Sisters in the Wind(77)

When I look around the cemetery, Daunis gives a little wave as she stands outside the SUV. I motion for her to come over.

“How you doing?” she asks.

“I’m okay,” I say.

She looks at the headstone and comments, “Good thing his middle name was somewhat unique, because his first and last names are common.”

“He said he changed his middle name from Hamilton when his dad died.”

“Oh, was Matthias his dad’s name?” she wonders.

“No. Matthias is the patron saint of alcoholics and those striving for self-control.”

“Did he struggle with addiction?”

“No. I mean, he didn’t drink alcohol, but it wasn’t anything he struggled with. He said his mom died in an accident from a drunk driver. Hamilton was her maiden name.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. You’ve certainly had a lot of loss in your life.” Daunis looks confused. “Hmm. Seems odd to replace her name.”

It was odd. Why exchange one unique middle name for another? Had my dad changed it on purpose, so Maggie couldn’t find us?

I’m thankful when Daunis changes the subject. “Are you hungry? Any favorite restaurant you’d like to visit?”

“Yes!” I name the restaurant and give directions. “It’s the place my dad and I went to every Sunday after church.”

“Did you go to church here or in Petoskey?” Daunis asks.

“Here. Holy Child. Officially it was known as Holy Childhood of Jesus.”

A shadow crosses her face when I answer. I ask why.

She shrugs, then says, “It was the first federally run Indian boarding school in Michigan. And the last one in the state to close. I was born in 1985. I think it closed that year or the year before.”

The restaurant looks the same when we enter. I ask to sit at our favorite table. Daunis orders pancakes, same as I do.

“My uncle David and I used to eat pancakes every Sunday instead of going to mass with my mom and grandmother.”

“Instead of?” I ask.

“Some of the church’s teachings went against our beliefs. My uncle was gay. If he wasn’t welcome there, then I didn’t want to be there either. Plus, I cannot get past the church’s role in taking Native children and operating boarding schools. They talk about the tragedy of what happened, but never the reconciliation, as if it’s up to us to forgive.”

We dive into our pancakes. I can taste the difference between these and all other pancakes everywhere else.

“There’s a teaching,” Daunis says, her mouth still chewing. “That we Anishinaabeg were the first environmentalists. We took only what we needed and left the rest behind for others. I feel that way about religion. Gichimanidoo is our word for God. Creator. Gih-CHEE-man-ih-doe is perfect. We humans are flawed. So I hold the teachings close that speak to me. I leave the rest for others.”

I mull it over.

“The Sterlings ruined God for me,” I admit.

But it was more than them. Finding out my dad lied about Maggie being Native. That he lied to me. It wasn’t just a lie. It truly was a sin—bearing false witness. He practiced his faith with such commitment. But it was like he had built a house on sand.

I continue. “The Sterlings used religion in the worst ways. Like, to control and judge. ‘An eye for an eye’ and stuff like that. They were total hypocrites.”

I shake off the memories. Or at least I try pushing the memories far enough away that I can function.

After lunch, I ask to go to the library. It was a place of comfort for me. My happy place. Daunis comes with me. I show her around. When I see the row of computers, I get an idea. I sign in to use one and I search my dad’s mother’s name. I remember her name from when I had to do a family tree for a class assignment. I’d felt bad for not having anything to list on my mother’s half of the tree, so my dad had helped me complete his side.

My paternal grandmother’s name brings up her obituary. It also shows a newspaper article about the auto accident. Alcohol was a factor, according to the police officer quoted.

But … it was a single-car accident.

“Daunis.” I call out for her. She’s at my side in an instant. “My grandmother died in a car accident. My dad said a drunk driver was to blame.” I point to the screen. “She was the drunk driver.”

Daunis sits next to me. She holds my hand. A few months ago, I would’ve flinched and brushed her hand away. Now I squeeze it.

“It makes sense why he avoided alcohol,” I tell her. “I thought he changed his name because of the saint. But now it seems like he did it to punish his mother. Like he didn’t want to associate with her last name.”

She waits while I reread the obituary. Finally, she speaks.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. It seems … harsh?”

It makes me think about the Sterlings’ judgmental ways. Their black-and-white thinking. It is too uncomfortable to consider any similarities between them and my dad.

We do one last thing before driving back to Mount Pleasant. Daunis parks the SUV near the driveway to my neighborhood. We walk around the enclave of cottages. I halt in front of the one I know best. I still have tobacco in the pouch, which I pull from my back pocket.

“Miigwech,” I say while offering semaa to the home where my dad wanted me to grow up healthy and safe, and to be a good person.