialee’s eye before Georgialee answers. “I think I’ll do both. Just taking it a bit easy with Brenna today. She’s more of a walker, so we’re blading, kind of a compromise. But there’s still six weeks to train.”

  Brenna moves farther away, out of hearing range of the conversation. She sees them all turn to look at her at one point, before continuing their discussion. She figures Georgialee has told them about her mom. She wonders if, when she gets back to school, she’ll be known as the-girl-whose-mom-died-of breast-cancer. She’d hate that but knows she’d probably categorize other people the same way if she didn’t know them. Being the-girl-who-was-adopted might be another label that people could use to describe her.

  Bentley tugs on the leash, and she follows him down toward the water. She sits on the barricade and sets him loose to explore the rocky beach. Looking across the busy harbor, she sees Grouse Mountain towering above the north shore of the city. From this vantage point the tram looks like a tiny red speck ascending the steep slope. She wonders if Ryan is on that tram, going through his spiel.

  After a few minutes Georgialee’s friends jog off, and Brenna and Bentley rejoin her on the seawall. “Where do you know them from?”

  “That’s Julia, from my running group. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her to you.”

  “And her sister?”

  “No, that’s her mom.”

  Brenna glances at Georgialee, wondering if she’s joking.

  “I know,” Georgialee says. “She looks so young. Actually, she is young. She had Julia when she was, like, fifteen or something.”

  They continue to roll along the seawall. A seaplane buzzes through the harbor, ascending quickly to fly over the bridge that is now behind them.

  “Can you imagine being a mom already?” Georgialee asks, breaking the comfortable silence. “She would have had Julia by the time she was our age.”

  Brenna doesn’t answer. Her own birth mom wasn’t much older when she had Brenna.

  “But Julia thinks it’s great,” Georgialee continues. “She says it’s only ever been the two of them, and they do everything together. They’re more like sisters than mother and daughter. I’d like a mom l
ike that.”

  I’d just like a mom, Brenna thinks.

  Aug. 18

  Would Kia and I be like sisters if she had kept me? Would we hang out together? Share clothes? How would I feel if my mom was mistaken for my sister? Do we look alike? Maybe not. Maybe Kia is Caucasian and my birth dad was Asian? For some reason I picture her looking like an older version of me.

  Would I even want a sister as opposed to a mother?

  They looked so happy together.

  Brenna pushes mashed potatoes and peas around her plate. Would they ever get used to the empty chair, the one at her mom’s place at the table? Maybe they should invite a guest to dinner each night to keep the chair filled. No, she decides, if they did that, they’d have to carry on a cheery conversation, and none of them has enough energy for that.

  “Only a couple of weeks until school starts,” her dad says.

  The sisters both nod but don’t reply.

  “Is there anything you’re going to need? School supplies, clothes…?” he asks.

  The girls glance at each other and shrug. The new school year doesn’t have that fresh-start feel that it did in other years. It’s just something else to get through while they wait for the grief to ease, if it ever does.

  “Well, let me know if you think of anything,” he says. They finish their meal in silence.

  Brenna stares blankly at her computer screen. The house is still, but she knows that both her dad and Naysa have retreated to their respective rooms, Naysa with an iPad and her dad with his laptop. With her mom gone it’s like the heart of their family has stopped beating. She longs for the soft sound of her mom’s voice as she chats on the phone or her boisterous laughter when her dad shares a funny story. She even misses the steady hum of it as she helps Naysa with her French homework. No one bothers to play music anymore either. The music would probably bring up a fresh surge of Mom memories.

  A notification from Facebook appears in her email program.

  New message from Angie Hazelwood

  Brenna studies the name. Hazelwood. It’s familiar, but she can’t immediately place it. She stares at the message but hesitates to open it. And then she remembers.

  Putting her laptop aside, she pulls out the big envelope of greeting cards from her bottom dresser drawer. She flips through them until she finds one that was put back in its envelope. In the corner is a return label: Kia Hazelwood.

  Back on her laptop she stares at the name, trying to get her head around it. Someone related to her birth mom has sent her a message via Facebook. What could it possibly be about? She moves the cursor to the message but suddenly changes her mind and shuts down the page. She lies back on her bed, aware of how fast her heart is pounding. She tries to slow her breathing, but it’s hopeless.

  What is the matter with me? she wonders. Why can’t I read the journal or open that message? So many questions might be answered.

  She lies motionless, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. And then it comes to her. Yes, she might find some answers, but she might not like what she finds. Perhaps her birth mom is dead too. That might tip her over the edge.

  Once her heart rate feels somewhat normal again, Brenna pads down to the family room, where she turns on the TV and channel-surfs until she comes across a rerun of Survivor. She places the remote on the table and sits back, ready to lose herself in the artificial world where no one actually dies and there is always something the people can do to save themselves. She feels first Naysa and then her father settle onto the couch beside her. They watch in silence.

  Inhaling deeply, Brenna holds her breath for the count of five and then exhales slowly. She hears the woman on the next mat release her breath and wonders how much success that woman is having at clearing her mind.

