“Just stay on the phone with me, okay? Is he breathing?”
“I think so, yeah, but not much—”
“Stay on the phone, stay on the phone, all right?”
“Just hurry.”
“How old is he?”
“Uh, I don’t—he’s fourteen! He’s only fourteen.”
I flashed back to Nathan as a little kid, playing with some toy cars I’d given him. What difference did it make how old he was, if he was overdosing!
“How long has he been down?”
“I don’t know, I just found him. Do you have a car free?”
The dispatcher sounded angry again. “We’re on the way. You said it was an overdose?”
“Heroin, I think. There was a balloon and some foil on the floor.”
“Do you know how much of the drug he took?”
“How the fuck should I know? I didn’t know he was doing that shit!”
“Just trying to help. How much does he weigh?”
“I don’t—maybe one forty?”
“We’ll be there soon, stay with me, okay? Can you stay on the line? Sir?”
I let the phone drop to the floor. Black clouds entered the room, taking up all the oxygen, all of the air. I couldn’t breathe, so I let the darkness envelop my lungs, my skin, my body.
“Sir? Sir?” I heard the voice on the phone from far away. “Are you still there?”
I picked up the phone. “Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “How close are they?”
“Do you know how to do CPR?” he asked.
“Uh, kind of. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”
“Not exactly. I need you to start chest compressions right away. You remember that movie, Saturday Night Fever?”
“Movie? What’re you talking about?”
“I need you to put both hands on his chest—right on top of his heart—and press down hard; do a hundred compressions a minute. Think of the disco beat from that song ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ The song from the movie. Use that beat on his chest. Put the phone down and do it now! Keep doing it until they get there.”
I pulled up Nathan’s sweatshirt. His skin wasn’t brown anymore—it was a strange shade of gray, and weirdly cold and damp. I clasped my hands together, like I was praying, and put them right over his heart. I’d always hated disco music, but my mother had played that old Bee Gees album constantly when I was a kid. I couldn’t remember the lyrics, but the beat of the song came back to me instantly. I pushed down on Nathan’s chest steadily, like I was dancing at a 49 party. Was I pressing too hard? Did I need to push harder? I focused on the beat of the music as I forced his heart to pump blood through his veins. Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive . . .
As I pushed, I tried to remember the Indian prayers my mother used to say to me. I’d heard them so many times as a kid, it seemed urgent that I remember just one line, but nothing would come. How was it that I could remember some shitty disco song from years ago but couldn’t remember my mother’s own words? The weight of my failures—all of them—felt like a shroud wrapped around me.
As my nephew lay dying in the little house, I sent my words up to the Creator.
Please don’t let this child die. I will do anything, just spare him.
Spare him.
5
The noise of the breathing machines and the sharp smell of the cleaning fluids used by the hospital were giving me a headache. I stared over at Nathan, still unconscious and hooked to a respirator. His chest moved up and down slowly; the breathing apparatus on his face was like a cruel imitation of the masks worn by heyoka clowns at ceremony. I barely recognized him, with his pale skin and swollen eyes. What had happened to the boy I’d been eating pizza with just days before?
The night before, Nathan had flatlined but had somehow come back. One of his lungs had collapsed, and I’d been told he’d need help breathing for a while. The doctor wasn’t sure yet if he’d sustained any brain damage because of the lack of oxygen. He’s going to make it, he’s going to live, I kept telling myself to tamp down my dread. The Creator, or someone, had answered my prayers.
The doc told me that Nathan had possibly taken heroin mixed with fentanyl, a deadly combination. She’d told me she’d seen a lot of these overdoses lately, and that the kids probably hadn’t even known they were taking a mix of the two drugs. The doc said fentanyl was fifty times more powerful than heroin and much more likely to cause a person to OD. I didn’t understand why these ratfuck dealers would sell a drug that could kill their customers, but she said that these lethal drugs were actually a selling point. The doc even said the nickname on the street for heroin cut with fentanyl was Pawnee.
Jesus Christ. The Pawnee tribe were the bitter enemies of the Lakota people. We battled them for a hundred years, especially after many of the Pawnee aligned themselves with the white men in the 1800s. It was too much to take that the poison killing our kids bore their name.
At that moment, I flashed to a vision of Rick Crow in my mind. My hatred was so strong that I felt stomach acid begin to churn upward, burning my gut and throat. Then my phone buzzed, startling me. Not many people had my number, and that’s how I liked it.
“Virgil?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Marie.”
I paused for a second. I hadn’t spoken to Marie Short Bear for a long time. Not since she’d packed up her stuff and moved out of my place.
“Virgil, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“I heard Nathan was sick.”
Sick. That was one way to put it. “He overdosed last night.”
“I know. I ran into Ty Bad Hand at Turtle Creek this morning, and he told me.”
“Who’s that?”
“He works for tribal police. How’s Nathan doing?”
I thought about how to answer this. “They say he’s going to live, but they’re not sure if he has, uh, brain damage. He’s unconscious—hooked up to a machine to help him breathe. They say he’ll be out for a few days.”
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
I realized I was starving, but I didn’t want to ask Marie for anything. I’d caused her enough trouble.
