Redeemed

by Maggie Blackbird

  Darryl stopped and rubbed one of his braids. “You, the Catholic Church, and you, the Canadian Government, are cunning. Coyote. You confounded many people and situations. If not for you, I wouldn’t have met my husband. The man Creator made for me. This is why I must forgive you. I must also forgive you so I don’t destroy myself from within. This is what Creator asks from me.”

  Adam had learned in the twelve-step program that whoever wronged him didn’t matter. Resentment was the number one offender for alcoholics and what drove them to drink again. What mattered was whether he allowed the offense to keep offending and controlling him.

  Nobody controlled him. Nobody. Only Bridget and Kyle were allowed the honor of disturbing the serenity he’d fought for.

  Darryl continued to rant about his losses, directing his anger at his aunt and parents.

  “You blamed everything and everyone but yourself.” He smacked his thigh.

  Adam shifted in closer. Darryl was speaking about himself.

  “Were you looking for excuses? Were you afraid to face the man in the mirror? You were bitter. Angry. Sad. Depressed. You wanted everything to go your way. When it didn’t, you became more bitter and pissed off. You tried to twist and mold people into what you wanted them to be. You were a selfish jerk.

  “What’re you gonna do about what you did? Are you gonna man up and accept responsibility for how you reacted? Are you gonna use this workshop to let Creator begin your healing process?”

  Darryl slumped, his back rounding slightly. “Yeah. I’m gonna. Coming here was the best thing I ever did. How I used to feel won’t disappear overnight. Sometimes I find myself acting the way I used to. The worst part is, even though the Catholic religion and Canadian Government hurt me terribly, I turned around and hurt others in the same capacity I’d been hurt, neglected, and abused.”

  Face flushed from his tirade, Darryl sank in the chair. He placed his hands over his face, chest heaving.

  The deacon’s solemn gaze landed on Adam. The option to confront the empty chair was in his hands.

  Adam stood. The harmless chair made of gray plastic and silver steel with a hole cut in the back to provide better comfort, did nothing.

  This was for Kyle and Bridget, and most of all for himself. “You weren’t much of a father. Drank. Kicked my ass. Kicked Mom’s ass. Kicked everyone’s ass. You were an angry son of a bitch. Guess part of me wanted your respect. Something from you. Anything. But you didn’t give me nothing. And you never will.

  “Gotta accept something hit you hard enough to take you down. You never shared your residential school story. Maybe it hurt too much. Maybe you walked out of that place unable to talk to anyone. Or didn’t know how to talk. They beat you into silence. Guess you learned to keep your trap shut so you wouldn’t get another strap across your ass, or back, or wherever they hit you.

  “Don’t know what they did to you. Wish I did. It’d help me understand why you are the way you are. I’m in Ottertail Lake. You don’t even know. Don’t care. Probably didn’t know I was in the iron house either. Why would you? You never cared enough to ask about me the other times I went down below.

  “When I was born, I was another rug rat you’d fathered for someone else to give a shit about, ‘cause you couldn’t give a shit about yourself.

  “I got a son you never saw. Probably don’t even know he’s a boy. Or maybe you do. The daughters you fathered keep trying to talk to you, track you down, see what you’re up to. If you’re still alive. They let me know where you’re crashing. Vancouver. Downtown East Side. There’s no coming back from there. I know you’ll die there.

  “I’m not going down. I’m going up.”

  Heart-wrenching pain infiltrated Adam’s blood and raced through his veins. Knowing he’d never see his father again rattled his chest and shook his soul.

  He dropped in the chair. Grief was an emotion he’d denied. But he had to grieve. Grieve the loss of his father before the bastard died, because there was no turning back. He couldn’t save the ol’ man. Jean Marc Guimond was beyond saving. Only Creator could touch a man Adam had once called Dad.

  I have no father. I never had a father. I’m simply the result of a horny sperm meeting a horny egg. Nothing else.

  The fight was accepting what he couldn’t change and finding the courage to change what he could.

