A Time for Giving Page 2

  December 21

  Last night I slept the whole night through. No dreams. No waking up to check that my shoes were right beside my bed. I didn’t wake up until Mother came in. She saw Borden snuggled up to me and just lifted her eyebrows, but didn’t say a word.

  Today we’re going sledding.

  December 22

  This journal is almost full. There is just enough room for me to write about the angel if I squish the writing a bit. What happened last night was frabjous. Like in the poem Jabberwocky by Mr. Lewis Carroll.

  O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

  He chortled in his joy.

  The frabjousness started over dinner. Charles and I were telling Naomi about our grandparents and all the things we did in England on our trips to see them. For example, both of us went on an expedition to see the White Horse of Uffington, which is a huge outline picture of a horse cut into a hillside. Under the grass is chalk, so the outline of the horse is white. Ancient as can be. Father said to Charles that at least they hadn’t taken us to see the Cerne Abbas Giant, and then they both gave that man-to-man laugh and Mother gave a little warning cough that means “drop the subject.” They think I don’t know that the Cerne Abbas Giant is another outline picture, of a naked man. The grandparents didn’t take us to see it, but Grandmother told me all about it. Naomi said that she hoped she could meet Grandfather and Grandmother one day because they sound lovely.

  Then, much later when I was asleep, there was a soft knock on my door. It was Naomi. She said that she and Charles had a plan to celebrate the winter solstice and if I wanted to be part of it I should get dressed. But I needed to be quiet. She said I should wear my warm sledding clothes. Of course I wanted to be part of it! She helped me get ready and when we got to the back door, there was Charles holding two brooms, a roll of twine and the turkey platter. He looked like a man with a big secret. I saw by the kitchen clock that it was 2 o’clock!

  We slipped out the door and headed along the street toward the Citadel. There was new snow everywhere and our footprints were the first. It was like we were the first people in the world.

  Naomi told me the plan. She said it was her idea and all because of the White Horse of Uffington. Naomi and Charles didn’t seem like serious grown-ups, fiancée and fiancé, but just like friends.

  When we got to Citadel Hill it was a perfect blank page of snow. Charles tied one broom onto my right arm and the other onto Naomi’s left arm. Then, with her carrying the turkey platter, we tiptoed our way right to the middle of the field of snow. We lay down close, side by side, with our heads on the platter. It was cozy. Then we swished our broom arms in giant arcs, back and forth, until we had brushed away the snow right down to the grass. Then we untied the brooms and tied them to our outer legs. This was hard because we had to take our gloves off and our fingers were cold and clumsy. But we managed and then we swished our legs just like our arms. Then we untied the brooms again, pushed the platter down into the snow and then picked it up, scrambled to our feet and tiptoed back to the edge of the field, sweeping away our footsteps behind us as we went.

  We didn’t look up until we got back to Charles. Then we did.

  There she was, the giant mysterious snow angel. We just stood there, hand in hand in hand, admiring her.

  “What will they think in the morning,” said Naomi, “when they go by?”

  “She will become a legend,” said Charles. “I’ll come as soon as it’s light and take a photograph.”

  “She’s the Angel of Citadel Hill,” said Naomi.

  I thought of the confirmation class where Rev. Hill made Phoebe cry. “No, not angel. She’s the Seraph of Citadel Hill.”

  “Perfect,” said Charles. “A secret early Christmas present for all of Halifax.”

  Then, wet and cold, we hurried home in the moonlight.

  There are two more lines left in this journal. I want to fill it up.

  Angels from the realms of glory.

  Wing your flight o’er all the earth.

  Against all odds, Abby and her family survived one of Canada’s worst natural disasters, a massive landslide that sent half a mountain tumbling onto their town. But her little brother with Down Syndrome has not fared so well, and her friend Bird isn’t in town, so Abby is having a lonely lead-up to Christmas. Then a suggestion from an old friend from Montreal sends her on a new and intriguing path.

  The Real Blessings

  Friday, December 15, 1905

  Today I went to visit Miss Radcliffe. She is housebound after recovering from a fall. Forgetting how strong the wind can blow in Frank in the winter, she stepped outside yesterday and was bowled over by a sudden, powerful gust. Mother was there but not close enough to catch her before she hit the ground. Mother did manage to lift her back onto her feet, but her face had struck a boulder, she was badly shaken and she had sprained her right wrist.

  When I first saw Miss Radcliffe this afternoon, I was shocked at how battered she looked. Her arm was bandaged, her forehead was bruised and her cheek had a nasty scrape. But she scoffed when I gasped. She’s not young but she is tough.

  “Do me a favour and ignore my war wounds, Abby,” she said. Then, before I could catch my breath and say how sorry I was, she demanded to know whether I was still writing in my diary.

  I didn’t want to talk about it, but her catching me off guard that way made me blurt out that I had stopped writing when Davy was sick, and somehow, in those weeks, it got lost and I couldn’t begin a new one afterwards.

  She was quiet for a moment and then she said, “I thought that was probably what happened.”

