Sisters in the Wind(91)

TAKE TO THE BREEZE


JUNE 2009

I’m convinced Daunis can move mountains. She tracked down Abe Charlevoix. He’s in the hospital in Petoskey, recuperating from surgery. His colon cancer returned. She once again received court approval to take me out of the county for the day. I don’t know what kind of convincing that took, but I give special gratitude for her in my morning prayer. We arrive in the early afternoon.

Hospitals smell a certain way. It’s an instant scent memory of my dad’s first surgery, when Mrs. Sobecki brought me to see him. I feel eleven years old again. Daunis must know it’s difficult for me to be in a hospital. She reaches for my hand.

When we enter the room, I have a flashback of seeing my dad in the hospital bed. But it’s Abe Charlevoix. He looks smaller than I remembered. His skin is darker, and his hair is whiter. His smile is exactly the same.

“There she is,” he says. “Noozhishenh!”

I don’t know the word. He repeats it, sounding it out slowly for my benefit.

“NO-zheh-SHEN! Grandchild!”

No one has ever called me that before. Noozhishenh. I blink back tears as I lean in for a hug. I feel bone through soft, weathered skin when he grabs my hand tight in his.

“You’ve grown up. You’re strong. I can tell.”

“How are you, Misho Abe?”

“I’m good. Even better now.”

I pull up a chair next to his bed. I sit and he takes my hand again.

“I called. Tried to find you with my iPad. I put semaa out every morning. Praying for you.”

“It took me a long time to get back here,” I say. He doesn’t need the details. Maybe someday. Today is for happy tears.

“I have a present for you.” He reaches for a wrapped gift. The edges of the paper are worn, as if he’s held on to it many times.

“For me?” I practically levitate from my chair, in the excited way that Stacy Sterling would join me for reading time.

My fingers tremble as I unwrap the gift. It’s a book. Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White. A classic I’ve read many times. I open the front cover.

To my Dolce Lucy

On her 14th Birthday

With love from Dad

“Take to the breeze …

Go as [you] please.”



“He left gifts for you. I promised to give them to you. ‘Not all at once,’ he made me promise.” He motions to Daunis. “When she called and asked if I’d be ready for a visit, I had a friend go to my house and get this for you.”

“Miigwech,” I say.

“I’ll give you another one in a few weeks for your birthday,” he says.

I glance at his bedside table, where a shell of some kind serves as a bowl. Instead of matchboxes, like Tonya kept nearby, Misho Abe has what look like dried herbs and cedar sprigs in the shell bowl.

“What’s that?” I point to the bowl.

“It’s an abalone shell filled with my medicine.”

“Medicine?” I ask while Daunis motions that she’s going into the hallway to make calls.

“Yes, Noozhishenh, but I can’t light a fire in here. So I smell the medicine instead.”

I remember what Daunis said about firekeepers striking fires.

“Are you a firekeeper, Misho Abe?”

“Yes. I learned from my misho way back when I was a young man.”

“Were there lessons?” I ask, thinking about Miss Lonnie.

“Teachings,” he says. “We call them teachings.”

“Would you give me a teaching?” I don’t know any rules about teachings.

Misho motions toward his medicine shell and points with his chin.

“Put some semaa in your palm.”

I do as he says, pinching some dark brown flakes from the bottom of the shell.

“Okay, now gift it to me.” He reaches with his palm side up.

I place the few flakes of semaa in his hand, hoping it’s enough tobacco.

“Now you can ask me for a teaching,” he says.

“Oh, I get it,” I say. “May I get a teaching about fire from you, Misho?”

“Yes, Noozhishenh, I’ll give you a teaching.” He motions now for me to come closer.

When I lean in, he whispers, “Fires are hot,” before laughing loudly.

It’s so corny. My laugh includes an exaggerated eye roll.

“Okay, okay,” he starts, “here is a real teaching. All fires are sacred.”

“All fires are sacred?” I repeat.

“Yes. The smoke is a link to Gichimanidoo. In other religions, you have to confess to a priest or some kind of middleman. Fire lets us communicate directly. Our prayers and messages rise and rise…” He swirls a finger upward. Then he pretends his hand is an old phone receiver as he holds it to his ear. “Aaniin, Gichimanidoo, it’s your old friend Abe. My Spirit name is Aapiji-Ntam Ndemod. Miigwech for letting me talk with you.” After a beat, he adds, “Good teaching, eh?”

“Miigwech, Misho,” I say.

We stay until Misho Abe gets sleepy. I promise to return soon.



* * *



When we return to Mount Pleasant, Daunis continues her investigative work. More interviews with customers. More notes. More calls. More online searches. She is also a master at spreadsheets on the computer. She likes to lay out her files on the dining table in flat rows, like each label is a step in a staircase.