“Oh no. Please, sir, I—” Her eyes shone bright with tears. Her chest heaved with small, quick breaths. “I know we don’t seem like much. I know what you’re probably thinking. We’re not exactly conventional or perfect, but this is—this is the role I’m meant to have. I’m supposed to be a mother. I can promise you, she will be loved. She will be loved so fiercely. Please understand me. I will keep her safe and happy.”
He stood with his back turned to them. And for a single, airless moment, Edith thought she’d gotten through to him. She thought he wasn’t about to do the terrible thing other Native women had warned her about.
But he simply responded, “I will pray for you, child.”
And he left.
32.
Split-Feather Syndrome
July 12
Her final words hover in the air.
“What do you mean, ‘he left’?” I glance back and forth between my parents. The air grows heavy, difficult to breathe. “Did the doctor bring you back? Was everything okay?”
“The doctor had no intention of bringing me back to her, Edie.”
“But she was your mother. She loved you. She wanted you back. They couldn’t just—they couldn’t keep you away from her. That makes no sense. H-how could they do something like that?”
“Because my mother was an unmarried woman, who was flighty and irresponsible, since she got pregnant while she was off chasing unrealistic dreams in California. Because my uncle was a convicted criminal, who was political and radical and possibly violent, since he dared to take a stand as a Native activist. Because the third adult in their house was an ailing old woman, who couldn’t be expected to care for a newborn baby, despite successfully raising two children on her own and working in domestic service her entire life.
“That was how the social worker analyzed their situation. He added up the facts of their life story and concluded that my family was unfit to care for me. He didn’t think they should be allowed to keep me. And so, no one brought me back to my mother’s delivery room. I was taken away from the hospital and sent to an orphanage. That was where I stayed, until Grandma and Grandpa Miller came and found me.”
I’m shaking my head. “No. No, that can’t be real. That couldn’t have happened.”
“I’m sorry, Edie.” Her voice cracks. “But it’s the truth. They took me away. And my mother never saw me again.”
Serenity grasps my hand in both of hers. She rubs her thumb back and forth across my skin. Uncle Phil places a gentle palm against the center of my back.
Mom says, “For many years, Native children were forcibly removed from their families and communities.”
I’m still shaking my head. Too shocked to do anything else.
“This is why my mother didn’t want to give birth in a hospital. This is why she and my uncle tried so hard to avoid it, even when she began going into labor in downtown Seattle. They knew that state child welfare and private adoption agencies were actively seeking out Native children. They knew of friends and neighbors and distant relatives whose kids were taken.”
Serenity gives my hand another squeeze. I can hear Uncle Phil’s breath catch in his chest. I can feel Dad watching my reactions closely.
Mom licks her lips and says, “Between the 1940s and 1970s, about one-third of Native children were separated from their families. Until Congress passed the Indian Child Welfare Act in 1978.”
I somehow find my voice again. “Congress got involved?”
She nods. “Took them long enough, if you ask me. But at the same time, I’m grateful, because when I had you—” She’s still nodding, her head bobbing in a frantic motion that seems a little out of her control. “My God, if anything had happened to you—”
Dad wraps his arms around her, hugging her against his side. She tucks her chin and curls into his embrace. “Nothing ever did,” he says softly. “Nothing ever will.”
My heart is heavy as a stone inside my chest.
So this is what happened to my mother and grandmother. I imagined so many different scenarios on our way here, and I thought for sure I’d prepared myself. I thought I was ready and braced for the worst.
But I didn’t picture this.
I wasn’t ready for something this cruel.
I wasn’t ready for this horrific injustice.
I’m up and off the couch, striding across the room to my parents, throwing my arms around them. Until today, I didn’t realize what a beautiful and wonderful gift this is. The right to hug your loved ones, whenever you want to.
I will never take these hugs for granted again.
33.
Directly Across the Sea
July 12
A few moments later, Dad presses a quick kiss to my forehead. He looks me in the eye and asks, “Are you all right?”
I nod.
“We brought some salmon and salad supplies for dinner. Your mother and I figured we should all eat here tonight. You can explore the cabin, plan for the film with Serenity. Maybe even get some drawing time in. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’d offer to help with dinner,” Uncle Phil says, “but I only know how to grill burgers. I’m useless at cooking anything else.” He sighs, like this is a huge regret in his life. Then an idea occurs to him. His mood brightens. “Unless you brought some cereal? I pour a mean bowl of cereal.”
Again with the dumb jokes.
Mom narrows her eyes at him. Dad’s eyebrows shoot straight up. Serenity peeks at him with an unimpressed look on her face.
They’re all giving him these stares, because this clearly isn’t the time for stupid jokes.
But since this is Uncle Phil, I can’t help myself.
I snort. It comes out loud and weird. And then I giggle, because I snorted so loud, and that giggle turns into a restrained laugh.
“What?” Uncle Phil asks, his voice sincere, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s all about the milk-to-cereal ratio. If you go too heavy with the cereal, it dries out fast. If you go too heavy with milk, everything falls into chaos. It’s a fine art, Edie. A balance, if you will.”
