Sisters in the Wind(42)
“You’re not my dad and she’s not my mom!” I grab my crutches and propel myself to my bedroom. Slamming the door, I shout at the top of my lungs, “And I am not Lily!”
The instant the words leave my throat, I wait for the relief. The anticlimactic part when the top of the volcano blows into the sky and the hot wind carries the ash far away. Instead I’m a pyrotechnic flow of regret. I’m eighteen going on thirteen, having a stupid temper tantrum.
There were times when Devery reached her breaking point. She’d retreat to our bedroom, slam the door, and scream herself to exhaustion into her pillow. Her rage was like what I imagined banshees from a horror novel might sound like. I’d disappear into a book. Miss Lonnie would walk the shoveled path to the snowmobile tracks. If she smelled like cigarette smoke upon her return, I never mentioned it.
Once, it was Devery who went for the walk. Miss Lonnie watched from the window, muttering to herself.
“That girl’s a gas can looking for a match. It’s like staring into a mirror.”
* * *
After an hour or so, I leave my bedroom to apologize. Daunis and Jamie sit next to each other, huddled in whispered conversation.
“… not rewarding her behavior,” Jamie says. “We’re acknowledging her frustra—” He notices me. “Hey, Lucy.” His smile is warm and genuine. “You good to talk about what happened?”
They’ve shifted to opposite ends of the sofa by the time I hop to the big chair.
“I’m sorry for shouting,” I say. “I know you both have better things to do than stay here. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”
“It’s okay to feel however you feel,” he says. “Maybe we should talk about things before the crisis point?” He looks expectantly at Daunis.
“I know you’re not Lily,” Daunis says.
I avoid her wounded expression. I said the Lily thing knowing it would hurt her the most.
Jamie mentions the indoor ice arena with a mezzanine for walking laps, where I can use my crutches more than the twenty feet between my bedroom and the kitchen.
I bounce up and down on my good leg. “How late are they open?”
“Calm your … self,” Daunis says, finally smiling.
They take me that evening for thirty minutes. The soreness under my armpits is worth the ability to walk at a fast clip. I’m not even mad when they shadow me as a precautionary measure while I build up my stamina. Someday I’ll be able to run. Run fast and far from the two of them.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, the day after my outburst, I calculate the risk and reward in returning to the ice arena. It’s a random excursion with a low risk of being tracked. My anticipated reward is a taste of freedom, especially if I encourage Jamie and Daunis to participate in the open-skate session instead of remaining by my side.
I circle around the mezzanine while Jamie and Daunis sit at a nearby table waiting for the open session to begin. Their deep conversation looks like a heated argument. Daunis gets animated when she’s talking, almost to the point of sign language. Then they laugh.
When the ice rink fills with skaters of all ages, I watch as they do what must be hockey warm-up drills. The hockey-goddess title was accurate. And Jamie is no slouch. They race each other around the rink. Then there’s the showing off. Daunis can spin like a top. Jamie takes it even further, leaping and twisting in the air before landing effortlessly.
On the drive back, I sit behind Daunis. She and Jamie sing along to the radio. What goofballs. I roll my eyes before remembering that I’m supposed to check for anyone following us. It’s like being doused with cold water.
I look through the rearview window at the vehicles behind us. Since I’m not sure if any are tailing us, I need to come up with a reason why we can’t go directly to the hotel. Daunis went shopping earlier today, so I can’t ask to stop for snacks or tampons. My pulse races as Jamie makes another turn on our route home. I let my guard down because I was distracted by Daunis and Jamie’s silliness.
“Hey, how about cheeseburgers and curly fries?” Jamie says.
It’s like he’s the answer to a prayer. Or a mind reader.
* * *
Daunis prepares for another, longer trip back home. Her mom is getting married in June, but the engagement party is next weekend. The twins’ birthday is also coming up. Daunis invites me to come with her. She anticipates being in “the Soo,” a nickname for Sault Ste. Marie, for at least a week. I decline. She doesn’t push it.
Her excitement is obvious in the uptick of Grace Fontaine stories. I learn all about how scandalous it was when her mom got pregnant. Not only because her mom was just sixteen years old and her dad was a few years older, but because the Fontaine family was wealthy, and her dad was Ojibwe and poor. Unemployment was high, and prejudice against Native Americans was blatant.
Her grandpa Lorenzo and the grandmother she calls GrandMary learned about her mom’s pregnancy after the accident on Sugar Island that damaged her dad’s legs. When Daunis talks about it, she sounds angry but also kind of guilty that her grandparents reacted in such a bad way. They sent her mom to live with relatives in Canada. By the time Daunis was born, and her mom brought her back to the Soo, her dad was married to someone else who was also having his baby.