But I have to come back. For Babci.
Where are you going? When will I ever see you again?
She doesn’t have to say it. I see it in her eyes. Her fear, and it scares me.
Babci, I’ll see you at Christmas. I’ll make you some Babci bread. We’ll sing Stolat. Stolat, stolat, niech zyje zyje nam. May you live a hundred years.
I know, she nods, rubbing the beads of her rosary. Even though she’s not talking anymore, she’s still praying.
She prays for me, she once told me. She prays for everyone she knows and everyone she doesn’t know.
Even the man in the moon?
Even him, she laughed. And Ciocia Magda.
I’m there when Babci notices that Auntie Magda isn’t wearing her diamond ring. Babci rubs her thumb over Auntie Magda’s bare ring finger.
Mama, buzi, buzi. It wasn’t right. A little mistake. We couldn’t make each other happy. But we still love each other very much as friends.
I know what Babci thinks because I’ve heard her say it before, about Mrs. Sekula’s youngest daughter. Why leave a healthy living husband?
But Auntie Magda has hope. It’s a Polish kind of hope, closely related to guilt.
I’ll find someone else. You’ll see.
And to me, she says, If I don’t, I still have you, Cassie. You’ll come see me when I’m old.
I can’t quite imagine her old, because she hasn’t aged at all in the time I’ve known her. She takes very good care of herself, but she still cries a lot. She’s crying now.
We all pray for Auntie Magda in our own way. I think of her when I light a candle. Auntie Magda buys a new one for each of her lovers, and sometimes lights a lavender one for Lowell.
I think Babci understands. She kisses her own thumb and wipes away Auntie Magda’s tears with it. Then grasps both of our hands as if to say, I don’t want to leave you, but you have each other.
Drying off, I start to shake. Not because I’m cold, but because I’m terrified. I’m leaving everyone I love.
No one else is up yet. I shiver until my clothes are on. Enough of that. A year of planning, two scholarships and a bunch of Dad’s airline points are sending me to Vancouver, the most happening place in Canada. Where it’s warm even though it’s wet and everyone, including the art school dudes, are fit.
According to Mom, going to art school has been my destiny ever since I picked up a crayon. All of that stuff she gave me I’ve packed: art pencils and metallic markers and scissors that have never let me down or walked away.
Cassie, look what I found in the dining room cabinet.
Oh! My old blankie!
I wonder why it was there?
You probably hid it on me.
Maybe I was going to wash it, or mend it. Look how torn the blue edging is.
I used to cuddle it like this.
This white fabric with the little blue flowers, Mom says. So faded now.
It felt like her hand on my cheek.
Whose hand?
Babci’s.
Why?
Well, she made it.
I can see how you thought—
Babci could make anything! With her materials. And her angels. Like magic.
I know, but she didn’t—
It reminded me of her. That’s why I loved it.
It was before I learned how to quilt.
It looks so small now. I wonder why she made it so small?
It was supposed to be for your doll.
But I wasn’t into dolls, not until Barbie. And that was only because of the clothes.
Well, I didn’t know that when you were a baby.
What do you mean?
Cassie, I made it. I’ll fix it.
I can see it’s important to her to mend it, a task she meant to do long ago, so I give in, but not sure my kiddie blankie gives the image I want at art school.
Auntie Magda thinks I should get a nose ring. Very exotic, she said.
Mom glared at her.
I used to think I’d need a piercing to complete the look: obsessed, chic, pale. Except I can’t stay inside all day for anything. I need my trees. And Vancouver? I can’t think how anyone gets anything done there. Will my eyes ever get used to the mountains, trees and sea? I’ve promised to eat well so I won’t get sick and so I can do my best.
That’s the code around here. The Word of Mom.
My eyes prickle. I wonder if we’ll talk on the phone much. The boys hardly ever call, away on sports scholarships in separate, but adjoining, provinces. Having the Saskatchewan-Manitoba border in between must be weird for them. Mom phones each of them, every week. Will she phone me, too? She’s got Babci to worry about, going to the hospital and back every day, and driving Stella to her part time job at the pet store.
