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I Can Make This Promise

Page 11

by Christine Day


  Dad taps my shoulder and points. “Look,” he says. “A jellyfish.”

  I follow his gaze, and sure enough, there’s a jellyfish. A milky, transparent blob floating near the surface of the water.

  We fall into a peaceful silence for a few minutes. Only us and the wind and the waves.

  Then Mom clears her throat and says, “So. Where was I?”

  “You told me about your friend in high school, who wanted to grow his hair long, but couldn’t because of his parents.”

  “Right. And we were saving the rest to share with your dad, because he was a big part of it. I’m back on track now.

  “For years, I really wanted to know what it meant to be Native. I wanted to reconnect with my culture, and learn the truth about my family and heritage. This lasted from my adolescence into adulthood. But I didn’t do anything about it until I met your father. I was twenty-one, he was twenty-two. Your father was a student at the UW, and I was working at a coffeeshop a few blocks off campus.”

  “It’s true,” Dad says. “I charmed her with my good looks and impressed her with my massive textbooks.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard about the coffeeshop a thousand times already.”

  Mom smiles. “Anyways, we started dating in the summer of 1998. And your father took me out to the Seafair Powwow in Discovery Park.”

  Their gazes meet, and both of my parents seem to soften. They’re still so in love, it actually disgusts me sometimes.

  “I’d never been to a powwow before,” she says. “But he didn’t know that. We were still just getting to know each other. And although he knew I was Native American, he didn’t know much about the adoption, or my general disconnection from the culture. So as we were walking around, admiring the dancers and the regalia, he kept asking me questions I didn’t have answers to.”

  “I remember you were so embarrassed,” Dad murmurs. “As if it was your own fault. As if you were a failure somehow, just because you didn’t know what it meant to smudge.”

  “Donnie, that’s exactly how it felt! I was on a date with a bright, interesting young college student. A guy with goals and ambitions and intimidating textbooks. And who was I? The girl from the coffeeshop, with zero interest in pursuing a degree in higher education. At that point in my life, most people only found me interesting because I was Native, and yet, I knew nothing about being Native. I was so afraid of disappointing you.”

  Dad clasps her arm in a movement so swift, it startles me. He keeps his grip on her elbow with one hand and reaches for her face with the other. He sweeps a stray lock of hair back from her forehead. Cups her cheek with his palm.

  “You have never disappointed me,” he says. “Not once, in all these years.”

  Her throat bobs as she swallows. She places a gentle hand over his and says, “Same goes for you.”

  Now Dad is leaning in to kiss her forehead, and I look away all awkwardly, pretending to inspect the bottom of my shoe.

  As they pull apart, Mom says, “Okay. The ferry is docking soon. No more distractions.

  “While we were at the powwow, I basically ended up telling your father my life story. I told him the same anecdotes I told you today, with the bullies and Uncle Phil, and Todd and his hair. I told your father about all the questions and yearnings that had been growing within me for years. And he listened and asked me, ‘Why don’t we try to find them?’ I said, ‘Try to find who?’ He was like, ‘Your parents.’

  “We discussed it a little bit between ourselves, but your father was the one who handled most of the investigative work. It seemed like the sort of mystery that should have taken years to solve, but two days after the Seafair Powwow, your dad came into the coffeeshop and said, ‘I think I found your family.’ I didn’t believe him at first. I thought he was pulling my chain. But he insisted, ‘I mean it. I have a surname and an address in Indianola. We can go this Saturday, if you have the day off from work.’”

  With a start, I realize the bag my cookie came in is now crumpled in my fist. I realize my heart is pounding inside my chest.

  I ask them, “And so you found Edith Graham?”

  Dad tells me, “Actually, we met her brother.”

  Mom places her hand on my shoulder. “And we’ll take you there, very soon. But first, we want to show you an important park.”

  27.

  Old Man House

  July 12

  We reach the shoreline.