  The way she said this and the way she looked at me made me squirm. I still don’t understand why I felt guilty about not starting to write again. But I did. And I felt angry at her for asking me about it so abruptly. I wanted to tell her it was none of her business, but I couldn’t be rude to Miss Radcliffe.

  I was trying to think of a way to change the subject when she patted my hand, saying that she understands why I gave up, but that I must go back and write down all that has happened to me in the past few weeks.

  “If you think back, Abby,” she said, “you will remember how it has helped you to write about your pain before.”

  “I can’t,” I started, but before I could say more, she reached into her bag, drew out this lovely notebook and put it on my lap.

  “When one is about to begin working on a challenging piece of writing, one needs a new notebook,” she told me with a smile that made me lower my hackles. She reminded me that she had always believed I was a gifted writer, and how much she loved reading my work.

  I blushed. Then I looked down at the notebook and I could feel the cold, empty place inside me shrink ever so slightly. The first one she gave me, long ago when we lived in Montreal and Father had just died in an accident, did help me get through that confusing time. None of us knew what was going to happen to us — moving to Frank to live in a hotel with an uncle and aunt we had never met, sharing our living space with lots of other people, having to pitch in at the hotel and learn a new way of life. Davy had won people’s hearts in no time — well, except people who only saw a handicapped little boy — but Olivia and John certainly found the move difficult at first.

  After getting over the shock of the landslide that buried so much of Frank, at least some things improved, like the mines reopening. And Olivia’s wedding to Jeremiah cheered us all up. But now I am having to bear this new loneliness, which has been inside me ever since I realized I was going to lose Davy. I have done my best to hide my heartache. Mother guessed, I know, because she felt it too. But the others all believed I had gotten over grieving and was feeling fine. Some people actually said his death must be a relief to me, since he was so disabled and I had always been the one who looked after him.

  Miss Radcliffe knew better. She had guessed we needed her help, I think, because the Slide had left all of us grieving. I cannot explain how she made such a difference by coming out to visit us and t
hen deciding she would move out west to stay. Once she came, she helped me with the high school subjects I did by correspondence, but then when Davy got pneumonia, I had to put my studies aside to nurse him. The doctor had told us he might not survive, so I had warning, but it was still terrible.

  Like me, Miss Radcliffe has loved Davy from the day he was born. So when she gave me this notebook, I could not stay mad at her. I knew, deep down, that she was right. So I promised I would try. And it is absolutely true that a new notebook does make you want to start writing. I have begun and I will go on tomorrow even though some of it will be hard to put down on paper.

  That is enough for tonight.

  Saturday, December 16, 1905

  It has been such a strange year. First came all the excitement of Alberta becoming an official province. I have never before attended so many big parties, helped put on concerts, marched in parades, attended picnics or heard so many politicians and ministers and other bigwigs make endless speeches. I hate sitting still listening to men going on and on about what a fine place we live in, what a grand future we are about to begin, how we must all work together to make wonderful progress come about. All the words sound the same, all the messages preachy and tedious.

  When I am seated on a hard chair, being bored to death but trying to look impressed, struggling to keep from yawning, I wonder if all the other people are having as much trouble not twitching as I am. My feet wiggle, the back of my neck itches and I feel as though I am about to let out a shriek.

  Olivia has no such trouble controlling her body. She sits there, looking saintly, with her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes gazing at the pontificating personage as though she is deeply impressed. (Miss Radcliffe will like that bit.) But I know that my sister is not really listening the way she seems to be. She is planning what she will cook for Jeremiah’s supper, concocting programs for her piano pupils, deciding what her next dress pattern will look like and delighting in thoughts about her precious baby Frank (christened John Frank — John for his uncle and Frank for the town, but everyone calls him Frank). Olivia is dear to me, of course, but her appearance of perfection can be downright irksome.

  What is the matter with me? This diary is supposed to be filled with the stories of my life and it is sounding stuffy instead. Is it because I keep thinking of Davy and nothing seems funny or lively now? I keep reliving the last days. It was terrible listening to him fighting to get a breath. It was as though he was drowning. When he finally gave up, I was glad in spite of wanting to keep him with me. Nobody, especially a little boy, should have to suffer like that.

  The last word he spoke before he lost consciousness was my name. He was in my arms and he opened his eyes and looked up at me and said, “Aa-bee.” I felt as though he had reached out to pat my hand one last time.

  I was still supporting him when he stopped breathing. The silence that falls at that moment is louder than any sound.

  I hate it when people tell us that his death was a blessing and that he has gone to a better place and that his suffering is over. He only suffered at the very end. He was a truly happy person. And his life was a blessing, not his death. When people say he is in a better place now, I try not to let my rage show and I nod my head without speaking. If I opened my mouth to tell people my thoughts, they would be shocked.

  Nobody living in our hotel says his death was a blessing. Every one of them loved him. I am not the only one who misses him.

  That is enough for now. I am going to bed.

  Sunday, December 17, 1905

  In the night, after I had started writing in my diary, I made up my mind to write a cheerful poem to give Miss Radcliffe for Christmas. And I have started it! It is going to take me a while to finish, but I’ll put down the start here now.