Mom comes in as I’m packing the blankie in my suitcase. We laugh. It feels so good to laugh together again. But it’s my next-to-last day at home.
I found this little basket of fabrics, Mom says. Remember these?
This is from Babci, I say.
You used to feel the fur coats of her ladies. You had to touch them.
I loved going to the Polish church with her so I could kneel and feel the lambswool and the shearling or the suede of the person in the pew in front of me.
Babci cut same-sized squares of various fabrics for me to keep for myself. Later she taught me their names. She knew the English words from the fabric store signs.
Silk. Babci made me a pink silk dressy jacket to go over a strapless dress.
Velvet from a Barbie gown. I stroke down its weft, and back up to change the hue of emerald green.
Brushed cotton. The same as for Dr. Kowalewski’s pillow. I rest my head on it, in my hand.
Seersucker. Stella and I had matching sundresses in this yellow print, and Mom used it in her Sunbonnet Sue quilt.
Polyester. A red boxy skirt suit that made me sweat. When one of my teachers said I looked like a red nun, I murmured, My Babci, my grandmother, is Polish.
Ultrasuede. You could wash it, and I had a dress in this navy. It also did not breathe.
Wool. Like the ouchy couch.
Tweed. Mom’s suit, browns and oranges.
Satin. Auntie Magda’s wedding dress, off white.
Denim from the boys’ old jeans.
Flannel for nightgowns. Stella and I got one every Christmas. Charlie and Tom got pyjama pants in the same Christmasy print, always white and red. Also Polish, Babci would remind us.
Rabbit fur to make collars on special suit jackets. This was my favourite. Still is.
Leather. I loved the black smell of it. I want a black leather jacket and dropped a big hint for Christmas.
This time I say it. Thanks, Mom.
I’m taking them all with me. I may add a few pieces, and I’m going to stitch them together, with Babci’s sewing machine, when I get to my dorm room. My own artful quilt of textures, or maybe I’ll use it in a mixed media or sculpture project. I’m nervous about three-dimensional work, but texture is my security blanket.
I hope Babci can hang on till Christmas for me. I need her to. I suddenly want a recording of that Christmas carol, “Lulajze Jezuniu,” to sing along to her but I only know the English words: Sleep little Jesus, my little pearl, while Mama comforts you, tender, caressing. I’ll find a Polish recording, the perfect present for her.
Dad’s concerned that art school may not lead to an actual job. He’s not enthused. It’s hard for him to understand that being an artist is a way of life, and being an artist means always learning and growing and that you need to travel to find teachers and opportunities. But he’s shown me how to make a budget and stick to it. And he got me a receptionist position at his office for the summer, to make some money of my own before I go.
I asked around, he said,
because your scholarship may not be enough. I talked to some colleagues and a financial planner. And they said if your daughter wants to be an artist, you should put aside money to match her income, to make it equitable with every other worker.
What?
Yeah, so that’s what I’m going to do. It’s only money.
But it can make you crazy.
That’s why I’m doing this. So you won’t worry.
I shouldn’t need a lot.
You won’t get a lot. But it should be enough.
I’m shocked by the weight of this unexpected insurance, yet not surprised that he’s actually researched and considered my future. And bonus, he gave me a duplicate of his credit card for emergencies. But the best is that he’ll come to visit on business trips to Vancouver, a couple of times a year. That will be awesome, just him and me, going out to a restaurant, walking the shore. I’ll get to show him around the school, my neighbourhood, the trees I make friends with in Stanley Park.
Mom thinks I should check in on Mrs. Sekula, Babci’s old friend, in a care centre in Vancouver. Even though we can’t communicate, I might. I would like to make her smile. I’d like to draw her smile. I’ve packed my lemon tree flipbook to take to her, and a photo of Babci and her apple tree.
I stash a card for my eighteenth birthday from Freddy in the flipbook that he inspired. I missed sending his last year, but mine to him this year was early to make up for it. This feels like the final card from Freddy: Claude Monet, Bouquet of Sunflowers.
