Dancing in the Rain

Shelley Hrdlitschka

Description

While struggling with the death of her beloved adoptive mother, sixteen-year-old Brenna reconnects with members of her biological family, hoping to discover why her biological mother broke off contact many years earlier.

At the same time, she is falling in love with Ryan, who provides support while she grieves but has to leave her when she needs him most. Despite powerful feelings of abandonment, Brenna realizes that getting strong physically and focusing on the needs of others might just help her move beyond her crippling grief, find peace and plan a future for herself.

Dancing in the Rain continues the story that began in Shelley Hrdlitschka’s bestselling Dancing Naked.

Sujets

• Young Adult Fiction
• Grouse Mountain
• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Orca Book Publishers
• Date de parution: 06 septembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781459810679
• Langue: English

Extrait

Dancing in the Rain
SHELLEY HRDLITSCHKA
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright 2016 Shelley Hrdlitschka
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hrdlitschka, Shelley, 1956-, author Dancing in the rain / Shelley Hrdlitschka.
Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-4598-1065-5 (paperback).- ISBN 978-1-4598-1066-2 (pdf).- ISBN 978-1-4598-1067-9 (epub)
I. Title. PS 8565. R 44 D 36 2016 j C 813'.54 C 2016-900463-5 C 2016-900464-3
First published in the United States, 2016 Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933652
Summary : In this novel for teens, sixteen-year-old Brenna tries to make sense of her life after her beloved adoptive mother dies.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover images by Dreamstime.com and iStock.com Design by Teresa Bubela Author photo by Leslie Thomas
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS www.orcabook.com
19 18 17 16 4 3 2 1
For Sharon Brain Playmate Theater date Mentor Beloved friend
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Acknowledgments
one
I only miss you when I m breathing. (JASON DERULO, BREATHING )
Brenna tugs a wad of tissue from her pocket and passes a couple of pieces to her father. She takes some for herself and hands the rest to her sister, Naysa, who sits in the pew to her left. Someone behind her honks noisily into his own hanky, and sniffles come from every corner of the chapel. With each new sob she hears, it gets harder to keep from giving in to the flood of her own tears, but she knows that once she starts crying it will be impossible to stop. She slumps forward, fighting the urge to bolt, and allows her father to rub circles on her back. His hand is large and warm through her jacket.
Reverend Justin Reid, a minister her mom had connected with shortly before she died, reads the poem that she chose for her own memorial service.
Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glint upon the snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain. You feel me as gentle morning rain.
When you awaken in the morning s hush I am the sweet uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry: I am not there; I did not die.
Brenna frowns. I did not die? What is that supposed to mean? Her mother is dead. Dead! She liked the poem until he got to that line.
A poster-sized photo of her mom rests on a tripod beside the minister s podium. Brenna studies her face, that incredibly alive face. The picture was taken before her mother got sick. In it she is still beautiful. Her blue eyes gaze back at Brenna, eyes that lots of people think Brenna has inherited. Eyes that were always warm, always kind. Until the last few months, that is, when they were filled with pain or glazed over from the numbing drugs.
The minister takes two tapered candles from a shelf in the back of the podium and steps over to a chalice, where a lone candle flickers. He looks over at the sisters. Brenna and Naysa, please join me.
Brenna grips Naysa s hand, and they take the few steps over to the chalice. The minister passes a candle to each girl. Joanna has left two daughters behind, he says to the gathered people. They will look to you, their community, to draw strength. He looks down at the girls. You may light your candles now, he says quietly.
They each touch the end of their candle to the burning one. Brenna notices the tremble in Naysa s hand. She uses her own free hand to blot a tear she feels meandering down her cheek.
The minister reads from the pages in his hand. In our time of grief, we light a flame of sharing, the flame of ongoing life. In this time when we search for understanding and serenity in the face of loss, we light this as a sign of our quest for truth, meaning and community.
Following the minister s quietly spoken instructions, the girls place their candles on either side of the one that was there and return to their pew. Brenna s father moves so that she can scoot past, so one daughter sits on each side of him. He opens his arms and draws them close. The sniffling around the chapel increases in volume. Brenna finally gives in to the tears and sobs openly.
