I Can Make This Promise
Page 10
Mom holds my gaze. She blinks a few times, her eyelids fluttering.
“She had an older brother named Theo. She had a gap between her two front teeth. She was inspired by someone named Sacheen. She took acting lessons, and she worked hard, even though she never got any good parts. But none of it mattered when she realized she was going to be a mother. From then on, all she wanted was you.”
My voice wavers and cracks. I think of Amelia, who didn’t want me to do this. I think of Serenity and Uncle Phil, who thought I should have done it from the beginning.
“What happened to her? Why were you adopted?”
I stop. I wait to see who was right. I wait to see what my parents will do now.
Dad speaks first: “You found the box.” He chuckles. Looks down at his hands. “I don’t know why we even bother hiding things from you. We could never keep birthday or Christmas gifts a secret. You always found what you were getting.” He checks his watch. Glances at Mom. “I have an appointment with a client this morning. But I can take the rest of the day off, if you’re ready to tell Edie everything. We can take her there,” he says, “like we always wanted to.”
My breath catches. I look at her, silently pleading.
And she says, “Okay.”
Triumph blazes through me. I feel tears well in my eyes, but they aren’t like happy tears, or even sad tears. I think these might be tears of relief.
Dad says, “Great. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Before he leaves, he walks behind my chair, wraps his arms around me, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “My sweet girl,” he says. “You’re my entire world. You know that, right?”
I nod. “I know, Dad.”
“Good.” He kisses my head again, then grabs his sport coat and goes to work.
Mom is quiet as she rinses the bowls and places them in the dishwasher. She also washes the blender she used, scrubbing and wiping it down until the plastic is clear and shiny. When she sets it on the drying rack beside the sink, she says, “I had a feeling. Ever since I found you girls in the attic, I knew there was . . . something.”
I swallow. “Are you mad?”
“No, sweetie. I would never be mad at you for being curious. I’d never be mad at you for wanting to know where your name came from, where we came from. I just—I wish I would’ve had a little more control, in this situation. I wish I could have shown you those letters and photographs myself.”
So Uncle Phil was right. She really was planning on showing me the box someday.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Please don’t apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“For last night,” I tell her sheepishly. “I’m sorry I said those things at the theater. I didn’t mean any of it.”
She smiles. Takes a step toward me. “That reminds me,” she says. “I need you to understand why I didn’t want to see that movie. I . . . sort of choked up when you asked about it. And I wish I would have done better. I wish would’ve composed myself, and explained it to you right away, instead of avoiding the discussion.”
Parents can be weird. Serenity’s words ring in my head. They make mistakes. But they’re not trying to hurt you, Edie.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m not mad.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Do you remember the actress on the poster?”
I nod.
“She wasn’t a real Native. That actress’s name is Léa Lejeune. She’s originally from Belgium. In that movie, she’s supposed to be an ‘Indian princess,’ so she dyed her hair black and wore that awful costume.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Movies like that show Native people as something exotic and mythical, but there is no truth to them. That was not a real Native woman. Her outfit had no cultural significance. Everything about it was fake and Hollywoodized, for the sake of making a profit.”
“In that case, I guess I’m glad we didn’t see it.”
“Me too.”
Mom looks out the window. It’s open a few inches, just enough to let a breeze in. The white cotton curtains swell and sway, the folds rippling slightly.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Where are we going, after Dad comes home from his appointment?”
She breathes in deep. Turns to face me. “Indianola,” she says. “We’re taking you to Indianola. And along the way, we’ll explain everything about that box. There will be no more secrets. No more surprises.”
25.
An Other in Your Own Family
July 12
I sit in the lawn chair in our backyard while Mom pulls her garden gloves on. My drawing pad is open in my lap, and my pencil is idling in my hand, the eraser tap-tap-tapping against the corner of the page.
“Do we have to wait until Dad comes home?” I ask.
Mom chuckles. “To go to Indianola?”
“To talk about Edith Graham.”
Her shoulders stiffen. She keeps her face turned slightly away from me. Then she seems to suck in a breath and release it slowly.
“Your father should be a part of that conversation. But if you want, I can tell you a little more about me. And my childhood. And the reasons why I felt compelled to find her.”
“That sounds good.” I flip my sketchbook shut and lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “You never tell me stories from when you were growing up.”
She laughs again, in earnest this time. She flexes her fingers and kneels before her garden bed. “That’s because I never wanted you to feel sorry for me.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. She yanks a weed and continues to speak.
“I was put up for adoption the day I was born. If you look at my original birth certificate, you’ll find that I didn’t even have a name when I first came into the world. Eventually, in the orphanage, they named me Lisa. Your grandparents found me at six months old, and that was when I legally became Lisa Miller.
“I still wish you could have met your grandma and grandpa Miller. They loved telling the story of that day they found me. Grandma Miller swore she knew I was the one for her right away. She said that I smiled at her, toothless and jolly. And when she took me in her arms, she wouldn’t let them take me back. She held on, and she never let go.
