Father told me he and Mother had wanted a child of their own but Mother hadn’t been able to carry a pregnancy and had had several miscarriages. They were planning to move to Ontario, where they understood life was a little more civilized. Father couldn’t remember if he had already told the priest of those plans when the priest made the request.
Father said he took me on the condition that the priest gave him the names of the mother and father of the child. He didn’t know if I would want to contact these people, but he wanted it to be an option. I remember the day he told me; I was nineteen, twenty. He was so upset, rushing around the house, looking for some book. It was the book into which he’d tucked the piece of paper with my parents’ names. He never did find the book or that piece of paper. We had moved several times over the years. Right then I didn’t much care. I couldn’t imagine contacting my birth mother. The people I had lived with all my life were my parents; they were the only parents I knew. We didn’t talk about it again.
After I had my son, it passed through my mind to know who my birth parents were. But I was busy with raising Andrew, my husband was with the bank, and soon after Andrew was born, my husband was transferred to Manitoba. What an adjustment that was! It took me a long time to get used to the constant blowing of the wind.
Even without the piece of paper, Father did remember I was the offspring of a student at the residential school. He knew the year but not the date of my birth. It was 1893 or ’94, the year they had moved to Ontario. My mother had a bad heart; she died early, at fifty-eight years of age. I had just turned thirty-one. We were very close. I thought a lot then about finding my birth mother. Still, I did nothing about it. Probably I was afraid. That it would be too painful if she didn’t want to see me, or if she, too, was dead. More years passed. My husband was transferred to Ontario, to the very town I live in now.
Two years ago I had a serious heart attack, almost died. And when I was clinging to life, the strangest thing happened. I saw a woman in the corner of the hospital room early one morning before the nurses made their rounds. She wasn’t really a woman, more like a child, a teenager. She was beautiful. Dark hair and skin, twinkling eyes. And she had the most wonderful smile. She stood there smiling at me. And another strange thing — I smelled smoke, sweet smoke, like grass or incense.
I wondered if that woman was my mother. I took it as a sign and thought I must find her, all the while knowing that she might be dead or have changed her name. It seemed hopeless. I knew so little about her. Only that she was Indian and had gone to some Indian school in southern Saskatchewan. By then my father had died, so there was no one I knew who had any information.
My son helped me contact the churches that had run schools in that part of the country. They would not give up any information. I had an idea of travelling through the reserves, looking for my mother, but perhaps you’re aware of the tension in this country between the Indians and the whites. So I gave up on the whole thing and put it out of my mind.
Last winter when your mother’s picture came on the television, I was stunned. I thought it might be my mother. I don’t know why except I had a strong sense, kind of the way it was in the hospital. I’d smell sweetgrass and smoke where you’d not expect it — in the car, the grocery store, at the library. I felt drawn to your mother. I couldn’t get her picture out of my mind. One day I’d tell myself to call about it. The next day I’d think it was craziness, impossible that we might be related.
I was so worried. They don’t tell you if the missing person has been found. I called the police, but of course they wanted information; they weren’t looking to give out information. Then I thought she wouldn’t want to see me, anyway. All this time had gone by and she hadn’t tried to contact me, although I don’t know how she would. My son encouraged me to call or write. I was so nervous. I had never known, nor did my father, the circumstances of my adoption. Maybe my mother didn’t want to see me. Maybe she wanted to be rid of me.
Please write to me at the address I’ve given. Perhaps we are sisters and could meet at least once before I die.
Yours truly,
Victoria Witherspoon
Louise laid out the pages one by one on her desk. She stared at the jumble of letters sprawling across the pages. She picked up the first page, reread it, then brought it to her nose. A scent of perfume or soap, lavender or peppermint, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t use perfume herself. She envisioned all the fingerprints that Victoria had left on the pages. And now her own, comingling with those of Victoria. She reread the entire letter before dropping it on her desk. It was too impossible. Affidavits, wills, and summations she knew how to write. A letter to a strange woman claiming to be her mother’s lost child. What did one say? Maybe she should forget letters, fly to Ontario, meet the woman, draw her own conclusions. But haste had never been a lawyer’s friend. The facts must be gathered, each piece of information, detail, carefully weighed and considered. A case had to be built up with a solid foundation. That was why she had decided to keep this to herself for a while longer. Alice and Elinor would rush ahead without due consideration. She knew the path she was choosing was not without risk, and she’d done enough risking in the first twenty years of her life to last a lifetime. Nevertheless, she pulled out a clean sheet of paper from her desk. She wrote slowly. Her handwriting was small and tight, not easily read. But she would not ask her secretary to type this letter.
April 1, 1969
Regina, Saskatchewan
Dear Victoria Witherspoon:
Only in the past year has my mother spoken about the child she bore in residential school. The child, whom she’d named Bright Eyes, was taken from her, without her consent, shortly after her birth. She asked me and my daughter to help her find this child, but we had little sense of where to look. Anyone who knew of her had died years ago.
