Sisters in the Wind(32)

“Actually, I don’t like carnations,” I lie.

While I get myself into the front seat, Daunis puts my walker in the back of the SUV.

“I mean, it was nice of my coworker to get flowers for me,” I explain. “But something about the smell is sort of … repulsive.”

Daunis gapes at me. I know my excuse sounds stupid, but I couldn’t think of a better lie for leaving the flowers behind. What if there was a tracking device in the vase? A paranoid thought, for sure. But not completely irrational.

“I get it,” she says, finally starting the vehicle. “I’m that way about lavender.”

I decide to lay the foundation for canceling my appointment later today. It’s part of my need to be unpredictable and less trackable.

“I kind of feel a headache coming on. You think we could drive around a while?” I crack the window for a bit of fresh air.

Daunis drives through the university campus and a neighborhood of fancy houses near the river. We listen to a local radio station, but it’s quiet enough for conversation.

“Hey, why’d your friends have flowers delivered to PT instead of the hotel?” she asks.

I hum the chorus of the song on the radio and shrug like it’s no big deal.

“I called a few friends on the hotel phone, since my cell phone is in my backpack. Told them about PT.” I shrug again. “Wasn’t sure how long we’d be at the hotel. I mean, you’re paying for everything. We can go to a cheaper place, and…”

“Please don’t worry about it,” she assures me. “Lucy, I have the means.”

“How can you afford a week in the hospital? And the hotel? Even if your friend scored a deal, are you really going to pay rent for three or four months until I’m fully healed?”

My questions are genuine, not just a tactic to change the subject about the flowers. Or to distract Daunis while I check the side mirror for any cars that might be following us.

“The money’s not an issue,” she tells me. “My grandparents on my mom’s side were well off. I didn’t do anything to earn the trust fund they set up for me, but I can use it to help people.”

“Did they have a business or something?” I ask.

“My grandmother’s family were wealthy and owned a lot of land in Sault Ste. Marie. My grandpa Lorenzo owned a construction business and invested in real estate.”

Daunis slows as we approach the old Indian boarding school outside town.

“You know about this place, right?”

“My landlord was a history nerd,” I say. “After it was a boarding school, it was a state facility for developmentally disabled people. The local tribe wants to turn it into a museum or a memorial. Something like that.”

Daunis parks along the side of the road and keeps the engine, and heater, running. She retrieves a pouch of loose-leaf tobacco from the center console. After lowering the window, she does the same thing that Abe Charlevoix did—letting the tobacco flutter to the ground while whispering a prayer in Anishinaabemowin. I take in the scene of the run-down building and poorly kept lawn.

When she finishes, she turns to face me.

“I heard a teaching about wolf mothers. As long as her cubs are behind her, she will fight to the death before letting anyone take them. But if they aren’t behind her, and one is taken, she will surrender them.” She is silent for a few minutes before continuing.

“I know you don’t want to hear about your mother’s—”

“I don’t,” I cut in. My voice is frosty.

“Lucy, please. Just this once,” she says softly, waiting for my protest.

When I remain silent and stare at the brick buildings, she continues.

“Maggie’s mother and aunt went to this school right here. They were taken from your great-grandmother—Granny June—who is still alive and told me what happened to her daughters. When the white men came and rounded up the children, she didn’t have any choice. All she could do was pray that there were good people where they were going. They were taken as little girls. They tried running away, to get back home. That got them sent to a different boarding school even farther away. Their second school was operated by the Catholic church. The school kept them until they were young women. By then they’d had the Ojibwe beaten out of them. I don’t mean figuratively. Even after they were done with school, whenever they heard someone speak the language, they braced for an actual, physical beating. They were conditioned to expect punishment anytime they heard the language, any language but English.”

Daunis cries softly.

“Those stolen girls are dead now. One killed herself a few years after coming home. The other girl, your maternal grandmother, had Maggie. When you hear the words ‘historical trauma’ or ‘generational trauma,’ it’s because of places like this. And people in power today who still won’t acknowledge the things that happened there.

“Maggie was raised by a woman who experienced things you cannot imagine.”





POST-BLAST WEEK FOUR


FEBRUARY 2009

I no longer have scheduled appointments with Dr. Rao. When Daunis called to reschedule my appointment last Friday, she was on speakerphone. So I heard the receptionist offer to add me to their “last-minute” list. I shouted my agreement. It was the perfect way to have an unpredictable schedule and be less findable.