  Boulders line the beach in a gradient scale: the rocks along the bottom are coated in algae and barnacles, the middle rows are dark and slick with seawater, and those along the top are dry and streaked with bird poop. The town of Kingston is straight ahead, and thickets of evergreen trees stand guard in every direction.

  Inside the ferry’s underbelly, the cars rev their engines and roll forward. We follow the flow of traffic down the ramp, and upstream through Kingston.

  And along the way, Mom tells me about the park we’re going to, which is also the historic site of a winter village called Old Man House. The place where Chief Seattle himself lived and died. She describes how hundreds of people lived together in that single structure. How this longhouse dated back hundreds of years, while the gathering site at this village dated back thousands of years.

  I listen to her voice and watch outside the window as we drive. There are long, yellowed grasses along the roadside. Walls of evergreen trees fall and rise, breaking open to reveal wide meadows. Horses stand around, their tails swishing. Billboards advertise lots for sale, where blackberry bushes and shrubs run wild.

  Mom tells me about how long the Old Man House lasted. And she tells me about how the government burned it to the ground.

  We arrive at the park—a waterfront park with benches, leafy green trees, and round concrete garbage bins. The small parking lot is positioned at the top of a slight hill. The rolling grass slants down toward the shore. The water here is calm and clear, like blue glass. No wind or boats disturb it; the whole area is peaceful, quiet.

  Our car doors slam shut, one after another. I step forward, to stand beside my mother.

  “This is it?”

  “This is it.”

  My parents lead me down to the beach. Bainbridge Island is directly across the Agate Passage. Its land slopes upward, along the rise of a hill, covered in dense clusters of evergreen trees. I catch glimpses of modern-looking mansions tucked within the forest: the reflective glint of a window, the edge of a smooth wall.

  The waterfront park is only an acre long. Mom said that Old Man House was much bigger, when it existed here.

  “It’s so pretty,” I say as we reach the beach. The sand is wet and flat and dense. I leave neat, shallow footprints as I walk across it. I glance around, trying to imagine what Old Man House must have looked like.

  I walk closer to the water, the thin stretch of beach that is littered with crumpled seaweed and broken seashells. I kneel and pick up a seashell fragment. It’s white and ridged on one side, shiny and pearly pink on the other. It has a chipped corner, and I like that; it gives this little shell some personality. The next one I grab is swirled and pointy, like the top part of soft-serve ice cream.

  “I brought this for you, if you want it.”

  I turn toward Mom’s voice—she’s standing behind me, holding my drawing pad.

  “I’ve noticed you haven’t been drawing as much these past few days,” she says. “But I thought you might want to, while we’re here. We’ll go to our next destination soon, but we’re just . . . waiting for something. A special surprise for you.”

  My heart stills. My fingers tingle, suddenly, with the urge to draw.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  I take the drawing pad to a bench. Mom follows and gives me my drawing pencil. I flip through the pages, fanning them out like I would with a flipbook. There are sketches of the view from Golden Gardens. Outlines of the flowers from my mother’s garden. And the dog from the reservation: its happy, furry face; its shaggy little body; its wagging t
ail.

  Finally, I find the next open page and run my fingertips against the textured ivory paper.

  Then I press the tip of my pencil to it.

  I sketch this scene in faint, careful lines. The shoreline, the water, the trees. Each flick of my wrist is met with a hushed whisper against the paper. The landscape materializes, one caress at a time. Shades of gray and swipes of line.

  As it comes together, I add the outline of a building—a long, rectangular structure set on the sand. I’m not really sure what the Old Man House looked like in real life, but I’m improvising. I draw it in long, straight strokes, like cedar planks across a giant log cabin.

  Mom leans close, peeking over my shoulder. “Beautiful,” she says. “But it’s missing something, don’t you think?”

  From my other shoulder, Dad says, “It’s missing two things, actually.”

  I squint at the page. “What?”

  “The dog,” Dad tells me. “I miss your little dog. Draw it in, please.”