“Phil didn’t like me too much, at first.” She giggles, remembering. “He was used to being an only child, and he was a bit of a brat back then. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
“He’s definitely still a brat.”
“True. Anyways, when I was very young, he teased me all the time. I convinced myself that he hated me, like many of the kids in our neighborhood.” She pauses. Licks her lips. “I was the only Native American person around, you see. I always knew I was Native, though my parents didn’t know which tribe I came from, or who my biological family was. They knew I was born in Seattle, but that was the extent of their information.”
“Do you know which tribe you’re from now?”
Her gaze is soft as she turns to me. “Yes. I’m getting there, Edie.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry for interrupting.”
“It’s fine, sweetie. So you see, sometimes people don’t know how to act around those they see as different. I remember being bullied all throughout elementary school, especially in middle school. The kids in my grade used to say I needed a bath, because my brown skin looked dirty to them. They spoke to me ‘in Indian,’ which to them meant wailing and flapping their hands over their mouths. They chased me on their bikes and threw rocks at me.
“All of this—and more—went on for weeks, before Phil found out. He was an eighth grader and I was a fifth grader. I was riding home from school on my bike, trying to avoid the kids who bullied me. While I was coming down the street, a squirrel darted out in front of me, and I swerved so hard to avoid it, I fell off my bike. I skinned my knee and rolled my ankle. The kids were coming fast, cheering and yelling, and I knew I couldn’t outrun them. And it was terrifying. I had no idea what they’d do to me.<
br />
“But then, quite literally out of nowhere, Phil swooped in on his own bike. He roared and took his stand by my side. He said if anyone wanted to hurt his sister, they’d have to go through him. He used some colorful, inappropriate language, which I will not repeat now. But it worked. He scared the other kids so badly, they all spun around and rode home.
“Once they were gone, Phil helped me to my feet. He knelt down to inspect my knee. He asked me, ‘Who were those losers? How long has this been going on?’ And when I told him the truth, he could hardly believe it. He asked, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ And I said, ‘I didn’t think that you cared.’”
I find my voice and say, “Mom, of course he cared. He’s your brother.”
She smiles. “I know that now. I wasn’t so sure of it then. But I remember that day, because I haven’t questioned his love ever since. I was in too much pain to ride my bike, so he helped me walk it back to our house. He disinfected the scrape on my knee and gave me an ice pack for my ankle. From that day on, he always rode his bike alongside me, to and from school. He never let me go alone, and those kids never chased me again.”
I can’t help but grin. “Yeah,” I say. “That sounds like him.”
“He has a good heart. He’s always been there for me.”
She falls silent for a moment. The alder tree in our backyard shimmers with a gust of wind. A hummingbird flits into view with its bejeweled magenta-green chest, its whirring wings.
Finally, she says, “So—in elementary and middle school, I was the only Native person in my neighborhood. But that changed when I got to high school.” She yanks another weed free, its thin roots wilting in her grasp. “There was one other Native person. His name was Todd, and he was two grades above me. He was also adopted by white parents, except he knew his Native family. He was placed in foster care when he was five, and he lived in a few different homes before his parents formally took him in, so he always looked and felt like an outsider. I knew exactly what that was like. How it felt to be the only one. How it felt to be an Other in your own family, your own community.
“I tried to be friends with him, but to be honest, our friendship didn’t last very long. He was a miserable person to be around. He was sullen and lonely and just generally angry at the world. I felt sorry for him. I knew he was bullied a lot, and I knew his adoptive parents weren’t exactly stellar citizens.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. Various reasons. I remember he wanted to grow his hair out, keep it styled in long braids and ponytails. But his parents forced him to keep it buzzed. Stuff like that.”
“That’s weird. Who cares if a boy wants to have long hair?”
Mom shrugs. “Good question. But they certainly cared. And I remember the explanation he gave me. One day in the lunchroom, he told me, ‘They just don’t want me to be proud of my heritage. They want me to forget where I came from.’
“That conversation we had really stuck with me. My first reaction was ‘Gosh. Why would his own parents not want him to embrace his heritage?’ And my second thought was ‘Wow. I know absolutely nothing about my cultural background.’ I realized I had no idea what it truly meant to be a Native person. I couldn’t stop wondering about who my biological parents were, what tribe they were from, or why I was adopted in the first place. Did I end up in that orphanage because something had happened to them? Or did they send me there because I was unwanted? These questions haunted me for years.”
Before Mom continues, the sliding glass door opens behind me. Dad pokes his head out. “Hey,” he says. “Is everyone having a good day?” He’s still in his fancy work clothes, but the tie is loose around his neck. His shirtsleeves are rumpled and rolled up to his elbows.
Mom grins and says, “We are. How are you? How was the meeting?”
“Not too bad. I’m going to go change real quick, before we head out.”
“Sounds good, honey.”
Dad ducks back inside, and Mom glances at me. She claps her hands, clearing the dirt from them as she stands up. I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“What happened to Todd?” I ask. “Did his parents get any nicer? Did he grow his hair out as an adult?” I pause. Swallow. “Did he ever reconnect with his family?”
