The next week passes by in a haze. I stumble through the motions of everyday life, trying to survive. Mom doesn’t seem fazed at all by Dad’s death. She buries herself in her school work, leafing through stacks of music, pulling out scores, and then shoving them back into the filing cabinet after making notes about which class will play what piece. When she finishes that, she drags us to Chilliwack and dives into buying us school supplies and clothes. Then she attacks the garden as though each weed is a mortal enemy, filling the red wheelbarrow to overflowing over and over. She finishes off by painting the fence and washing all the walls in our house claiming they’re dirty.
Dylan, on the other hand, has become four foot seven and sixty-five pounds of pure torture.
“Freeze!” he shouts the day after Dad’s funeral, pointing his red, double-barreled Dead-Eye Dart Gun at me, his face screwed up like a GI Joe. Before I have a chance to react, dozens of orange darts litter my room and stick to my hair and clothes.
“Mom!” I shout.
“Mm-hm?” she mumbles from the downstairs bathroom she’s scrubbing.
“Mom!” I yell again, but she’s not listening.
I bolt after Dylan, snatch his plastic gun and shove it on the top shelf of my closet where his short, little arms can’t reach it. Height is one thing I still have over him.
“Ha!” I brush my hands together in victory.
Dylan bounces up and down like a kangaroo, his straight, brown hair flying as he tries to reach his gun. Racing to his bedroom, he returns with another one. He has eight of the darn things, some bigger and some meaner. After a couple of frustrating days, I triumphantly guard eight Dead-Eye Dart Guns in my closet, the white doors tied together with the most complicated knot I can come up with. The house is cluttered with darts, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice.
Thank goodness Uncle Jack has kept his promise to take care of us and comes by nearly every day. He takes Dylan out and oftentimes cooks supper afterward. I love Uncle Jack and don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s my lifeline now that Dad’s gone. Ten years younger than Dad, he has a warm smile on his lips for anyone and a joke to make us laugh whenever he thinks we need one. He’s handsome too, with thick, brown hair, and dimples, but he’s not Dad.
Sighing, I recall the pact Dad and I made last year. He had promised me a new violin and put aside a lot of money for it, saying, “Any kid who plays the violin like that deserves it. Besides, you’ll need it to do your ARCT.”
An ARCT! Finally – that certificate from the Royal Conservatory of Toronto that says I’m as good as anyone who’s done two years of university. A real degree before I’m out of high school – if only Dad were here to see it.
I remember the day last summer when Dad and I stopped at the luthier’s tiny shop on Fraser Street in Vancouver to try out violins just for fun. Kristoff, the tall gentleman whose greying blond hair trailed down below his ears, had taken out dozens of shiny, new violins, but each time I tried one, I shook my head.
“You don’t like that one either?” He sighed, his Polish accent colouring the words as he placed back violin after violin on the neatly kept shelves.
“No. I know the sound I want,” I said, determined.
“What sort of sound?” Kristoff asked.
“It has to be sweet,” I said, a finger to my lip. “It’s hard to describe, but I’ll know it when I hear it.”
Kristoff turned to Dad. “I have some better ones, but they’re very expensive. They’re the type of instrument someone in the VSO would buy.”
Dad raised his brown eyebrows at me, questioning.
“The Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, Dad.” I giggled. He could be so out of it sometimes.
My heart leapt when Dad nodded, and Kristoff returned to the back room, trying to hide a grin of excitement.
He came back holding the most exquisite instrument I had ever seen. A dark brown, it smelled of fresh wood and varnish and shimmered in the light. I picked it up, thrilled at the lightness of it. Kristoff rosined the new bow and handed it to me. Raising the violin to my shoulder, I tested the wolf note that drove me nuts on my violin. A crystal clear F rang out in the tiny shop, deep and warm and sweet. Excited, I played another and another. Then I broke into Dad’s favourite – Danny Boy.
“This is it, Dad,” I said, smiling. “This is what I’ve been looking for – the very sound.”
Dad turned to Kristoff. “How much?”
Looking a little unsure, the luthier mumbled the price.
Dad nearly choked.
“Please, Dad?” I begged.
“Let’s wait until next summer. I doubt it’s going anywhere,” he said.
“Aw, Dad.” I clapped my hands together, but still he shook his head.
“You don’t need it just yet, but I promise you’ll have it to do your ARCT.”
“Honest?” I asked.
“Have I ever broken a promise before?”
“No.” I dropped my hands, defeated, but I was okay. Dad never went back on his word. He always came through. I could handle the old violin for a while longer.
We carefully laid the precious instrument in its box lined with gold velvet. And that’s when I named it – the Gold Violin. Kristoff looked a little disappointed, but the pact had been made.
Two weeks later we got the news – Dad had cancer.
I sigh at the memory, and then glance at Mom. She’s washing the dishes in the kitchen. It’s now or never, I think as I take tentative steps toward her.
“So when are we going to Vancouver to get my new violin?” I crack my knuckles over and over, a bad habit I have when I’m nervous.
Mom flinches as though she’s forgotten something important, but instead of saying, “Oh yeah, I forgot,” like I thought she would, she dries her hands, places one on my shoulder, and leads me to the living room.
I know something bad is about to happen by the serious look in her eyes. She motions me to sit down in the armchair while she settles into the matching couch opposite. I stare down at the patterns on the light blue rug and wait for her to drop the bomb.
“You’re going to have to wait for the new violin, Kira. I’m afraid we just can’t afford it right now,” she blurts out.
“What?” I cry. “But you bought Dylan’s!”
“Yeah, but his isn’t anywhere near as expensive as yours,” she says as though she thinks I’m too young to understand. “This is more like … an investment. It’s a lot of money. And besides, we got Dylan’s before Dad died.”
My chin drops. “What difference does it make if Dad’s gone or not?” I say, a lump welling up in my throat. “He put the money aside for it. He promised me.”
Mom sighs. “Honey, Dad and I didn’t prepare for his death the way we should have. The lawyer explained it to me yesterday. You see, we didn’t have joint accounts, and Dad didn’t even have a proper will. So now we have to wait until everything goes through the courts before I inherit his money. We’ll need that cash to live on.”
“But Mom. How am I going to do my ARCT?” My voice trembles, and I can feel hot tears forming in my eyes.
“You can still do your ARCT. You’ll just have to use your old violin until the money comes through,” she says in her Mom-knows-best voice.
My eyelids blink fast, uncontrolled. “But it’ll sound awful.”
“No, it won’t.”
The lump in my throat threatens to burst. “But I’ve waited a whole year for this.”
“Kira.” Mom rises from the couch and digs her hands into her hips, “Be reasonable. We simply can’t afford it right now.”
“Mom, I can’t play that violin anymore. It’s got a really bad wolf tone on it that sounds like a yowling cat. It’s a block of wood with nails and strings attached.” My voice breaks. “And besides …” I throw the final punch, “I used it to play at Dad’s funeral!”
The last words are choked as the lump in my throat erupts and I burst into tears, running up to my room, taking two steps at a time. Mom calls after me, but I ignore her and throw myself on my bed, sobbing.