Free Who Is Frances Rain? by Margaret Buffie Page A

direction of the island. “She died there one winter night. Alone. She was still a young woman. Close to your mother’s age.”
    â€œYou sound like you knew her,” I said, but she wasn’t listening. “Gran? You okay?”
    â€œWhat? Oh, yes. I’m okay. Well, enough of that.” She slapped her hands on her knees and struggled to her feet. “I’m hungry, kiddo. Let’s go get something to eat.”
    I tried to get her to tell me more on the walk home, but she kept pointing out wild flowers and bird sounds, finally distracting me completely.
    Mother and Evan had already eaten and were hidden away in their rooms. The sweet sad sound of the flute accompanied our meat and pickle sandwiches and iced tea. The music made me think of Frances, dying alone on the island. Had I seen her hand hovering in front of the door yesterday? It all seemed centuries ago that it had happened.
    â€œI wish you knew more about her,” I said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe lady of the island. Frances Rain.”
    â€œAll I know is that everyone who met her said all she ever wanted was to be left alone.”
    â€œSort of like a hermit. Hey, maybe she was running from the law!”
    â€œYou do have a busy little mind, don’t you, kiddo? Sometimes it’s best not to pry. Some things are best left alone, kept in your heart, away from ... interference.” She stood up.
    I looked at her and forgot Frances Rain. “Are you okay, Gran?” Her skin had a dusky greyness behind it.
    â€œI’m fine. Just winded. Your ma and all this nonsense has worn me right out today. Could you do the dishes?” Before I could answer, she added huffily, “And don’t go thinking I’m an old crock!”
    I put my arms around her. She gripped my shoulders and pressed her lips hard to my forehead.
    â€œBeen a long time since anyone did that, Lizzie. I miss it. I miss your granddad. He was quite a hugger. I didn’t have too many hugs when I was a kid, but he sure made up for it.” She tapped my chin with a long finger. “Now, here I am getting all sloppy. I’m off to bed.”
    After I did the dishes, I sat on the veranda and thought about Gran. I knew she’d been brought up by her grandparents, but she never talked about her mother and father. She’d been married to Granddad for over forty years, and she’d really loved him. What had it been like to find herself alone? Did Mother feel the same way when Dad left? I hadn’t really thought about it that way. Maybe it was even worse when someone left you. Gran’s parents had left her. Dad left Mother. Did Frances Rain leave someone behind in Alberta? A whole lot of people had been left behind, it seemed to me.

Chapter Sixteen
    I TOOK my sketchbook and pencils and sat back down in the veranda. I tried to sketch what I’d seen on Rain Island. Sometimes, when I’ve transferred something onto paper, I understand a lot more about it. Not this time, though. I held up my pencil drawing of the small cabin. I still couldn’t understand where it came from.
    If that had been Frances Rain’s hand I saw, then why me? Why did I see it? Looking closely at the soft, blurry cabin, I suddenly felt a strange ache deep inside. It’s hard to explain, but it was as if the cabin was changing me, as if I was growing outside of me — growing into someone else — someone different and lonely and sad. I slammed the book shut. The feeling disappeared.
    I stood up and paced the veranda. Was I going stark raving nuts? Who was this Frances Rain and how could my own drawing give me the willies?
Who was Frances Rain?
    I sat down. She was a teacher and prospector, Gran said. I’d read enough to know that prospecting was no sissy occupation. There were hard climbs through rocky hills, tough slogging through wet muskeg and hordes of blackflies and mosquitoes. There would be long hours spent hammering away