We will now listen to Johann Pachelbel s Canon in D, selected by Joanna herself, the minister says. Following the music, Joanna s husband, Brett, will give the eulogy, and then anyone who would like to is welcome to come up to the sanctuary and light one of these for Joanna. He holds up a tray of small tapered candles. Once it s lit, stand it in here, he says, lightly touching the side of a wide bowl filled with sand. Then, if you wish, you may share a memory of Joanna.
With a shuddering sigh, Brenna slouches down and rubs her eyes. It feels like the service will never end, but she allows the music to wash over her, and her mind begins to drift. She has had months to prepare herself for this day-they all knew her mother was dying-but there is something about being gathered together like this, all the family, all of Joanna s friends, with all their combined pain, that makes it even more overwhelming. She knows the service is supposed to bring her comfort, bring some meaning to her mother s death, some closure, but if anything, the pain she s feeling now is even worse than in those last few agonizing hours before her mother died.
The music ends, and her father slips out of the pew to approach the podium. He pulls folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket, smooths them out and puts on his reading glasses. He takes a long, deep breath but then removes his glasses and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Take your time, Brett, the minister says.
After a few more deep breaths, Brenna s dad begins to read from his notes. Brenna doesn t need to listen-she helped him write the eulogy. He seems to pull himself together as he reads, finding strength in the summary of his wife s life, but when he gets to the part where Brenna came into their lives, his voice quavers again. His eyes look up from his notes and meet her gaze.
Brenna, you were truly a gift from heaven, he says, blinking back tears. Every single day since you came into our lives, your mom thanked the young woman who trusted us to raise you as our own. He glances at the minister, who smiles gently.
Brenna nods at her father and blinks away her own tears. She s surprised that he mentioned her adoption. Not that it s a secret, but it isn t something they refer to very often, especially in public. She s been told that this minister was also involved in her adoption, though the details around that were never explained to her.
And you, Naysa, their father continues. You were a miracle, which is exactly what your name means. We were told that it was unlikely we d be able to conceive children, and then along you came. That was one amazing day for us when you were born.
Brenna reaches for her sister s hand and gives it a squeeze.
Her dad returns to the scripted eulogy, but Brenna s mind wanders again, his words echoing in her brain the young woman who trusted us to raise you as our own . In a sense, she thinks, she still has a mother out there, a woman she hasn t seen in almost sixteen years. She wonders how that woman would feel if she knew that the mother she had chosen especially for her baby had died before her daughter s sixteenth birthday. She doubts that was part of the plan.
When her dad finishes, he takes his place again between his daughters. Then, one by one, a dozen or more people line up at the front of the chapel, light candles and begin to share stories. Many are poignant. Just as many are funny, and tears are punctuated with laughter. The line of people seems to grow longer rather than shorter, and the light from the flickering candles gets brighter as more and more are added to the bowl. There s a sense of desperation, as if they can somehow keep her alive as long as they are sharing the moments of her life.
Joanna hired me when I first moved to Canada, a male voice says. The Australian accent is familiar.
Brenna looks up from the tissue she is slowly shredding and makes eye contact with the young man at the podium. She knows him. He works on Grouse Mountain, where her mother had worked and where she herself now volunteers.
She never forgot my name, he continues. He s still looking at Brenna. Whenever I ran into her, she always took the time to ask how I was. She was so kind. I ll never forget her.
He nods at Brenna and returns to his pew. Brenna returns to shredding the tissue, but her mood feels marginally lighter. Her mom really was kind, and even a cool guy like Ryan saw that. He said he d never forget her. It helps.
Eventually the line dwindles, and when there are no more people to share stories, the minister returns to the chalice that holds the three tall candles. He steadies a candle snuffer over the center flame and looks out at the gathered people. We extinguish this flame to mark Joanna s physical death, he says, snuffing out only the center candle.
Brenna crumples in the pew.
Yet the memories of her special character and gifts remain in our lives, as we can see by the glow of candles that continue to burn. Her beautiful spirit is indomitable, he co