  Adam stood outside with Darryl, smoking a cigarette. They leaned against the fence overlooking the graveyard. Bandit trotted around the grass, sniffing here and there. Three-thirty. One more intense session to go. Damn, this had been a tough day. Tough enough to knot every muscle. Adam needed a hot shower afterwards to try to relax.

  “You okay?” Darryl sipped what he’d referred to earlier as Mrs. Matawapit’s homemade lemonade.

  “Yep. What about you?”

  “Hanging in there. Looking forward to going home and staring at the TV.”

  Many of the graves had clan staffs turned upside down. Others with painted white wooden crosses, and there was the odd gravestone. Not too many people could afford a fancy monument.

  “From what Bridget told me, I thought everything was cool for you. Guess I was wrong.” Adam took a drag.

  “It’s something I continue to fight. It’s part of the healing journey. I’m not cured of what contaminated me for years. It takes time. Sorta like when someone pollutes the water. Only time can clean up the mess.”

  Darryl had hit the nail on the head. The old-timers had told Adam the same thing during meetings. He’d drank for most of his life, so his recovery would come slowly. The earth had taken a billion years to have creatures walking about on the land. And the longer something simmered, the stronger it became.

  Perhaps this what was he was doing—gathering more strength each time he confronted the past and became more accepting of what Creator had given him. Sure, he didn’t have much family. But he’d made one of his own. He had Kyle and Bridget.

  * * * *

  Mom stood at the kitchen counter in the church basement. She wiped the same pot she’d already dried three times. “How’re you supposed to get here to help? The motel’s downtown.”

  “Emery. He takes the four-wheeler every morning to church.”

  “Your father’s not going to like this.” Mom shook her head. She placed the pot in the cupboard to the left of the sink. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

  “You don’t have to tell him anything. I’ll tell him.” Bridget didn’t need someone else to do her supposed dirty work. Why should telling Dad be a big deal anyway?

  “No. No.” Mom held up her hands. “You won’t tell him anything. This is the week for the participants.”

  No way would Bridget allow anyone to guilt her into submission. “Adam asked me to be there for him. He needs me.

  “Y’know, this doesn’t even have to do with Adam. It’s Dad, isn’t it? What aren’t you telling me? Did Grandpa and Grandma McIlroy hate him? Were they upset you didn’t marry the perfect Catholic man like Auntie Patti did?” Bridget folded her arms.

  Mom’s fingers grazed the counter. Her gaze darted along the cupboards. “Honey, I wish you would’ve taken an interest in Stephen instead. You know the city isn’t kind to natives.”

  “The people at church are, and that’s what matters. Kyle enjoys his school. He gets along with his teachers and classmates. You never answered my question about Grandpa and Grandma.”

  “Does it really matter? Let’s let your grandparents rest in peace.”

  “Were they... prejudiced?” Bridget fingered a doily, one of many Mom had made and donated to the parish.

  “No. They were wonderful Christian people, but they weren’t perfect. They had ideas about my life, and your aunt’s life. Understand, times were different then. Yes, our city was built on the fur trade and inter-marriages, but remember as the city grew, so did social standing.”

  “You mean during the seventies inter-marriage wasn’t as prominent?”

  “Your dad wasn’t the most prestigious pers
on or one of good quality.”

  “Then if Grandpa and Grandma were against him, why does he act the same way with us? Lookit what he put Emery and Darryl through.”

  “He never meant to hurt anyone. He simply wants to protect his children from what he endured growing up. I tried to tell him he must let you live your own lives, but you know what your father’s like. Until he’s ready to listen, he won’t listen. I do my best to wait until he’s had time to assess his behavior, which usually takes... well, you know what happened. Emery and your dad became estranged for over two weeks.”

  “He didn’t mind Jude’s choices. Maybe since Jude’s just like Dad? They’re both principals. They both have their Master of Divinity. They both married...” Bridget squirmed. The word white sat heavy in her stomach, as it always did. Mom was way more than a color. Too bad most people in the world didn’t see things the same way. “... non-native women. They both had two children one right after the other, a boy and a girl.”