“No, I’m good. Right now, I just need to wait and let him heal.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll burn some sage tonight.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“This is so sad; you know I always loved Nathan. He’s a good kid.”
I felt my heart tearing, and my voice broke. “Yeah, he is. He’s had some problems, but—”
“You hang in there, all right? The Creator is going to look after him. He’s going to make it, I can feel it. Stay strong and have a brave heart, kiksuyapi.”
My throat was locking up, so I stayed silent.
“You still there?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking.”
“Nathan’s in high school now, right?”
“Yeah. Todd County.”
“Does he like it there?”
“I think so,” I said. “He’s doing okay with his grades, not great.”
“Is he playing any sports? Or clubs?”
“No. Not really his thing. He fools around with video games, listens to a lot of music.”
“Hey,” she said, “I don’t want to pry, it’s not my business, but is he hanging out with any, you know, bad influences?”
I stopped for a second while I considered this. “Not really. He did some stupid stuff a while back. His best friend is this kid, Jimmy Two Elk. They play their games, run around.”
“You know what he needs?”
“What?”
“A yuwipi. Heal him, get his spirit right. I could get Jerome Iron Shell or Pete Ictinike to run the ceremony after he gets out of the hospital.”
Oh no, not this again. The last thing Nathan needed was some goddam ritual like a yuwipi. I’d never been to one, but I’d heard about it. The medicine man comes to the sick person’s house, and his family tape up all of the window
s and doors so it’s pitch-black inside. The medicine man gets tied up tightly with a quilt, and then the spirits supposedly come to the room and heal the sick person. No thanks. Right now what Nathan needed was bed rest and oxygen so his lung could heal. And his brain.
“You working with Jerome now? Training to be a medicine woman?” I asked her, trying to change the subject. Back when we were together, Marie had been convinced that she’d had a vision, that the spirits had come to her and asked her to become a medicine woman. Marie had told her vision to Jerome, but he told her she wasn’t ready.
“Not really,” she said. “He taught me a few things, but said it would be better to wait until my moon cycle ends.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say.
“Don’t know if you heard, but I went back to college for a year. Black Hills State. Needed to take biochem and some labs—Sinte doesn’t offer those. It was weird to be back, but I needed those classes. Required for med school.”
“Medical school? Didn’t know you were still thinking about that.”
“Yeah, I finally caved in and took the MCATs. My mom and dad convinced me. And I’m getting pretty tired of my job. Been there too long.”
Marie’s parents had been pushing for her to become a doctor for years, decades even. As I recalled, they wanted her to be like her sister, who had some fancy job in finance out in California.
“Hey, that’s great,” I said. “Being a doctor. Healing the sick and all. So, which, uh, med school will you go to?”
“Not sure. It’s pretty tough to get accepted these days. You got to have solid grades and board scores. My numbers are good, but you never know. It’s all right if I don’t get in. Just sent off my application to USD.”
“In Vermillion?”
“For the first two years of school, then you go to Rapid City for rotations.”
“What are those?”
“You learn specialties, like pediatrics, internal medicine.”
“Sounds serious. You really going to do this?”
“Too early to say. I’m a long way from being admitted. Word is that USD looks down on tribal colleges. I also sent an app to the med school in New Mexico.”
“Good luck. Really.”
“Thanks.” I heard her take a breath. “So, what do you think about a yuwipi for Nathan? I could set it up, no problem.”
I paused for a moment while I thought about how to respond nicely. “You know how I feel about all that. It’s fine for some folks, but I got my own way of doing things.”
“Virgil, it’s time. Stop this tough guy routine. No more Indian vigilante posing. Nathan needs you—you’re his only family. What happens if you take on someone tougher than you?”
No conversations for a long, long time, and already she felt entitled again to tell me what to do. “No one’s gonna take me down. And shit, if I don’t do anything to help people, the assholes win. The gangs and drug dealers. That’s how I’ll help Nathan.”
She sighed. “The way to stop drugs and gangs is to teach children the Lakota way. Our values and traditions.”
“Right. How am I supposed to stop Rick Crow from bringing heroin to the rez with some Indian ceremony?”
There was utter silence, then she said, “Rick Crow? Are you sure?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. After Marie and I had split, I’d heard a rumor that she’d taken up with Rick Crow for a while, but hadn’t believed it until now. Shit.
“Think so. I found heroin stuff at his trailer. And people told me he’s the one bringing the drugs here.” No need to tell Marie it was her father who’d ratted Rick out. “I hear he’s in Denver now, getting more dope. As soon as Nathan is up, I’m going down to Colorado to put an end to this.”
I guess I’d made my decision.
She cleared her throat. I braced myself for more lecturing about the evils of violence.
“If you go after Rick Crow, I’m coming with you.”
6
Hours passed while I waited for Nathan to wake up. I’d tried to stop my mind from going to dark places, but images of my nephew as brain-damaged crowded into my head. I was proud of him, his intelligence and his curiosity and his fierce defense of music I hated; it was breaking my heart and spirit to imagine that these parts of him might be gone for good. Then I started to obsess over things Nathan had done that might have tipped me off to hard drug use. Had he been acting strangely? Maybe I should have searched his backpack and phone. I gave up trying to stop this parade of images and just sat with my fear and guilt.
