Sisters in the Wind(7)

One lady kept mentioning her divorce and my dad’s resemblance to Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. She persisted until I finally spoke.

“My dad says divorce is a sin. He would never date a sinner.”



* * *



When I was nine, we went to Traverse City for our annual shopping trip. I needed new school uniforms and new dresses for church. Plus we stocked up on underwear and socks. There was an outlet mall we would try first. High-priced stores were a last resort.

At one store, I left the dressing room to show my dad the dress I liked the best. He wasn’t there; it wasn’t like him to leave me alone. Maybe he had wandered to the men’s section, thinking I would take much longer to try on six dresses.

Leaving the other pricey clothes in the changing room, I walked along the tile that led me to the brand-name suits. But a security guard grabbed my arm and questioned where I was going. His deep voice sounded furious as he asked for my name. I was stunned speechless; my dad had said if I was ever in danger to find a policeman or person in a uniform and alert them. Policemen were there to help us. They kept us safe from bad people who broke the law.

“You goddamn Indian kids are always stealing stuff,” he hissed. “That casino was supposed to make you all rich. But here you are, running around in stolen clothes.” He jerked my arm, gripping it even harder. “You’re even too dumb to remove the tag.”

I’d never been spoken to in that way. I had been asked before if I was Native American, especially in the summer when my tan skin darkened to practically copper. But I always said no—if I said anything at all—because my dad had told me that we were Dutch and Italian.

“Lucy?” my dad called for me.

“Dad?” I replied, before bursting into tears.

The security guard dropped my arm and took a step back like he was embarrassed. A few seconds later, my dad wrapped me in his shaking arms. He was frantic, practically hyperventilating.

“Thank you, Officer. Thank you for finding her.” My dad’s voice cracked.

“Just doing my job,” the security guard said before backing away and fleeing.

“Oh, my sweet Lucy. I had a bathroom emergency. When I came back, you were gone.” Then he held me at arm’s length and scowled. “I can’t keep you safe if you leave.”

Back in the dressing room, removing the dress I no longer wanted, I saw that my upper right arm had a bright red band from the security guard’s grip. My stomach flipped over, and I felt sweaty and shivering cold at the same time. I was supposed to go to people wearing uniforms if I was ever in trouble. I never ever got in trouble. My dad rarely raised his voice at home, and I always minded my teachers’ instruction. Not because I thought they would tell my dad, their coworker. I just knew following the rules was the right thing to do.

I vowed to follow my dad’s every instruction and never leave his side.

On the drive home, a question gripped my stomach as tightly as the guard’s hand.

“Was my birth mother Indian? I mean Native American?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Why would you ask?”

The shame in my gut bubbled back up again. “In the store. Someone asked.”

“Just because you tan easily, it doesn’t mean you’re Native American.” He seemed upset.

“You said we were Dutch and Italian. What about her?” I held my breath, seeing stars.

“She was Italian too,” he said.

I instantly felt clearheaded relief, though I didn’t know why.



* * *



I loved summertime. Every July 3, we celebrated my birthday at a secluded beach north of Harbor Springs. My dad bought discounted fireworks off-season from the local Indian tribe, one huge colorful burst for each year of my life. As far as I knew, it was the only time he ever broke the law. He danced around a bonfire, singing a corny song he made up:

Dolce Lucy. Changed my life.

Dolce Lucy. Made me a dad.

Dolce Lucy. Heart of my heart.

Dolce Lucy. I’m so glad.



My dad would pat the top of my head and say, “I thank God for you every single day.” Then I’d open my birthday presents. He saved the special one for last. Each year he gifted me a book that featured a dad and daughter in the story.

On my eleventh birthday, my dad broke down while singing. He fell to his knees and sobbed. Frightened, I rushed to his side. He collected himself and said I was growing up too fast. I was about to begin seventh grade, having skipped kindergarten.

“I’m not ready,” he kept saying.



* * *



A month later, my dad told me he had colorectal cancer. He needed surgery to remove the tumor along with a section of his large intestine and bowel. Using anatomy books from the library, he explained what would happen in surgery. He would have a colostomy bag to contain the feces that no longer had a normal exit route.

I used my allowance to purchase a journal for documenting everything about the cancer. During our weekly library visit, I searched for medical books and magazines. My entries included the title, author, and publication date, along with the date I read the information. With my journal in hand, I spoke like a medical intern doing an oncology rotation.

Years later I realized we’d used medical information like kindling to stay warm because the logs that might have provided more lasting comfort seemed too heavy to carry.