“Uncle Phil. No one eats cereal for dinner.”
“What are you talking about? That’s my life at least three or four days of the week.”
Serenity says, “Then why don’t you learn how to cook?”
Uncle Phil gives a long-suffering sigh. “Because what’s the point, when I live in an era of fast food drive-throughs and instant noodle cups?”
And somehow, I’m still laughing. Even while my heart feels like it’s covered in bruises.
“You could still help,” Dad says. “Everything is prepped and prewashed, since we don’t have running water. All we need to do is grill the salmon and potatoes, set out some utensils.”
“Fine, Donnie. Twist my arm.”
Serenity perks up. “I can help, too!”
As the three of them go to the kitchen, Mom chuckles and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. She rises from her seat. “Come outside with me,” she says. “I want to show you something.”
I follow her outside, and we walk together along the water’s edge. The air is warm and breezy. We’ve both removed our shoes, and the shoreline is cool and coarse.
“Our time together was limited,” Mom says. “But I’m so grateful I got to know Uncle Theo. I’m glad I came here when I did. I’m glad he was able to tell me our family’s history.”
The waves pull in and out, gentle as a hushed breath.
“He was diagnosed with cancer a couple years after we first met. He died on October 30, 2001; he was only fifty-three years old.” She inhales shakily. “We scattered his ashes right here, in the waters of the Salish Sea, his home. It was what he wanted. And Edith’s ashes were scattered here, too. She died suddenly at the age of forty, from a fatal arrhythmia.”
I don’t know what an arrhythmia is, and I can’t bring myself to ask. So instead I say, “And he left you this house?”
“Yes. Your father and I have maintained this house over th
e years. It never felt like an option to sell it. And after we got married, he even asked if I wanted to move here, to live permanently on this side of the water. He thought I might want to raise our family in Indianola, rather than Seattle.”
“Really? Why didn’t you?”
Mom licks her lips. Shrugs. “It’s hard to explain now. But I thought you’d have a better chance at a ‘normal’ childhood in the city.” She shakes her head. “I think I was just afraid of how you’d react to this whole story. I was an adult when I learned everything, and it shook me to my very core. I wanted to protect you, as long as I could. I didn’t want you to feel lost or confused or angry.”
I breathe in deep; I understand where she’s coming from now. I can see why she hid the box from me.
And she still hasn’t told me everything. I’m aware of that. But all this sadness is so exhausting. I’m not sure either of us can take much more of it.
So I simply tell her, “Grandma Edith’s head shots were really beautiful.”
It works. She smiles. “Yes. They were.”
“She looked like you.”
“She looked a lot like you, too. You have her smile.”
I press my fingers to my lips. “I guess I did. Probably not anymore, once my braces come off.”
“Smiles aren’t beautiful because of teeth. Smiles are beautiful because of a person’s spirit.” Mom moves behind me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders. And she says, “You have her spirit, Edie. That’s something no one can ever change or take away.”
I tilt my head. I hadn’t thought of it that way before.
Mom lowers her head and whispers, “Do you see that place? Directly across the sea?”
“Yes.” The land across the water is unevenly sculpted. I follow the rise of a rugged, green landscape, dotted with houses and buildings that look so tiny from here, they’re almost unnoticeable. Hazy blue mountains cut sharp lines into the periwinkle sky.
“Does it look familiar to you? This particular spot?”
I try squinting. The sea stretches before me, vast and bright and inviting. The air is salty, with a crisp aftertaste like a sip of iced water. Sailboats and speedboats leave foamy white trails in their wake. Two ferries are about to cross paths in the middle of their journey, their bloated white bodies lined with rows of tinted black windows. The sky curves overhead, like the interior of a great blue bowl. “Keep looking,” she urges. “You know this place.”
I scan the landscape. Blue water and green lands and distant mountains in every direction. To the south, just beyond the green hills, I realize a hint of downtown Seattle is visible. From here, the skyscrapers look like toy blocks propped up in the lowlands between hills.
The recognition dawns on me slowly. I do know this landscape. I do know this place.
I gently pull away from my mother’s embrace, to look around at my surroundings. I breathe it all in. The sea and the sand. The evergreen trees and mountains. The rise and fall of this land.
And I gasp. “Mom,” I say, “are we across from Golden Gardens?”
She laughs a little. Beams at me. “Yes, Edie,” she says. “This is how close we are. How close we’ve always been. This is where we belong. You and me.” Mom pulls me into another hug. I hug her back, arms squeezed around her middle.
My smile is a heartfelt, unstoppable thing.
34.
A Salmon Going Upstream
July 12
It’s an hour before sunset when we sit around the outdoor table. The sky is orange and pink and brilliant. The evergreen trees around us look golden in the slanting light. The water shimmers and flashes. Our dinner consists of salmon and salad, with wild blackberries and roasted fingerling potatoes.
It looks and smells divine. And it tastes even better.
I’m pretty sure this is my first proper meal since I got braces. Every now and then, I take a bite that makes me flinch, but it’s not too bad. Not nearly like it was a few days ago.