  “We may not have planned Emery, but he’s a wonderful blessing. I’m overjoyed the Lord gave him to me as a delightful surprise.”

  “This is why Dad never gives Jude grief, right? Jude listened. I’m surprised he’s not a permanent deacon like Dad.”

  Mom’s face reddened.

  “Jude considered the diaconate?” What on earth? Jude shared everything with Bridget. Why hadn’t he mentioned this to her?

  “He chose not to because he won’t completely embrace the teachings of the Magisterium. Jude believes the church should welcome everyone since Jesus welcomed all sinners.”

  “What about you? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Mom faced the sink. She reached for an already clean pot and immersed it in the soapy suds. “Alcoholism isn’t cured overnight.”

  “I know. Adam attends his meetings faithfully.”

  “I wish your father would’ve done the same thing when we were first married.” Mom scrubbed the clean pot.

  “Why? I thought the church healed him?”

  “Oh, the church helped a lot. Like I said, your dad had a lot to overcome. Don’t think marriage is easy. Marriage takes compromise, patience, and understanding. Can you fully accept Adam for who he is? Can you live with the fact he’ll battle alcoholism for the rest of his life?”

  “Why’re you asking me this? He’s going to his meetings—”

  “But you’ve had doubts, haven’t you? This is why you didn’t resume a relationship right away.”

  Bridget gazed at the silver pot. She could use something to do right about now. “Yes.”

  “You’re too young to remember. So is Jude.” Mom kept scrubbing the pot. “Times were different. Nineteen wasn’t what it is today. You either were or weren’t an adult. People married younger.”

  When a good twenty seconds passed, the cold ice along Bridget’s spine prompted her to say, “And?”

  “You know I was eighteen when I met your father at church. Like you, we fell in love right away. I had no intentions of changing him. I loved him for who he was.”

  If only Mom would turn around, but she rarely spoke about herself. No doubt this was hard for the woman Bridget most admired.

  “He resumed drinking when you were one and Jude was two.” Mom’s slight shoulders stiffened.

  Disbelief and horror squeezed Bridget’s throat shut, trapping the air in her neck. She gripped the ledge of the counter she leaned against.

  “Yes. Drinking. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave because I had two kids. Daycare? There was no such thing. I was a housewife, dependent on your father’s income.” Mom scrubbed so hard, water swished out of the sink.

  “I couldn’t go home. My pride wouldn’t let me. I didn’t wish to hear from my parents I told you so. I couldn’t go to Aunt Patti’s. She was leading the perfect life. I was angry, so angry at our Lord.” Mom ceased scrubbing the pot. The tension in her shoulders dropped. She rubbed her brow and turned.

  Pain buried from long ago reflected at the back of Mom’s green eyes. “I also didn’t want to take you children from your father.” She wiped her hands on the apron. Her gaze shifted from the oven and fridge to the coffee machine and serving cart.

  “I went to the one person I thought could help. Although your father was drinking, he continued to attend Mass every Sunday. I spoke to Father Whyte one Sunday. I told him what was going on and how I felt. He was the priest who helped your dad when he first came to church.”

  The pain in Mom’s eyes softened, and her lips tugged at the corners. “He was also the priest who married us and baptized you and Jude. Together, Father Whyte and I sat down with your dad. I left you and Jude at your Aunt Patti’s that day. Your dad, thank goodness, listened. He knew he wasn’t honoring his marriage vows.”

  There was hope then.

  “Bridget, don’t look at me that way.” Mom’s voice was pleading.

  “Look what way?”

  “Just because your father never drank again, doesn’t mean you’re not going to face hardships with Adam. Are you prepared to accept his alcoholism—knowing they’re no guarantees he may return to his old ways?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine: One Short Life

  Bridget stood at the dresser in the hotel room. She held her panties and bras, squeezing the satin material.

  Adam stood by the bed they’d slept in last night, unpacking his duffel bag of meagre possessions, lips tilting downwards, eyes drooping at the corners, square jaw slack. Even his broad shoulders seemed to cave into his chest.