I cannot, of course, confirm for you that you are my mother’s child — and my half-sister. Although I can tell you that no one else has come forward claiming to be her child.
Perhaps you could send a photograph of yourself. That might be helpful.
Sincerely,
Louise Preston
Louise started a trial the day after she mailed her letter to Victoria. Her days, and some of her nights, were spent gathering her facts, reviewing documents, and preparing for the next day’s arguments. She forgot about Victoria and was admittedly surprised to see the familiar pink envelope amidst the day’s mail two weeks later. She squeezed the envelope, ran her fingers around the perimeter; it was bulkier than the other had been. Then she remembered: photographs. She had asked for photographs. With that thought came queasiness in her stomach.
She propped the envelope against her desk lamp and popped out of her office to the kitchenette area, where she plugged in the kettle. She needed a cup of tea. She went back to her office, glanced at the envelope, and went to the window. Mid afternoon, the descending but still-bright prairie sun bouncing off the windows of the office building across the street. In the past few weeks the sun had been getting higher in the sky. On the street, two women, their only winter attire boots and turtleneck sweaters, stomped their feet and clapped their hands as they waited for the traffic light to change. As soon as the light changed they rushed across the street, continuing to run until they reached the next corner and turned and Louise couldn’t see them anymore. Louise recalled her shouting matches with Alice, trying to get her to dress for the cold weather. Maybe it was an obsession of hers from the days when she’d had few heavy clothes and spent long nights shivering and stiff in the Scotts’ unheated shed.
Ardith, her secretary, rapped on the door, said Louise’s kettle had boiled. Louise never asked Ardith to make her tea. Ardith had been clear about that. Secretaries did secretarial work and nothing else. Louise knew about this because Ardith had told her that many of Louise’s male colleagues got their secretaries to pick up their dry cleaning, buy their wives’ birthday presents, and wash up everyone’s dishes in the office.
&
nbsp; Louise made her tea and took it to her office. She had a couple of sips — black orange pekoe with milk, no sugar — then put down the cup. She sliced the letter opener across the top flap of the envelope and wiggled out the thick wad of paper. Four sheets were folded over two black-and-white photographs. One picture was of a child, the other of an adult. Louise turned on her desk lamp and drew it closer to the photographs. The child was skinny-armed with an impish grin, probably about four years old. She wore a light dress, white socks, and black shoes. She was clutching a chicken. She bore a strong resemblance to Alice at a similar age. Since there were no photographs of Elinor as a young child, that comparison couldn’t be drawn.
The picture of Victoria as an adult was taken in the midst of what looked like a backyard vegetable garden. She was holding a bunch of roses and a pair of shears. She wore a light blouse, a sweater vest, and a dark skirt that hung below her knees. Her grey-white hair was loosely pulled back. She was standing especially straight and smiling. It was a calm, self-assured smile, not a smile of giddiness or a smile that arose from great laughter. There wasn’t much resemblance to Elinor. Maybe she took her looks from her father. Louise would never see a photograph of that man.
Louise thought of her own children. Andrew had been the spitting image of John, each with chin dimples, a large shock of hair, and pouty lips; their baby pictures were interchangeable. Catherine had looked very much like Louise, although baby pictures could not be compared since there were none of Louise. They teased Alice that she was the mutt; didn’t look like Louise or John. Always her own person, Louise would say, right up to present day.
There were prickles on the back of Louise’s neck as she looked at the photos. She wasn’t a religious person; she didn’t believe in miracles. She didn’t think that people were basically good, that governments looked after their citizens, that the meek would inherit the Earth. She certainly didn’t believe that justice always won out. Some days she wondered what she did believe in, what she had faith in, what she drew her strength from. Some of the choices she’d made in life implied she believed in herself or that people could be trusted. That seemed implicit in her decision to run away from her family and the reserve. But that had been a decision made out of desperation. Was there also an element of hope and trust that she’d find a better world? She couldn’t say. She happened to get lucky. She happened to be in the café with the Scotts on a day Mary was working. And she happened to be in the library on a few days when Evelyn McKellar was there. What if she hadn’t found them? Maybe she had absorbed more of her parents’ teachings than she realized or wanted to admit to. The notion that the Creator was watching over her, that he would provide for her.
As she was attempting to return the photos to the envelope, she discovered another paper, folded into fours. The letter was brief, and as she read it she shook her head in disbelief. This woman, who was easily seventy years old, was prepared to traipse across the country, spend her own money, no prize or cash award being offered, on the hunch that Elinor might be her mother.
Was it possible that this woman was Elinor’s stolen child? What possible incentive could there be? Just because Louise couldn’t think of anything at the moment didn’t mean that there wasn’t an ulterior motive. Thirty-plus years of practising law had shown her the infinite ways in which humans could be devious and calculating. Louise cautioned herself. She must not let her emotions dictate what she must do. Build the case, gather the evidence.
Even so, she’d telephone Victoria.
She’d take the photographs to Elinor and Alice.
