Now I know she was.
One morning in August, I was surprised to find my mother waiting for me outside on the deck. On the picnic table beside her was a basket filled with fruit and muffins that she had made the night before.
“I’ve decided to come with you today,” she announced. “To meet Goldie’s grandmother.”
Nana had been asking about my mother and I desperately wanted them to meet. My parents had already met Goldie. My mother liked her so much that she often asked my friend if she wanted to stay for a sleepover. Goldie never refused. And she never said no to dinner at my house either. She loved my mother’s Italian cooking.
I pointed at the basket. “Is that for Nana?”
“I wanted to bring her something,” my mother said, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. “But I don’t know if she likes lemon muffins. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I think she’ll love them.”
We set off down the path and followed the beach around the bend. We passed the boat dock where a small outboard was moored, then the Dixon’s house came into view. The house seemed unusually silent, almost abandoned. Outside, some of Shonda’s toys were scattered in the grass and a half-woven basket sat on a table next to a lawn chair. Hanging from a tree, a wind chime tinkled merrily in the soft breeze.
I knocked on the door. “Is anyone here?”
No answer.
I stepped inside.
“Sarah,” my mother admonished.
“They told me to walk right in,” I said. “Sometimes they go for walks in the woods.”
I looked around the room. On the floor near the rocking chair sat a laundry basket. It was piled high with freshly laundered clothes, a few folded shirts nearby. In the kitchen, something fragrant was brewing in a pot on top of the stove.
“Goldie!” I yelled. “Where are you?”
My mother flinched at the sound of my loud voice.
“Their door is never closed to friends,” I said, grinning. “Nana told me that. Can we wait for them?”
“I guess so.”
It was obvious that she was more than a little uncomfortable about walking into a stranger’s home before being invited in.
“It’s an interesting house,” she said, admiring the colorful Indian artwork and black argillite carvings.
The Dixon house was made of cedar, inside and out. It was small compared to our house. There were three bedrooms upstairs. Goldie’s parents had the largest one, Goldie and Shonda shared a room and then there was Nana’s. There was also the small loft area just off the upper hall, where Goldie and I slept when I came over for a sleepover.
The furniture in the living room on the lower floor was old and worn, but very comfortable. A large woven rug in rich amber and forest-green tones covered most of the floor between the couch and the fireplace. There was a simple kitchen with a table and six chairs crammed into one corner. Copper pots and pans decorated the kitchen walls and bunches of freshly picked herbs wrapped with twine hung on hooks to dry.
“I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” I said anxiously.
My mother glanced at her watch. “We’ll wait just a few more minutes.”
We sat down at the kitchen table and I stared at the clock on the wall.
Ten minutes passed. Then we heard voices and footsteps.
“Sarah?” Nana called from outside. “Are you in there, child?”
Goldie, Shonda and Nana stepped inside.
“How’d you know it was me?” I asked Goldie’s grandmother.
The old woman winked. “The birds told me.”
My mother smiled and reached out a hand. “I’m Sarah’s mother. Daniella Richardson.”
Nana did something that shocked me. She brushed away my mother’s offered hand and engulfed her in a hug. My mother didn’t quite know what to do.
I hid my face so that I wouldn’t burst out laughing.
What an odd sight they made―my tall, slim mother gripped in a bear hug by a short, plump Indian woman.
“Call me Nana,” the old woman said. “Everyone does. I’m so glad you came to visit me.” She smiled. “Daniella. That’s a very pretty name.”
“Thank you,” my mother replied.
Goldie tugged at my hand. “Let’s go down to the beach.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Nana opening the basket my mother had brought. She pulled out a lemon muffin and bit into it hungrily while they chatted about our move to Canada. Watching the two women, I was happy that my mother had someone she could talk to. I knew that she missed her parents who were vacationing in Italy.
We brought Shonda with us down to the beach and watched the little girl play in the sand at the water’s edge. She found some baby crabs in a small pool of water and brought them over to show us. She was a happy child with big black eyes. Sometimes she would gaze across the bay and I wondered if she was thinking of her brother.
“Do you miss Robert?” I asked Goldie.
She nodded and stared out toward Fallen Island. “I miss his laughter the most. He was always telling funny jokes. And playing pranks on Nana. One time he hid her herbs and when she went to hang them in the kitchen, she thought she’d never picked them at all. So she went back into the garden and cut some more.”
“What did Robert do?”
“He hid those too,” she replied with a wide grin. “When Nana went to hang the second bunch, she thought she was losing her mind because she couldn’t find them either. She walked around the house muttering ‘Now where did I put those darn herbs? I picked them, didn’t I?’ It was hilarious.”
