Sisters in the Wind(39)

He nods. “Once I found her, I always wanted to know what time it was for her. She was very sick. Uterine cancer. But I was able to spend time with her. We talked a lot.” His voice cracks. “I got to hold her hand when she passed away. She knew I was there with her.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Miigwech. It was sad, of course. But also peaceful, if you want to know the truth. She never thought she’d see me again. She’d tried finding me, but she didn’t have a lot of resources. Her life was … Well, she’d had a rough go of it.”

His eyes glisten as he continues speaking. My nose tickles. I don’t want to cry, so I slide the tissue box away from me and toward Jamie instead.

“I thought finding answers would help me,” he says, holding his hand atop his heart. “But seeing her relief that I was alive … that I’d found my way back to her … It was about helping her heal, not from the cancer—but from all that she went through.”

I reach for a tissue to blow my nose.

“Honestly, Lucy, after everything we both went through on our own, without one another, it was an honor to hold her hand at the end.”

He isn’t at all self-conscious about the snot reaching his upper lip. He’s not fighting the sad. He’s sitting with it, like Miss Lonnie would say.

We both sit with the sad that afternoon. Neither of us fidgets or looks around at something to distract us. Finally, I speak.

“I wasn’t there when my dad died. He and Bridget wanted me at school that day. He made it seem like the surgery was nothing to worry about. That I shouldn’t miss school because that was what was most important. It seems so stupid now.” I try to laugh, but it doesn’t come out that way. “He was a teacher. He said two degrees was the minimum for a young woman—a bachelor’s and a master’s. I ended up a high school dropout getting a GED.”

Jamie hands me another tissue.

“You haven’t ‘ended,’ Lucy. You’re eighteen. You’ve got time to figure it out.”

It seems like the perfect opportunity to bring up the idea I had.

“What sorts of things will your research interns do?” I ask, not wanting to sound needy.

“It depends,” he responds. “Data collection, for sure. I’m hoping one or two will focus on legal issues or public policy. But mostly they’ll work on individual cases, helping clients identify their family and tribal community.”

Jamie hands me the file folder on his desk but doesn’t immediately let go. For an awkward moment we stare at each other and the jointly held file. When he releases it, his hands fidget beneath the writing desk.

I open the file to find more stories like the one about Gimiwan. Some stories fill multiple sheets of paper. One includes a crinkled drawing of two stick figures—a tall person with long brown hair and a smaller person with an oversized smile—and a child’s scribble barely legible: MOM + BRIAN.

Jamie rises and makes his way to the window.

“Interns can help clients find their way back to their families. That’s important work, trying to rectify the times when ICWA wasn’t followed,” he says. “I also want to focus on what it means to kids and families when the Indian Child Welfare Act works the way it’s supposed to.”

The sunlight behind Jamie makes him look otherworldly as he continues speaking.

“I want to turn the good stories into a book and find a way to publish it.”

I feel tingly. It’s a powerful goal.

“I want to be your research assistant,” I say.

“Done,” he replies. “Start tomorrow?”

“What’s wrong with today?”

“Absolutely nothing. Welcome to Raven Air Associates.”



* * *



For my first work assignment, Jamie wants me to read the official report of the 1974 U.S. Senate Subcommittee on Indian Affairs: Problems that American Indian Families Face in Raising Their Children and How These Problems Are Affected by Federal Action or Inaction. It’s a transcript of the two-day hearing that led to the passage of the Indian Child Welfare Act in 1978.

“You’re going to pay me to read this report,” I say, just to be sure I’ve heard him correctly.

“Yes, Lucy. You get paid fifteen dollars an hour.”

“That’s double the minimum wage,” I practically shout. “I got paid even less than minimum as a tipped server.”

“You’re smart, Lucy. A quick study. Whenever we talk about books that we’ve both read, you more than hold your own.”

“Can I get an advance on my first hour?”

Jamie raises an eyebrow as if to say, Are you serious?

I quickly add, “I like to take notes in a journal. It helps me organize my thoughts and remember the important stuff.”

“Great minds think alike,” he says, tapping his own journal.

Jamie reaches into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. The front half of the drawer has office supplies. The back half has hanging files. Most are labeled in block lettering as my dad’s files were.

“Like this?” he asks. He hands me a black leatherbound journal identical to his, with lined pages that feel substantial.

I nod, not wanting to get choked up. It reminds me of the journal I filled with details about my dad’s cancer.