The window in the hospital room was murky, like it hadn’t been washed in years, but I could still glimpse the russet hills and rolling prairie of the reservation outside in the dying light. Back in the time before Columbus, there were only Indians here, no skyscrapers, no automobiles, no streets. Of course, we didn’t use the words Indian or Native American then; we were just people. We didn’t know we were supposedly drunks or lazy or savages. I wondered what it was like to live without that weight on your shoulders, the weight of the murdered ancestors, the stolen land, the abused children, the burden every Native person carries.
We were told in movies and books that Indians had a sacred relationship with the land, that we worshipped and nurtured it. But staring at Nathan, I didn’t feel any mystical bond with the rez. I hated our shitty unpaved roads and our falling-down houses and the snarling packs of dogs that roamed freely in the streets and alleys. But most of all, I hated that kids like Nathan—good kids, decent kids—got involved with drugs and crime and gangs, because there was nothing for them to do here. No after-school jobs, no clubs, no tennis lessons. Every month in the Lakota Times newspaper there was an obituary for another teen suicide, another family in the Burned Thigh Nation who’d had their heart taken away from them. In the old days, the eyapaha was the town crier, the person who would meet incoming warriors after a battle, ask them what happened so they wouldn’t have to speak of their own glories, then tell the people the news. Now the eyapaha, our local newspaper, announced losses and harms too often, victories and triumphs too rarely.
Why didn’t I leave? People here always talked about going to Rapid City or Sioux Falls or Denver, getting a job and making a clean break. Putting aside Native ways and assimilating, adapting to suburban life. But I thought about the sound of the drummers at a powwow, the smell of wild sage, the way little Native kids looked dressed up in their first regalia, the flash of the sun coming up over the hills. I wondered if I could ever really leave the reservation, because the rez was in my mind, a virtual rez, one that I was seemingly stuck with. Then I fell into a half-sleep, immersed in fugue dreams and transient thoughts, images of Indian children dancing in my head.
IN THE MORNING, I thought I saw Nathan begin to stir; his head moved a bit, and his eyelids fluttered and quivered. I quickly roused myself and moved closer to the side of the bed, watching, hoping that he would fully open his eyes. His eyelids continued to open and shut. This was a good sign, right? Then he moved his head to the side and looked straight at me.
“Nathan, you awake? Dude, how you doing?” I felt relief wash over me like a flood of rainwater. I wanted to hug him, but worried that maybe I’d knock out the IV line attached to his arm.
“Nathan, can you hear me?”
His eyes were open, but he didn’t say anything. He looked puzzled, like he’d been taken away to some strange land where he didn’t speak the language. I felt a stab of fear—I needed him to speak, needed to know that he was still Nathan. Then the nurse came in.
“He’s awake,” I told her, “he just opened his eyes.”
At that point, I was shepherded out of intensive care. While I waited, I put a dollar in the machine for some weak coffee, which I gratefully drank. I tried to sort out my feelings while I watched the others in the waiting room. A Native couple sat next to me, their faces pinched and anxious. My body began to unwind, and I realized how much tension I’d been carrying while Nathan was in his coma. Had it been a coma? That see
med more serious than I wanted to acknowledge. He was alive and awake—that was all that mattered.
After an hour in the waiting room, my anxiety returned. Why hadn’t they updated me? Was it bad? My body begin to tense up again, and I asked the lady sitting at the front desk if there was any news on Nathan Wounded Horse. She said that someone would talk to me shortly. Then she said I was lucky, because the emergency department at the hospital had been closed for six months and had just been opened again. Apparently the federal government had made large cuts to the Indian Health Service budget, so the emergency room had been closed to save money. But, she’d said, the government had recently contracted with some private company to run the hospital, rolling her eyes to let me know what she thought of her new bosses.
Three cups of coffee later, a different doctor—white guy—found me in the waiting room. He didn’t look like a doctor, you know, crisp and professional and competent. Instead, he looked rumpled and tired, like someone who’d been on a ten-day bender. I wondered why this guy was on a reservation. Maybe he’d lost his license somewhere else, and this was the only place where they’d take him.
“Well, it was definitely heroin, but we don’t know if there was any fentanyl present, because the tox screen doesn’t catch that. We’ve extubated him and moved him out of the ICU. We had him on a mild sedative, which may seem strange given that opioids are a major depressant, but it’s important we manage the patient’s airway after an episode like this. We used to use lorazepam, but it turns out that you get a much longer ICU course with that.”
I had no idea what he was saying. “Uh, does it look like he’s going to be all right? You know, was his brain injured?”
“It’s too early to say. His corneal reflex was fine, and the EEGs and SEPs look okay. We’ll probably keep him for another day or two and monitor him. I’d like to keep him longer, but we only have thirty-five beds here, so he could even be released as early as tomorrow. He’ll be weak and dizzy for a few days, so just let him stay in bed. He’ll have the worst headache of all time after the naloxone leaves his system. If the headache gets worse, bring him back.”
Winter Counts Page 4