Mom grimaces. “I’m not sure if he ever saw his Native family again. He dropped out of high school, and we lost track of each other for a few years. But while I was still working at the coffeeshop—”
I perk up. “The same place where you met Dad?”
“Yes, the one in the U District. On my way home one night, I crossed paths with Todd at the bus stop. He seemed much happier then. His hair was grown out past his shoulders, and he had a little sparkle in his eye that had never been there before. He gave me a big hug, and he told me everything he’d been up to. He’d earned his GED and he was in school to become an auto mechanic. He was also working as a volunteer, to help immigrants and refugees in the Seattle area, which became his true passion.” She smiles at me. “He found his calling. He was really happy.”
Todd’s happy ending warms me up, from the inside out.
I hope Edith Graham gets one, too.
26.
The Ferry
July 12
Ten minutes later, the three of us are in Dad’s car, driving north on I-5.
Dad has changed into his regular clothes, and he looks much more comfortable. He’s in a white button-up and brown khakis, his eyes shielded behind aviator sunglasses. Mom changed her outfit before we left, too. She’s wearing a pretty emerald-green sundress.
I scoot forward in my seat and ask, “Where exactly is Indianola?”
“Suquamish territory,” Mom answers. “Across the water from here.”
“What’s ‘Suquamish’?”
“That’s who we are,” she says. “That’s where we’re from.”
Who we are. Where we’re from.
Those two sentences steal my breath.
“But, technically speaking, Suquamish villages were built on both sides of the Sound. So their reservation is across from us, but this whole region counts as our ancestral territory.”
“So we’re Suquamish. That’s what our tribe is called?”
“We’re Suquamish and Duwamish, actually. Just like Chief Seattle. He signed the Treaty of Point Elliott on behalf of both tribes.” Mom catches my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Do you remember studying geography in school?” she asks me. “Do you remember what the European continent looks like?”
I nod.
“Can you imagine how many countries there were?”
I nod again, picturing it in my mind. All those brightly colored patches. Countries of all sizes. Borders drawn in squiggly lines.
“North America is exactly like that. There are countless tribal nations throughout this land. In Washington State alone, there are more than thirty tribes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Some are federally recognized—the Suquamish, the Tulalip, the Muckleshoot. Others aren’t—the Duwamish, the Chinook, the Snohomish.”
“I didn’t know Snohomish was a tribe,” I say. “I thought that was just the name of the town up north.”
“It’s a tribe, too,” Mom confirms. “They also signed the Treaty of Point Elliott.”
“Wow.”
I’m straining against my seat belt, waiting to hear more, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. My fingers fumble as I pull it out and unlock the new message.
I gasp at the sight of Serenity’s name.
Serenity: hey! sorry service is really spotty and my phone is on the verge of death. your msgs are downloading. i can’t read them yet so idk what’s up with you, but i hope everything is okay. dad and i are still in the woods, but heading home soon. rly hope this text sends. miss u!
I clutch the phone in both hands. I was so afraid she was ignoring me, but she just couldn’t contact me! I’m so relieved, I could cry.
Me: Serenity! Sorry for all the messages. I’m okay, but it’s defi
nitely been weird without you. Hope you’re having fun, please reach out when you can. I miss you, too!
I add about a dozen red heart emojis before I hit send.
“You’re smiley all of a sudden,” Mom says with a smirk. “Good news from a friend?”
I grin. “Serenity’s coming home soon. I can’t wait to see her.”
“Well,” Dad pipes up. “I hope you’ll see her even sooner than you think.”
And now we’re aboard the Edmonds–Kingston ferry. Our car is parked in the ship’s underbelly, and we are standing near the front of the boat, in the briny marine air. Mom and I are here together, leaning against the green railing while Dad gets coffee and snacks from the indoor cafeteria. We are still docked at the beach in Edmonds, waiting for the full load of passengers. The ferry will take us across the Puget Sound to the town of Kingston.
Serenity hasn’t texted me back since that one message. But now I’m pretty sure that’s either because she lost service, or her phone is dead.
I reach out and touch the green rail, running my thumb across a ridged section where the paint is chipped and flaking. Short, choppy waves slap against the bottom of the ship. A seagull is perched on a wooden beam protruding from the water. The sea expands before us, bright and rippling and blue.
Dad comes up behind us. “So they didn’t have a huge braces-friendly selection,” he says. He’s holding a tray with two coffees in paper cups, plus a small brown bag. “But I got you a chocolate chip cookie. Hopefully that’ll do.”
Chocolate chip cookies are always fine by me. I shove my hand inside the crinkly paper bag. Draw it out, take a huge bite.
The ferry blasts its horn. I jump and cover my ears. There’s a slight jolt underfoot as we begin our forward momentum. Our journey across the water.
Mom says, “Why don’t we go for a walk around the deck?”
I nod my agreement. We move toward the back of the boat while I eat my cookie. When we reach the end, I look out at the distance between us and the mainland. The ship creates a long, wide wake. It reminds me of a shimmery trail left by a fat slug.