  I am going to write it out on good paper to give to her. She said I should write something that would give my thoughts a fresh direction. And I have. Miss Radcliffe is the one person who believes I will become a writer. It was thinking of her that made me begin my poem with the wind.

  My Alberta

  Knock-down winds and big, blue sky,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Snow-capped mountains, proud and high,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Prairie dogs and antelope,

  Wildflowers blooming on a slope,

  Folks who never give up hope,

  That’s my Alberta.

  A place with sunshine at its heart,

  That’s my Alberta.

  A Province in a rush to start,

  That’s my Alberta.

  The prairie stretching mile on mile,

  Hills where you can dream a while,

  Friendly faces, quick to smile,

  That’s my Alberta.

  I think she will really like it if I can keep going. I really like it myself. I do feel happier.

  Perhaps tonight I will fall asleep without missing Davy’s body curled up next to mine.

  Monday, December 18, 1905

  I made up more verses this morning before I got out of bed. I am proud of them. I rewrote them this afternoon while I did chores. It was fun, and it helped to take my mind off missing Davy, too. Here they are.

  The way the mountains hide the sun,

  That’s my Alberta,

  Before the afternoon is done,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Watching wildlife wing and prowl,

  The mountain elk and snowy owl,

  And hearing the coyotes howl,

  That’s my Alberta.

  The echoes when somebody calls,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Booming back from canyon walls,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Blazing stars that light the night,

  Eagles poised upon a height,

  Then soaring in majestic flight,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Tuesday, December 19, 1905

  Olivia was here with her baby this morning. Frank is so sweet, even though he does drool sometimes. My sister is an excellent parent. Mother beams at Olivia when she is rocking Frank and singing silly songs she makes up. I wonder if she ever thought of writing a poem.

  Here’s more of mine.

  A place with space to spread my wings,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Lullabies my sister sings,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Waking glad for each new day,

  Watching grasses dip and sway,

  Knowing here is where I’ll stay,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Prairie paths I love to roam,

  That’s my Alberta.

  This country where my heart’s at home,

  That’s my Alberta,

  The Canada where I belong,

  Where I will grow up proud and strong,

  And which I’ll love my whole life long,

  That’s my Alberta.

  It has rough spots, but Miss Radcliffe won’t mind. Maybe I should not have put Olivia in, but it rhymes so perfectly. And I like it. I will show it to Mother tomorrow.

  Wednesday, December 20, 1905

  I not only miss Davy, I also wish my friend Bird had not left Frank when school let out. But tonight I have a new friend. She seems to have heard me wanting her and has come to comfort me. I was lying awake listening to the little noises you hear in the night in a hotel. People cough sometimes or shut the door to the bathroom or drop something.

  I was thinking about my poem when all at once I heard someone crying. Whimpering is a better word maybe. I waited for the sound to stop, but it didn’t. It was so sad and small and it seemed to be right at the back door, just outside my bedroom. Finally I couldn’t bear it and I pulled on my robe and tiptoed out and stood at the door, listening. It got louder. It was so forlorn. That is the exact word. Miss Radcliffe would be proud of me for coming up with it.

  I opened the door and in she tumbled! She’s a puppy. She’s very young, but her eyes are open. She’s still fluffy with baby fur. And she looked up
at me and threw back her little head and positively wailed.

  I picked her up and she was shivering. The pads on her tiny feet were freezing cold. She keeps nipping at my fingers. Her tiny teeth are incredibly sharp. I think she has mistaken me for her mother. She surely needs a mother — her bones are sticking out. I can’t see how she stayed alive out in the snow. I am calling her Scruffy at the moment, but I will have to think up a better name. I will not name her Alberta. She is too small for such a big name.

  I gave her some milk to lick off my finger. Tomorrow I’ll find a bottle — that will work better. I have brought her inside my room and tucked her into Davy’s spot. She got enough milk that she has fallen asleep. I cannot believe I have a puppy. I have never had a pet. Father did not approve of them. I didn’t need one while I had my Davy, but now she seems just what I was needing without knowing it.

  Thursday, December 21, 1905

  I just have time to scribble in the next bit of my Alberta poem while the puppy is having a nap. It is just one verse but I like it.

  Rattlesnakes and rodeos,

  That’s my Alberta,

  The cottonwood, the prairie rose,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Riding up a rocky trail,

  Hearing the train whistle wail,

  Finding friends who never fail,

  That’s my Alberta.

  Later

  Scruffy is now Scrap. Nobody has any idea where she came from — like me! Nobody knows where I came from either. But I was adopted by the most loving of mothers. I will try to be Scrap’s adopted, most loving mother.

  Cousin Mark named her. John said we should call her Cannibal after she tried to eat his thumb, but Mark said, “How can you mind a bite from such a scrap?” Then Jeremiah invited her to chomp on his wooden leg. She tried, but did not find it to her liking. She backed up, sat down and sneezed mightily. Then she pretended we were not laughing at her. It was so funny.