I laughed at her impression of her grandmother.
“What was Robert doing?” I asked.
“He pretended he was asleep on the couch. But when Nana went back out into the garden a third time, he burst out laughing.”
“Did she catch him?”
Goldie nodded. “You should’ve seen her. She marched back into the house with two buckets full of herbs, caught him laughing and realized right away what he’d done. Then she put the buckets on the floor by the couch and the next thing he knew, Robert was being hauled up by his ear.”
I giggled. “Was he grounded?”
“No, Nana had a better punishment. She made him sit down at the kitchen table, then gave him a ball of twine and some scissors. She told him he had to divide each kind of herb into three piles, tie them with twine and hang them. It was so funny.”
“I bet he didn’t think so.”
“Well, first he complained. Said he didn’t want to waste his time hanging weeds. Then Nana told him that the three piles represented the three times she wasted going out to the garden to pick them.”
“Did he do it?”
“What do you think?” she asked wryly. “Can you imagine anyone not doing what Nana tells them to do?”
Her laughter was infectious. I giggled so hard my sides ached. And Goldie laughed until she looked like she was going to cry.
Suddenly, a branch snapped behind us.
We stifled our giggles and turned around.
“What are you laughing at?” my mother asked, stepping out from the trees. Beside her stood Nana.
I gave her an innocent smile. “Nothing, Mom. Just girl stuff.”
Goldie muffled a snicker beside me and I jabbed her.
“Your mother has invited me for tea,” Nana said, her eyes strangely serious.
Goldie and I exchanged thrilled looks.
Then we watched her grandmother and my mother stroll side-by-side down the beach―Nana with her coal-black hair loose from its braid and my mother with her fiery auburn hair tied in a casual ponytail.
They were an intriguing, peculiar pair.
That summer two friendships were born. Goldie and I became the best of friends, seldom arguing about anything. And Nana and my mother exchanged visits a couple of times a week.
I knew that their friendship was real the day my mother invited Nana to enter her secret domain. In fact, Goldie’s grandmother was the
only person to see my mother’s first Vancouver Island painting before it was even finished.
My mother was captivated by Nana’s Nootka legends and the new painting was a tribute to them. It featured a magnificent gray wolf looking into a crystal pool of water while a young Indian girl’s face stared back in the reflection. It was mystically beautiful and my mother refused to sell it. Instead, she made prints and sent them off to the gallery. The director of Visions requested more paintings with similar themes and I hardly saw my mother for the next two weeks, except for when she visited Nana.
During one of the last visits before school started, Nana prepared a delicious lunch of venison stew and biscuits. We ate outside under a towering forest of trees. We listened to the squawking seabirds and the restless waves crashing upon the shore.
Afterward, we picked huckleberries. My mother laughed when Shonda came back with a nearly empty bucket, her mouth reddened by berry juice.
That was the summer I became Indian―at least, in spirit.
Nana even gave me my own Indian name. Hai Nai Yu.
One evening, we sat around a huge bonfire and had a special naming ceremony. Nana sang strange words in her native tongue and brushed my face with an eagle’s feather.
I was fascinated.
When I asked her where the name came from, she told me the legend of Copper Woman and Copper Woman’s granddaughter, Hai Nai Yu.
“Copper Woman had been alive for many generations, her body still young to look upon. She felt tired and ready to move on, to do other things she could not do in human form. Hai Nai Yu went with her grandmother and learned about wisdom and life.”
Nana pulled a copper ring from her pocket and gave it to me.
“Copper Woman told Hai Nai Yu that wisdom must always be passed on to women, no matter what color their skin. Copper Woman told her granddaughter that all people come from the same blood. And blood is sacred.” She gave me a handful of huckleberries.
“Hai Nai Yu promised to become the guardian of the wisdom and to share it when her time came. Then Copper Woman walked the beach alone and became Old Woman.”
She tossed something into the fire and the fire flared.
“Her bones turned into a loom and a broom,” she said.
I loved that story. And I adored Nana even more for giving me that extraordinary name.
Hai Nai Yu―The Wise One of the One Who Knows.
From that moment on, Hai Nai Yu was the only name she called me. I often wondered why she picked that particular name.
I sure didn’t feel very wise back then.
five
School started the first week in September. Goldie had told me so much about some of the teachers that I felt I already knew them. We kept our fingers crossed, praying that we’d end up in the same grade six classroom. There were two rooms per grade, so we knew that the odds were in our favor. I couldn’t wait for school to start.