  The request makes me giggle. I sketch the woolly form into the corner of the page, near the shoreline. I give his ears some perk, like he’s listening for something. The tail needs motion lines, obviously. And I draw a few paw prints behind it, to show where the dog came from.

  Dad nods. “Perfect.”

  “Thanks. What else is missing?”

  “The people.”

  My grip tightens on the pencil.

  “Don’t worry,” Mom coos. “It’s a common mistake. Landscape artists have been getting it wrong for years, for generations. But the American West has never been an empty wilderness. It has always had people and architecture, civilizations and traditions. If you want to draw these landscapes, Edie, please do it right by recognizing how full they are. Find the beauty others have missed, and show it the way only someone like you can.”

  I stare at the page, unsure of myself, unsure of my ability to do this.

  “I’m not very good at illustrating people.”

  Mom and Dad both exchange glances and shrug, as if this isn’t such a big deal.

  “No offense, sweetie,” Dad says. “But once upon a time, you weren’t very good at drawing dogs or landscapes, either.”

  I laugh, harder and louder than I mean to. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Honestly. But look at you now. You’re so talented. I’m amazed by how perfectly you captured this landscape, how easily you envisioned a building you’ve never seen before. And the dog! I mean, despite being drawn in pencil, this is one of the most realistic pups I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s true,” Mom agrees. “A few years back, you made pretty typical kid drawings. And I’ve loved and saved many of them, but when you were drawing suns wearing sunglasses and super-triangular mountains, we didn’t think you’d go on to make the things you’re creating now. It’s been such an amazing process, watching you learn and grow and become the artist you are today.”

  “And you’re still so young, Edie. You have so much growth ahead of you.”

  “That’s right. Practice makes perfect. Go ahead, try it.”

  I take in a deep breath. Press the tip of my pencil to the paper.

  The first few lines I draw are too awkward, too hard. I erase and start over, erase and start over. I imagine people in my mind and try to imagine what they would’ve looked like, what they would’ve been doing. I draw some inspiration from beaches I’ve gone to before and imagine a setting not too different from Golden Gardens. I draw a group of small children chasing one another, playing tag. I draw adults standing in circles, talking and gesturing with their hands. I draw someone skipping rocks across the water. I draw another person next to the dog, with a stick in their hand so they can play fetch together.

  It’s not perfect. But it’s a start.

  28.

  Please, Come In

  July 12

  Before we left the house, my parents packed a picnic basket for us. We’re digging into it here at the beach, and I’m shocked both by how hungry I am and by how painless it is to eat.

  “My teeth feel okay right now,” I announce proudly.

  Mom grins. “Glad to hear it, sweetie.”

  We’re eating smoked salmon, cheddar cheese, and crackers. We also have grapes and applesauce.

  “Tell me what happened next. After Dad found the address in Indianola.”

  Mom’s mouth is full, so she gestures for Dad to pick up where she left off.

  “So we took the Edmonds–Kingston ferry, and I remember I was the one driving. I had a 1990 BMW M3, at the time. Cherry-red with custom wheels and a leather interior. That was the first car I ever owned that had automatic windows. God, that was a great vehicle. Her name was Jasmine, in case you were wondering. But I usually called her Jazzy.”

  Mom rolls her eyes so hard, I see nothing but whites for a second.

  “Anyways, I thought Jazzy was pretty impressive. And I was trying really hard to impress your mom by taking her to that house in Indianola. I was also nervous, of course, because we had no idea what we’d find once we got there. We didn’t know if anyone would still be living there. We didn’t know if they’d welcome us. It was a big risk. But I was determined to see it through for your mom, so she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life wondering, ‘What if?’

  “There was just one problem, with me trying to be impressive. Because our little road trip happened pre-GPS, and I sucked at reading paper maps. I’m probably the worst navigator in history. That’s not an exaggeration.”

  Mom and I are starting to giggle.

