Sisters in the Wind(16)

I was about to reach into my pants pocket to retrieve the key from the hatbox when Bridget launched into a tirade beginning with how dare you and ending with the words ungrateful and disrespectful.

“Who are you?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Because my dad never would’ve married this version of you.”

White-hot pain flashed across my cheek an instant before I realized Bridget had slapped me. I ran to my bedroom, which didn’t have a lock on the door.

Standing in front of the dresser mirror, I imagined my dad looking as shocked as me. A red handprint covered half my face. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what just happened. The woman my dad had entrusted to look after me had slapped me.

I wasn’t safe with her.

In one fluid motion, I scooped up my school backpack and dumped the contents onto the bed. I scanned the room: My birthday books seemed to glow a neon yellow. I gathered all thirteen, which fit in the backpack with room to spare. Next I retrieved my dad’s baseball jersey from behind the dresser mirror. Before I reached the bed, Bridget burst into my room.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the baseball jersey, before hardening. This time her insults included sneak, thief, and spoiled daughter whose father would be ashamed of her. She glanced at my backpack and asked if I was running away.

When I didn’t answer, she moved close enough for me to feel her breath in my face. I stepped back, bumping into my bed.

“Go ahead,” Bridget challenged. “End up on the streets just like your mother. The gutter or her Indian reservation, that no-good woman. Your dad tried to save you. He wasted his time.”





WHEN I WAS FOURTEEN


2004

Backpack in hand, I grabbed my coat and slid feet into boots on my way out the front door. Cold air stung my face. My lungs frosted from the inside out with each breath. I slipped on a patch of ice near the row of one-car garages for our enclave. I landed hard on my left knee. Limping, I punched the entry code on the door to the shared garage structure.

I looked around, unsure of what to do next. The car was locked. I didn’t know how to drive. Would Bridget look for me?

And what she’d said about my birth mother …

There was a Native American tribe nearby. A few of the tribal members had attended St. Francis Xavier. I remembered the many times I’d been asked if I was Native. I always thought it was because my skin looked tanned year-round. My dad said I was Dutch and Italian. I had asked him directly if my birth mother was Native American and he had denied it.

It couldn’t be true. My dad wouldn’t have kept something like that from me.

Why would he? Being Native American wasn’t a bad thing. He became friends with Abe Charlevoix and wanted to hear Misho Abe’s stories.

I pushed away the confusion. Instead I focused on the pain in my knee. How much it hurt. The sharp stabbing pain.

My eyes landed upon the toolkit stored on the wire shelf unit at the back of our section. I hobbled over to retrieve the bradawl. I stabbed the nearest wheel of our car. Again, and again. Then on to the next tire. And the next. Until all four tires hissed angrily.

Bridget wouldn’t be able to follow me. I was free. My teeth chattered with giddy energy. I sobbed, laughed, and hiccuped.

My flip phone was charging on my desk. I had let go of the baseball jersey when Bridget charged at me. I had the birthday books and nothing else except a key to a storage unit.

The watch. I had promised, before his first surgery, to keep it safe for him. I unzipped the inner pocket of my backpack, feeling between two sanitary napkins for the gold watch. It felt warm, as if my dad had removed it from his wrist just a moment ago.

Thank God. I still had his watch. And the birthday books. But nothing practical. Nothing that would help me as a runaway.

I couldn’t go back inside the house.

My sore knee gave out. I slumped to the cold concrete floor. I was eye level with the fireworks Bridget had been too scared to light on my fourteenth birthday.

Lighting them at the cemetery to mark the anniversary of my dad’s death seemed like the right thing to do. Then I’d visit Bridget’s storage unit.

There was room in my backpack for four cylinders. I didn’t want to lose any birthday books to fit more. My dad kept a lighter in the toolbox for this specific occasion.

I limped downtown toward the cemetery, watching for police cars in case Bridget had called them. I had seen newspaper headlines about a mob of off-duty officers in Wisconsin, how they’d stalked and harassed a group of people for not being born as white. Planted evidence. Beat them bloody. Who knew what kind of lies Bridget would tell them about me? Cars and trucks filled the parallel-parking spots closest to the few bars that hadn’t closed for the winter.

A guy fumbled with the keys to a Lexus. He looked like a college student home on break.

“Pardon,” I said, affecting a British accent like Hayley Mills in The Trouble with Angels. “Might you give me a ride?”

He sized me up. I stood as tall as possible, thankful I had hit puberty early.

“Where are your friends?” He looked around.

“Bit of a disagreement with the girl who drove me here,” I lied.

“What you fight over?”

I shrugged like I got into too many fights to keep track of any particulars.

“I’m headed back to Petoskey,” he said.

Unit 92. Petoskey E-Z Storage.