Uncle Phil and Serenity are sharing funny stories. Loud and laughing. Mom is lifting a forkful of potatoes, smiling as she bites. Covering her mouth when she giggles. Dad catches my eye from across the table; he cocks his head and gives me a discreet thumbs-up. I understand the question he’s asking and respond with the warmest smile possible. He grins back and returns his attention to his food, happy to see me happy.
And then—a sound carries across the water. A pleasant hum, a building rhythm. I set my fork aside and turn to look over my shoulder.
“Guys,” I say. “What is that?”
The table falls silent, as the sound—the singing—strengthens and rises. Waves lap against the shore, swelling with an incoming tide. And out there, in the middle of the sea, is a line of—canoes. Paddles plunging into the water in brisk, even swipes. Voices harmonizing and bellowing in a language I’ve never heard before.
I push away from the table. I rise from my chair.
The canoes keep coming and going. They are long, with pointed sterns and elaborately painted bodies. Some are wreathed in green cedar boughs. Others have flags hoisted in the air, waving in the wind.
“Are they—?” I leave the question unfinished, because I already know the answer. It’s obvious.
They’re all Natives. And they’re all going—somewhere.
I take off running down the beach, jumping over shells and boulders and strands of kelp. At this point, at least a dozen canoes have gone by, and they aren’t slowing down.
Where are they going?
As I stand at the edge of the shore, I catch glimpses of their flags, the words written across their canoes—some are written in another language, the same language they must be singing in. But there are tribal names, too—the Puyallup, the Quinault, the Cowichan.
An elderly woman in a cedar-woven hat sits at the front of one canoe, facing the paddlers. She’s leading one of the songs as they go, and I watch as she checks over her shoulder and sees me. She cocks her head to the side and lifts one hand in a friendly wave, even though we don’t know each other. Even though she’s never seen me before.
I wave back, lifting my arm high, spreading my fingers wide.
“Edie!”
I spin around to find my mother behind me. Her smile is wide and carefree.
“What do you think, sweetie?” she asks. “Should we follow along?”
I nod, fast and insistent. “What’s happening? What is this?”
And she says, “You’ll see.”
We drive back to the park where Old Man House once stood. The same park where dozens of canoes have now been pulled up along the shoreline.
It’s the best kind of chaos. A landscape filled with songs and laughter and hugging family members. An evening of pink skies and bright smiles and splashing waters.
My family scatters. Uncle Phil starts chatting with a group of guys his age, while my parents introduce themselves to an elderly couple sitting in lawn chairs. Serenity and I take off on our own along the shore, observing everything, meeting gazes and waving hello to strangers. All the canoes have gathered here, each packed with visitors from all over—the Snoqualmie, the Cowlitz, the Swinomish.
Serenity tugs on my sleeve. “Edie,” she says excitedly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What?”
She beams and says, “This is it. This is the story.”
“For the film?” I turn the possibility over in my mind. Find myself nodding. “Yes,” I say. “You’re right. This is it. The perfect ending.”
Near the end of the line, I glimpse a canoe from Tulalip. A group of boys about our age are skipping rocks across the water, shouting and boisterous.
One of them is wearing a backward-facing baseball cap, with a tuft of black hair sticking through the gap. His teeth are bright white in contrast against his skin, and he’s laughing at something his friends have said. Another boy snaps at him, “Roger, come on.”
“Okay, okay.”
Roger turns around to grab more rocks, and I come
to an abrupt stop. He sees me and straightens, eyes wide and blinking. His friends notice and follow his gaze, straight to me.
“Edie,” Serenity says. “What are you—?”
“Hey!” Roger grins, his entire face brightening. “I know you.”
I give a slightly awkward wave. “Hi,” I say. Then I gesture at myself and add, “Edie.” In case he forgot my name.
“I remember. It’s good to see you again.” He shows me his handful of rocks. “Wanna join us? We’re in the middle of a competition. It’s a lot more fun than it looks, I promise.”
Serenity and I exchange glances, and a mutual, encouraging shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
And as the sun dips below the horizon, we send ripples across the water that never seem to end.
Epilogue
Where Are You Going?
August 28
“Haaappy birthday to you!”
Mom closes her eyes. Breathes in, focusing on her wish. Then she leans forward and blows the candles out.
We clap and cheer and scream for her. I launch out of my seat to throw my arms around her. She laughs as she clutches me back, and soon I feel Dad’s arms around us both. We hold on tight for several seconds, before Uncle Phil groans.
“I love the love, but can we please try the cake now? Serenity and I need some sugar.” He shoots her a conspiratorial glance. “Right?”
My best friend nods her agreement. “Definitely.”
And that’s when we finally release each other.
As Dad starts cutting the cake into slices, I run inside the cabin to retrieve my gift for Mom.
We’ve spent a lot of time here in Indianola over the summer. I love this place so much. I’ve loved learning more about my family, my culture. I’ve loved seeing the landscape, drawing it over and over from this perspective.
It would be easy to feel discouraged here, in the place Grandma Edith and Uncle Theo returned to after Mom was taken from them. It would be easy to let the sadness win, knowing they stayed here all those years later, hoping and waiting and wishing to see her again.
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