Thank you for all your drawings, Cassie. They are framed on my dorm wall. When I go for my thinking walks, I look at trees because of you. Let’s keep in touch on email: [email protected]. Best wishes for art school. I’ll be in Paris next term, at the Sorbonne. One day I’ll be able to say, but of course, I have her originals. If you ever get to Europe, viens chez moi; I’m your man. Fred.
I’m saving to go to Paris. Maybe I’ll get a part-time job. Mom thinks, maybe in second semester, once I know my way around and have my schedule under control. I want to meet the Fred who once was Freddy. Some day.
Mom wants to go to Paris, too. She even suggested we do the trip together. I wonder.
I know Mom can’t come see me, at least not until... I can’t think about that. It’s might happen while I’m gone and it’s going to put me in pieces, but I have the hand studies and that’s what I’ll do... when Babci goes to her angels.
I may be working on them forever, like prayers, Polish protection.
Mom thinks I should come back for a quick visit at Thanksgiving.
I should. I will.
I know I’ll miss Stella. She’s getting old enough to be interesting. She’s going to have to do high school all on her own. I wonder how she’ll do around guys. Anyone she dates will have to be an animal lover, too, so she’ll probably be fine. She wants to be a vet.
I wrap up a framed piece of calligraphy Mom made.
I am Cassie Aleksandra
sister of Stella Mariana,
daughters of Diamonda (Dida) Stephania,
sister of Magda Evanjelika,
daughters of Zofja Wiktorja,
sister of Rosella Bacia,
daughters of a woman in Poland
whose name I don’t know.
I really want to know the name of the woman in Poland, and her mother and all the mothers before her. There are edges I need to explore.
I’m zipping it up, latching it tight, my past, my suitcase, my childhood. Wait. I’ve got to get some pix of all this. I pull out my camera, my grad present, suddenly really useful.
I use a flash on the family portrait, the one before the boys left. I look so young and unaware that I get the urge to draw a self-portrait of me before myself. And my sister, hanging on to Mom, she’s a big baby-child, fearless and angel-faced. I want to do a portrait of her, too. Her before herself.
One of the house, from the front, from the back.
A photo of the empty boys’ bedroom, tidied and ready for their next visit. Their quilts. They’re both going to law school now, so their college sports careers are over. I was hoping they’d visit Vancouver sometime, for tournaments, and I’d go to their games. But we’ll have Christmas holidays at home.
I take a picture of the goofy newspaper guy, who always says hi to me, the first one up, he thinks, but really the last one to bed or not at all.
I snap a few of my old tree pals down the block, then stuff my pocket with crabapples, a little softer than I like them, for an airplane snack. I breathe in the early morning smell of the pine, and pull a bit of bark off my beautiful birch, taking care not to make it bleed. I walk the neighbourhood, in dawning light, a tourist in my own time.
Back home, I check the fridge and there’s a lunch all made in a paper bag, ready to go. The last lunch. I pop it in my carry-on, and throw in a box of my personal tea for when I get to my dorm room: a narrow nun bed and a laminate desk, a tall window and a small closet. Mom and I checked it out on an overnight interview trip to Vancouver at Spring Break. I am eager to strip down to basics.
Fire.
Water.
Air.
Earth.
Fire: the feature wall by the bed. I’ve seen that orange before, in Auntie Magda’s orange paisley bikini. Mom and I bought bedding to match, and she’s made me a Stained Glass quilt of appliqué tree trunks against the sunrise, to set me on fire. Auntie Magda suggests tacking up drawings on the wall.
Neutralize the orange, she says. Never too much, or it will overtake.
I’m taking some candles to remind me of Auntie Magda despite Dad, who’s disappointed that I’ve inherited her candle habit. Scented ones to remind me of home: Sage, Cinnamon and Pine. And a new one of my own: Patchouli. When Dad found out, instead of an all-out lecture he suggested a pickle jar of water on my windowsill in case of fire, but I’ll get a cute watering can and a few plants. The window ledge is deep enough. It will remind me of Dr. Kowalewski’s gulag garden. I need some leaves. I need green. I need to grow.