  “Give your thoughts wings,” the yoga teacher instructs. “And let them simply float away.”

  Brenna’s thoughts refuse to float away. The name Angie Hazelwood keeps flapping to the front of her mind, like a bird that can’t quite make its landing. Who is Angie Hazelwood and what does she want? Should Brenna read the message? What harm would it do? She wouldn’t have to respond…but what if it really is more bad news? Brenna reminds herself to breathe.

  Yoga is something she’d practised with her mom, mostly because her mom loved it, but they’d stopped coming when she became too weak. Brenna hadn’t expected to come back after her mom died—it wouldn’t be the same—but she’d found herself here this morning, knowing she needed something to calm her fretfulness. She tries not to focus on anything but the postures as the class proceeds. It takes a while, but as she lies back into that final pose, savasana or corpse pose, she realizes that the anxiety has lifted and a sense of peace has settled over her.

  Back in seated posture, the class is instructed to breathe deeply one last time. As Brenna exhales, she notices again how calm her mind is.

  “May you find the inner strength to face all the challenges the day presents,” the teacher says, bringing the class to a close. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” the class replies in unison.

  As Brenna bows toward the teacher, she knows what she has to do.

  At home she goes straight to her room, flips open her computer and stares at the message notification for a long time, feeling the strength she’d had at the end of class already seeping away. She takes another deep breath, moves the cursor to the message and clicks. The message appears with a tiny picture of Angie Hazelwood staring out at her from the corner.

  Dear Brenna,

  I hope you don’t mind me contacting you like this. I’m your biological aunt, your birth mom’s sister. A couple of days ago I ran into Justin Reid, who was my sister’s good friend, especially when she was pregnant with you. He told me that your adoptive mother had passed away.

  I was so sorry to hear that. I was just nine when you were born, so I didn’t understand much about what was happening, but I have often wondered about you and hope you are well, though I guess you’re not so good right now with the loss of your mom.

  Anyway, please excuse me for writing to you like this. I don’t want to interfere with your life, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and your mom. I wanted you to know how sorry I am.

  Angie Hazelwood

  Brenna sits back and exhales, realizing she’s been holding her breath the whole time she was reading the letter. So, she has an aunt. Someone younger than her mom. Brenna has never even wondered whether Kia has brothers or sisters.

  This aunt, Angie, sounds like a nice person, taking the time to write to a stranger—even a related stranger—to give her condolences.

  Brenna reads the letter again. Strange that she didn’t say anything at all about Kia. Maybe she thought Brenna didn’t want to know anything.

  When she goes to Angie’s Facebook page, Brenna discovers it has high privacy settings. She considers requesting her as a friend but decides against it. There must be some reason she wants her privacy. She wonders if Angie has checked out her page. What impression would Angie have of her after seeing her pictures and posts?

  Brenna jumps, startled, when her cell phone rings. It’s Georgialee. She decides not to answer it. Georgialee’s chatter will keep her from doing what she knows she has to do next, before she loses her nerve.

  Knowing that her dad and Naysa will be out for at least a couple more hours, she takes Kia’s journal from her drawer and stares at the cover. Then, after taking one more deep breath, she turns to the first page.

  four

  Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.

  (C.S. LEWIS, A GRIEF OBSERVED)

  Jan. 1

  Virgin paper, fresh, crisp, clean

  It’s only an illusion.

  It’s recycled, not pure at all.

  Illusion…do I look different?

  Can anyone see what is happening to me?

  Jan. 5

  Blue.

  The blue of tropical water, the surf pounding the shore.

&n
bsp; The blue of the sky on a brilliant spring day.

  The blue of a speckled robin’s egg.

  The ice-blue of Derek’s eyes.

  The blue ring in the water.

  It’s confirmed.

  I am.

  Blue.

  Jan. 10

  May the fleas of a thousand camels infest his Tommy Hilfiger jockey shorts.

  No, a swarm of bees—same place.

  Brenna rereads the first two entries, and a wave of understanding washes through her. Kia had just discovered she was pregnant. The blue she referred to must have been a pregnancy test. Brenna knows that with home tests something changes color to indicate a pregnancy.

  She rereads the next two entries and a few more before snapping the book shut and flopping back on her pillow. She closes her eyes.

  It feels wrong, reading Kia’s intimate thoughts, especially the passages where she describes the steamy attraction between her and Brenna’s birth father…

  She goes to the kitchen and takes a soda out of the fridge. Deep breaths, she reminds herself. Deep breaths.

  While she fills a glass with ice she thinks about the journal entries. They’re poignant and arranged almost like poetry. No wonder the girl named Shawna who gave Kia the journal and inscribed it said that her words deserved special paper. They really did. She wonders if Kia is still writing.

  Grabbing a granola bar from the cupboard, she goes back to her room, climbs on her bed and continues reading.

  Jan. 13

  Two hearts beating…

  Inside of me

  Are they in unison

  Or does each have its own rhythm?

  Jan. 16

  Is the date of my death already determined?

  Like the date for the tiny soul living inside me?

  How long will I get to live?