Sisters in the Wind(41)
From Victoria Gokee, director of the American Indian Child Placement and Development Program, on page 164:
Two women from Wisconsin on a vacation visit to South Dakota’s Pine Ridge Reservation obtained physical custody of a three-year-old Oglala Sioux child. The mother of the child was led to believe that a paper she signed merely granted her permission for the women to take the child on a short trip to Wisconsin. It was later discovered that the paper was actually an agreement to surrender all parental rights and to consent to the adoption of the child. The women returned to Wisconsin and subsequently refused to return the child. They offered to compensate the parents, stating further that “God has ordained” that the child have opportunities which the parents could not offer.
From William Byler, executive director of the Association on American Indian Affairs, on page 26:
In the Great Plains, one Indian judge, an employee of the BIA, dumbfounded when [she] learned she had had the power to reject the hundred custody petitions presented to her by the county welfare department, grieved that she “would not have placed one of those children off the reservation” and left her job.
I could finish my assignment sooner, but Jamie is serious about quittin’ time. He makes me put the report and my journal in the file cabinet, which he locks for both of our benefits, he says.
“I need a hard stop too, Lucy. Otherwise I’ll burn out.”
He creates a routine each day at 4:55 p.m. Once our work is locked away, he has each of us read one testimonial like Gimiwan’s.
“Let’s end our workday on a good note … as a reminder that sometimes, for some children, the Indian Child Welfare Act makes a difference.”
* * *
We work out every day. Daunis likes running at the indoor track on campus instead of being on the treadmill, so Jamie and I go to the hotel gym twice a day. The first break is when I do my PT exercises: the straight leg raises and the ones where I stand and lift my injured leg to the back, front, and side. My therapist has me doing bridges now, where I lie down, facing up, and lift myself on all fours, arching my back. I add upper-body exercises.
The afternoon workout is for cardio. Jamie runs on the treadmill while I bike or row.
After dinner, the three of us go swimming. I wish the hotel had the same pool as at the physical therapy place. Instead, I have to dodge kids or other people who don’t respect the section of the pool marked off for laps.
I feel my body getting stronger. Not just my injured leg, but the rest of me too. It reminds me of hauling wood at Miss Lonnie’s and working out with the high school track team—even working on the farm at the group home. And swimming with my dad.
I reach my hibernation limit on March 7. I’m beyond cabin fever. Yesterday was exactly eight weeks since I was blasted into the sky like a firework. Today feels even worse; I’m a star imploding into compressed dark matter.
I’ve been focused on strengthening my body; meanwhile, my brain feels mushy. Or, rather, it feels as if it’s shrinking. More dark matter collapsing inward. We play Yahtzee and Uno after dinner; Daunis heard me complain about a hitch on my good side and now insists on more rest. All week I’ve been making stupid mistakes, like wasting my turn going for a large straight after I already crossed it off my scorecard.
They talk about Lily. Remember when she did this? And, oh my God, was she ever terrible at parallel parking. Lily this. Lily that.
It’s even worse when they talk about Lily-bah. There is a difference when they speak about Lily-bah versus Lily.
It’s like when I dream about my dad. Sometimes we go about our normal lives, and it’s only after I wake up that I remember he’s dead. Those are like the stories they share about Lily.
The bad dreams are when my dad and I are going about our normal lives, except I know he’s dead. I can’t enjoy the glimpse of our normal lives because I know too much.
About a month before my dad died, the theater club at Harbor Springs High School did a production of Our Town. My dad, Bridget, and I went together. The character of Emily marries George. She dies in childbirth and sits among the dead in the town cemetery. When Emily realizes she can relive any part of her life, the others advise against doing so. Her mother-in-law even says, “Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough.” But Emily picks her twelfth birthday and, as she sees the town and her parents as they were, she’s aware of everything that has happened since—like her brother’s death from a burst appendix.
Emily is overwhelmed by the knowledge and returns to her seat at the cemetery.
That’s what it’s like when I dream of my dad or they talk about Lily-bah—life and death braided together.
Not even Jamie’s sautéed leafy greens and homemade manicotti can lift my spirits. I push the pasta around my plate and refuse to join in the dinnertime conversation. I ignore their shared glances in my direction.
“Why don’t Jamie and I take over kitchen duties tonight,” Daunis offers.
“I can’t take it anymore!” My voice is an elevator that only goes up. “I’m so sick of being your one-legged pet trapped in this cage. If I could chew off a limb to escape, I’d crawl away so fast your head would spin.”
Daunis gapes all wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“Lucy,” Jamie says gently. “We’re only trying to help you.”