  “I’m serious! It was awful. We kept getting lost and having to turn around, and it was especially embarrassing, because there weren’t that many roads out here back then. It was a pretty straight shot to our destination, and I managed to muck it up. And the entire time, I was thinking, ‘Oh Lord. She’ll never go on a date with me again, because now she knows I’m an idiot.’”

  Mom gasps. “You’re no such thing.”

  Dad shrugs. Smirks. “But that’s exactly how it felt. I was dating a beautiful, interesting young woman who had put her trust in me. And I was terrified I wouldn’t get it right for her.”

  She gapes at him. “You—”

  “Anyways,” Dad says. “I eventually realized I was reading the map upside down, hence the problem. And once I turned it around, finding the address didn’t seem so difficult.

  “We came to a long gravel driveway. There were some big trees on the property, and the house was right on the waterfront. It was a beautiful little cottage. It looked like something out of a storybook. I parked the car on the street and took your mother’s hand. As we walked down the sloping driveway, I noticed she was shivering.

  “We walked up to the porch. It was the summertime, remember, so the windows were cracked open. There was a screen door in front, and we could see through it. I remember the cabin’s interior was shadowy, but in the background I could see a rocking chair. And a pile of blankets on top of an ottoman.

  “I rang the doorbell. Your mother and I could hear it buzzing clearly, from where we were standing. We stood and waited, but it seemed like no one was coming. I reached out and knocked on the corner of the screen door. Still nothing.

  “Your mother tugged on my hand and said, ‘We tried, Donnie. No one’s here. Let’s go home.’ And I said, ‘No way. The windows are open and there’s a truck parked on the side of the house. They probably just can’t hear us.’ Mom told me, ‘Thank you for bringing me here. You have no idea how much it means to me. But this might be a mistake. We should go.’

  “I rang the doorbell a second time. We’d come so far, and I hated the idea of turning back without at least talking to someone. And just as we were about to give up, a man stepped into view inside the house. With the shadows, neither of us could see his face, but it was clear from his size and stature that this was a man. A very large, strong-looking man.

  “I grinned and tried my best to be charming. I said, ‘Hello, sir. My name is Don Green, and this is my girlfrie
nd, Lisa Miller. We’re sorry to intrude like this, but we have a few questions for the family of this house. If it’s not too much to ask.’

  “He stared at us in silence, for what felt like whole minutes. It was a little unnerving, considering how we couldn’t see his face while he looked back at us. But we held our ground, and I held your mother’s hand. We endured the inspection.

  “And then he came forward. His footsteps were slow and heavy. When he reached the screen door, we could finally see his face. Despite the differences in age and gender, the familial resemblance was absolutely striking. I remember your mother gasped at that first glimpse of him. He was tall and broad, and there were crow’s feet around his eyes, laugh lines around his mouth. His salt-and-pepper hair was long and framed his face in two braids. His brown eyes were wet and rimmed in red. He was on the verge of tears.

  “We were all speechless, I think. No one said anything as he opened the screen door, stepped out onto the porch, and pulled your mother into a fierce hug. I remember your mother’s shoulders shook as she held him. I remember his face crumpled as he dropped his chin to the top of her head. I remember he croaked the words ‘I know who you are. I know who you are. It’s you. You found your way home. You came back to us.’ Tears streaked down his face, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  “When they finally stepped apart, he shook my hand and held the screen door open for us. He said, ‘My name is Theodore Graham. Please, come in.’”

  29.

  The Necessary Small Talk

  July 12

  Mom is crying. Her eyes are glistening, her cheeks are shiny. I can tell she’s trying not to sob from the little hiccuping sounds she’s making.

  I feel like crying, too, but I manage to hold it in. I reach my arms around her, holding her tight as we sit together on the park bench. Dad reaches around us both, making it a group hug.

  The three of us sit like this for a while, listening to the birds chatter in the trees and watching the gentle waves lap against the shore. We wait for Mom to regain her composure. We wait until she says, “All right. I’m ready. Are you?”

 

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