  She tossed aside the underwear and inched toward him.

  “What’s bothering you, kwe?” Adam moved from the bed and lumbered to the dresser. He folded his arms, staring down at her, eyes still sagging at the corners.

  Bridget snatched the panties and bras. She stuffed them into the drawer. She ran her hands along his biceps, gazing up at him. “I’m fine.”

  “If we want this to work, partnerships go both ways. If you’re upset, you gotta talk to me.” Adam clasped Bridget’s waist and steered them to the bed. He sat her on his lap. “Talk to me.”

  She touched his cheek. “You have so much going on. You asked me to stay here because you need me. It’d be selfish—”

  “It’s not selfish. Like I said, we got a partnership going. What’s happening in here?” He tapped his finger against her head.

  Adam was right. If they wanted to succeed this time, Bridget must be honest. “Mom and I talked...”

  “And?”

  “She spoke about the rough start her and Dad got off to when they first married. Dad was having a tough time... healing, I guess. It makes me wonder what else she’s hiding. Mom tends to... keep everything inside.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She talked about Dad. He started drinking again, for about a year, when I was too young to remember.” Bridget lowered her head. “His pain was unbearable. He was looking for an escape. Not even... having a woman who worshiped him, and two kids who thought of him as a hero, could shake the... perhaps you’d call it the nightmares of the school that kept haunting him.”

  “He’s a deacon now. Sounds to me like it worked out.”

  “Yes, it did.” Bridget toyed with a lock of Adam’s hair.

  “This what’s bothering you?” Adam rubbed her arm. “Kwe...” He licked his lips. “Y’know I can only promise you for today I won’t drink.”

  Bridget’s heart tightened into a ball. The hope that had lit her chest after they’d made love for the first time was a flame of a candle snuffed out.

  “Is it enough?” His fingers lifted her fallen chin.

  “Is... is what enough?”

  “Y’know what I’m talking about.”

  “I promise to answer you by the end of the week.” Bridget’s muscles tensed. “See? This is why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want you—”

  “Who says I’m gonna worry?” Adam’s gaze searched hers. “You’re here with me. For today. With the way I’m feeling right
now, that’s enough for me. What you did—nobody’s ever put their balls on the line for me before. You told your parents you were staying here. I know how they feel about me. You’re a true warrior. Ogichidaa.”

  “Is that what warrior means?”

  “It means more than that. I told you, Cutter and the elder said our language’s hard to translate. Our words are deeper, the meaning richer and fuller than what comes off in English. You’ve got a brave heart. Courage. Selfless. Help others. Put them before yourself. Sacrifice your own happiness for the good of the elderly, the children, and other women. That is a warrior.”

  “Will you become a warrior?”

  “Dunno. That’s up to the elders.”

  “I believe you’re a warrior,” she whispered. She meant every word. He wasn’t pressing her for answers. Since he’d first shown up in Thunder Bay, he’d patiently waited. “I have to get on the laptop with Kyle after. It’s a good thing I brought along an Internet stick. I should be able to catch a signal. The motel’s not equipped with free Wi-Fi.”

  “Nothing’s in the twenty-first century up here.” Adam’s drooping lips shifted to a light smile.

  Bridget leaned in and brushed her lips against his. Soft. Silky. She traced the hard muscles of his arms. Adam grunted, and she wound her body around his, still showering delicate licks on his tongue. A pucker here. A pucker there. Light kisses meant to show him how much she cared.

  Adam’s hands scooted up Bridget’s backside, tugging her shirt from the hem of the shorts. Warm air caressed her exposed skin. His finger traced along the bumps of her spine and stopped at her bra. She held her breath, waiting, wanting. When he unfastened the hooks, an ache erupted between her thighs.

  With Adam’s help, Bridget drew the shirt over her head. As she tossed aside the garment and her bra, Adam’s mouth trailed her throat to her breast. His lips fastened around the nipple, heating her bare flesh. He suckled, tender enough to coax a groan from her, and she arched her back. She smothered his hair with kisses, raking each strand.