32
Elinor, hunched over, eyes inches from the paper, pencil barely moving, made minute strokes around the bison’s eyes. The small drawing on the wrinkled four-by-six sheet of paper was what she had been working on for weeks. It was the one thing she seemed to have energy for these days.
Mid-morning, the two of them were in the kitchen, Elinor at the table, Louise, in a white apron, pulling bowls and containers from the fridge. The budgies, seemingly happy for the company, chattered and burbled and clamoured up and down the rungs of their cage with the aid of their beaks.
Louise muttered and groaned about the state of the contents of the bowls she’d taken from the fridge. Invaded by brown or green mould, the original food in the containers was barely recognizable.
Elinor held out her drawing to Louise, asked her how it looked. Louise wiped her hands on her apron, came over to the table.
“Perfect. It looks perfect, Mom.” The bison head, drawn straight on, was a strong likeness. Small eyes, massive furry head, flat black snout.
Elinor grunted and leaned back in her chair.
Louise glanced at the clock.
“Do you have to be somewhere?” Elinor asked.
“No, why?”
“You keep looking at the clock.”
“Shall I find a frame for your drawing?” Louise asked.
“That would be nice.” Elinor rubbed her hands over her cheeks, cheeks that were sunken in and hung like a hound dog’s “Was it really that bad when you left?” Elinor asked. She sighed. “I have wanted to ask you that for so long. All these years trying to find a reason why a daughter would leave her mother like that. And her people.” She held the drawing of the bison at arm’s length, squinted, then brought it closer. “It wasn’t natural, you know.”
“I know,” Louise said. “I planned to come back. I even started out one night.”
“Where did you live? With some woman, what was her name?”
“Evelyn McKellar.”
Evelyn volunteered at the library. She valued books and learning as much as Louise had come to. Louise lied to her, said she’d run away from an orphanage. One day Evelyn asked Louise to leave the tiny room she shared with Mary above the café and come live with her. Evelyn McKellar sent Louise to school, she made her read the Bible every day, and corrected her English, both spoken and written. Evelyn was strict. She’d clip clothespins on Louise’s ears to get her to listen better, to remind her to press every wrinkle on every sheet when she ironed.
“You’d rather live with her than your own family?”
“I was a kid. What did I know?”
“You said you started to come back. What happened?”
Louise hesitated. “Mary stopped me, told me it was a bad idea, said nothing on the rez would be any different or better.”
Elinor rubbed her hands in circles over the table. “Well, she got that part right. But you still should have come. Even to visit. Have you ever thought what it’s like for a mother to have a child disappear? You were the second one gone from me. Well, there were more than that, but I knew where they were, that they had died. After you disappeared, I wondered what I had done wrong to deserve such things.”
Louise sat across from Elinor, placed her own hands on top of her mother’s. “I was stupid. I was wrong.” She wouldn’t tell her mother that if she had to do it all over again, she would still leave.
Elinor grunted.
Louise studied her mother’s hands. So small, so gnarled. In places, the skin was almost translucent. There was a sizeable bruise over her left thumb. “What did you do there?”
Elinor brought her hand closer to her eyes. “No idea. Caught it in a cupboard door, banged it against the wall in my sleep.” She poked at the bruise. “Doesn’t hurt.”
She ran her palms in circles on the table again, closed her eyes, and hummed a tune Louise did not recognize.
“I should see Lillian one more time,” Elinor said. “Have you talked to her?”
“We talked after you got home.”
“Is she still with that Leonard fellow?”
“Of course, Mom. He’s her husband.”
“I never liked him. Don’t know what she sees in him. He’s not like John.”
“I always thought he was kind enough,” Louise said.
“Maybe so. But he never gave her children. And that’s not right.”
“Sometimes it’s not meant to
be,” Louise said.
“I think he was punishing her.”
“Punishing her for what?”
Louise heard a squeak, the sound the front door made when it opened and closed. Finally, she was here; Louise had asked her to come.
Alice went directly to Elinor, hugged her, told her she looked terrific. She said the temperature was getting warmer; soon they could go to the valley, have a picnic.
Elinor said that would be nice. She asked how the children were, the children in Alice’s class. She told her teaching children was an honourable thing to do. More people should do it. Children were the future. She closed her eyes again, started to rock. Alice turned to Louise, mouthed the words “Is she okay?” Louise nodded yes.
“I have news,” Louise said.
Elinor shook her head from side to side, then up and down. She seemed oblivious to her daughter’s words.
Straining against the dryness in her throat, Louise pushed out the words. “It’s about Bright Eyes.”
“You found her?” Alice blurted out.
“Maybe.”
“Who? How? ” Alice asked.
Elinor smiled.
“She’s on her way,” Louise said.
“From where?” Alice threw her arms around Elinor, who had started to rock. Then Elinor’s body stiffened and crumbled into itself. She tried to speak but there was only choking and coughing.
When Alice mentioned an ambulance, Elinor rallied, told them she was fine. With Louise on one side and Alice on the other, they guided her to the couch in the living room. They propped pillows behind her and tucked a blanket around her thin body. Elinor closed her eyes, said she needed to rest before she heard more.
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