Go with the flow, like water.
Take it as it comes, like air.
Let it happen, like earth.
Fuel the fire within.
I’ll make my windowsill the inspiration shelf. I’ll collect seedpods, pine cones, wood, any interesting texture or colour or shape. And pile them between my plants: tulip, orchid, geranium. I want to go beachcombing for bits of sea glass. Some shells. I’ll go for artist walks, where I photograph and breathe in and look and look closer. In the humid air. I want to devote myself to details. This is my chance.
My hair will go curly, and I’ll hardly ever have to brush it. It will look better with hats than straight hair. Most people there dye black, but I like that my curls show a variation of browns. I think I’ll wear hats. And keep a yellow apple on my desk to ground me.
Mom’s up and managing.
Did you get your lunch? Passport, ticket, money? What about the stuff in the dryer? I’ll get your sister out the door and then we’ll go.
Stella comes down the stairs slowly. The basement has been my domain for the year after art camp, with way more space to work on my portfolio. To be alone. No one comes near it except to do laundry next door. Stella took over my room, and Dad moved his study back up to hers. She knocks on my bedroom door, softly. She’s got a card for me, to open on the plane. And for my ears, when the plane takes off, like Dad likes to have when he flies, a package of gum, my favourite kind, cinnamon.
Have a whole piece, she says, not half. We giggle about Dad’s half-piece habit, but chewing a whole piece of gum feels like too much. We’ve been trained.
I show her my closet, still stuffed with clothes. I’ve only taken the blacks and greys. The rest are in colour order.
ROYGBIV, she smiles.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
Green.
Blue.
Indigo.
Violet.
Grade Two rainbows, she says. I was first in my class to know it because you taught me.
So you know where they go when you borrow.
It’s the first time I’ve seen all the colours hanging up.
Me, too.
We hug and I tell her to keep in touch. Dad’s giving her his old desktop so she can email. High school sucks without a good friend, and Stella’s a bit like me, a loner. A dreamer. But she’s also a lover of all creatures, so she’ll do okay. But I won’t be here to watch her be okay. I don’t think she’ll call me, but I’ll call her. I commit to it there and then, hugging her shy young body, but the same size as me.
I tell her that Dad wants to surprise her, and told me not to say but, sisters’ secret, he’s planning to bring her to see me in Vancouver once things are settled at home. Before Thanksgiving. She squealed!
We’ll go to the Vancouver Aquarium, which she will love, and go beachcombing and she can take photos with her new camera that is my old one that I’m leaving for her. It actually put me in pain not to tell her before. Stella gets so excited, like I used to, wanting to go everywhere with Babci. And their trip depends on Babci, if she’s stable. I figure that if the trip doesn’t happen, Stella at least gets to enjoy the idea now, but if it’s cancelled and she never knew, she would get nothing.
Stella helps me carry the suitcases upstairs and into the car, and then she’s off to walk a neighbour’s dog, leaving Mom and Dad and me. We don’t talk a lot on the way to the airport, but when we get to the security line, it all spills out.
We’re so proud of you.
I’ll miss you!
We love you.
Love you, too.
We’ll see you soon.
Christmas for sure. Maybe Thanksgiving.
I’ll book it for you, says Dad.
Call us, says Mom.
As soon as I get there.
Learn all you can. Enjoy every minute.
I’ll try.
Take really good care of yourself. The best.
We don’t cry. We are steady. Our eyes are clear. We mean everything we say.
After I collect my carry-on at security, turn back for a final wave and walk to the gate, I grasp a sensation from when I was very young. I’m cradled by my mother in the dark, in an unfamiliar place. Strange lights startle me. We are at the edge of the world, but my mother is fixed, a rock. I know she won’t fall over that edge because she holds me.
Art Lessons Page 14
