Bridget looked at her with a small smile, and Vern felt redeemed. “Yes, though I’m Oglala myself.”
“So, like Crazy Horse?”
This time, Bridget’s laugh was husky and sweet, without trace of a gibe. “If you’re going to be naming random Natives to save face, you should know his name was Tasunke Witko. And if you want real credit, maybe have a few less famous names under your belt. Though I’ll give it to you, don’t think I’ve met a non-Lakota person who’d know what band Tasunke Witko was. Did you learn that at Cainland? Evelyn did say the history Lucy got there was better than anything she learned at school out here.” Bridget’s bottom lip rippled in and out her mouth restlessly at the mention of Lucy’s mother. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.
“My little brother, actually.” Carmichael was always saving Vern’s day, even though she hadn’t seen him in over four years. “He reads a lot. Or he did. I don’t know if he does now.”
Bridget grunted her understanding. “Anyway,” she said abruptly, redirecting the conversation, “Gogo will fix you up good.”
Vern huffed a breath through her nose. “No offense to her skills, but I doubt I can be fixed up. The stuff that’s happening to me—you wouldn’t believe it. Nobody would.”
Glancing toward the rearview mirror, Bridget changed lanes. “If it’s got to do with Cainland, I would,” she said, and turned off Cold Springs’ main drag onto a gravel road. “Lucy and Evelyn talked a lot about all the medications they had to take there. And the night terrors.”
Vern loved having someone in her life who knew Lucy like she did. “Are they back at your place?” she asked.
Bridget shifted gears as she picked up speed, grip firm on the wheel.
“You can tell me the truth,” said Vern, voice soft. She was too weakened by sickness to assert her okayness at full volume.
“The truth is I haven’t seen either of them in a very long time.”
Vern squeezed her left hand with her right. “How long?” she asked.
At least Bridget didn’t equivocate. “Seven years. Seven fucking years.”
Vern swallowed down a sob. “But that’s since she left Cainland for good.”
“That’s right,” said Bridget, nodding her confirmation like this was casual news.
“Do you know where they are? Have you looked for them?”
“Evelyn made it very clear she never wanted to see me again after what happened with the custody dispute. After I took Lucy—”
“You’re the kidnapper,” Vern said, remembering that day in the temple’s attic, staring out at the stranger through her telescope. “You’re the one who picked Lucy up from the compound.”
Noticeably stiff, Bridget watched the road ahead. “Anyway, after I got Lucy, Evelyn wanted to go into hiding. I convinced her it wasn’t the way. That with all the evidence she had she could win custody of Lucy properly. When that didn’t happen, she left here and said she was going back for her girl but for me not to expect to ever see either of them again. And I haven’t.”
Vern’s frustrated sigh filled the pickup’s cab. “So they could be dead, for all you know,” she said. “Or in trouble. They might need something. They might need my help.”
Bridget looked over at Vern, then back at the road. “I don’t think you’re in any position to help anyone.”
Proving Bridget’s point, Vern felt too fatigued and light-headed to argue. She let her head loll back onto the seat rest and roll toward the children. Howling and Feral, entranced by the details of the truck’s interior—the glove box, the cupholder, the wrappers and papers on the floor—chittered back and forth over each discovery. Feral drew on himself with a discarded ballpoint pen, and Howling flicked through a rumpled newspaper.
“Hello, Mrs. Bear, what you doing?” asked Feral. He’d drawn a beard onto his cheeks and chin.
“Hello, Mrs. Wolf, I am looking at these strange leaves. I think they fell from the kookoo tree,” said Howling.
“The kookoo tree?” asked Feral.
“It’s a black-and-white tree from far away in the woods. See, it has these special leaves,” Howling explained, holding up the newspaper.
“Oh yes. Let’s cook some roasted kookoo leaves to be wraps for the deer stew.”
Howling roasted the rumpled newspaper pages over a fake fire, then handed a piece to Feral. Feral took a bite. “Most delicious, Mrs. Bear.”