Looking back now, I realize just how naïve I had been. I never had a clue of what was in store for me.
On the first morning, Goldie dropped by my house and we took the small yellow bus to school together.
“Want me to come with you?” my mother asked.
I was horrified. I was too old to have her bring me to school. I’d be teased mercilessly.
Goldie took my arm. “I’ll take care of her, Mrs. Richardson.”
We waved goodbye and hurried toward the bus.
During the entire drive to school, I stared out the window while Goldie chattered about all the field trips we’d go on. My stomach churned as I thought about a new classroom, new teachers and being the new kid.
I was more than a bit nervous.
“Please let us get the same classroom,” I whispered.
Lady Luck was with us in the form of an old Indian woman with a white streak in her pitch-black hair. I found out later that Nana had spoken to the principal. She’d made sure that Goldie and I were placed in the same classroom.
I followed my friend through the arced doorway of the school and down the crowded hallway. I tried to walk inconspicuously, but my squeaking shoes betrayed me.
“We’re over here,” Goldie said with a giggle.
She steered me toward a windowless door at the end of the hall. We heard laugher and deafening voices coming from inside.
With a deep breath, I pushed open the door. A paper airplane spiraled toward me and I ducked. The boy who launched it grinned, his golden eyes gleaming mischievously.
“Move, Sarah,” Goldie hissed, pushing me forward. “If we hurry, we might get to sit beside each other.”
Two of the walls in the small classroom were covered with colorful posters and small windows. The other two walls held wall-sized blackboards. There were twenty-one students and twenty-two flip-top desks.
Goldie slid into a chair and stretched out her arm, saving me the seat across the aisle. Relieved, I sat down and emptied the contents of my backpack into the desk. Then I took out a pen and notebook and set them on top.
The teacher clapped her hands and called for attention. “We have a new student this year,” she said, smiling.
I let out a groan, wishing that I could slide under my desk.
“Sarah Richardson has traveled here all the way from the United States,” the teacher continued. “Sarah, can you please stand so we can welcome you properly?”
There was a tentative round of applause when I scrambled to my feet. My hand slipped and the notebook toppled to the floor. I picked it up―my face feverishly hot and my legs shaking. Then I dove for my chair.
“I’m Mrs. Higginson,” the teacher said, writing her name on the blackboard. “Now class…shall we begin?”
Mrs. Higginson was a wonderful, plump woman who wore neatly pressed dresses and speckled glasses that dangled from a golden chain around her neck. She was originally from England and I loved her accent so much I often imitated it.
Most of the children in our school had lived on Vancouver Island all their lives. In my class, there were only four other kids who were not Indian. At first, I thought nothing of it. Some of my friends back in Wyoming were Shoshone. But it wasn’t long before I learned about racism. And hatred.
On the second day of school, the class bully took out a pair of scissors and gave me an impromptu haircut. She sat behind me, so I didn’t even feel it. I didn’t know anything was wrong until she flung a handful of long hair on my desk after school.
One look at her short dark hair and I knew it wasn’t hers.
I was mortified.
The classroom was empty. Mrs. Higginson was gone and Goldie had already headed to the boot room.
I stood there, gazing at the butchered hair on the desk while Annie Pierce, a stocky native girl, stared at me with a smug look on her face.
“Well?” she sneered. “Whatcha got to say, white girl?”
As tears welled in my eyes, I battled with my raging emotions and snatched up the pieces of hair.
What did I do to deserve this?
Annie grabbed my shirt with her fist. Her scowling mouth was so close to my nose that I thought she would bite it off.
“Say a word to anyone,” she warned. “And I’ll make you sorry you ever moved here.”
She gave me a hard shove and stalked out of the room.
Mrs. Higginson returned a few minutes later and discovered me curled up in my chair.
“What’s wrong, Sarah?” she asked in a kind voice.
I tried to hide my miserable tears and struggled with my options. Should I tell her what happened―or keep quiet?
In the end, I chose silence.
“Nothing, Mrs. Higginson,” I said with a sniffle. “I’m fine.”
I quickly gathered the pieces of my hair, hoping that she wouldn’t see what I was doing. I hid my hands behind my back, walked over to the garbage can and deposited the hair. Then I grabbed my backpack and hurried out of the school.
“What took you so long?” Goldie asked when I caught up to her at the bus sto
p.
“Mrs. Higginson wanted to talk to me,” I lied.
I didn’t mention the haircutting episode with Annie because I wasn’t sure if they were friends or not.
On the bus, I was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” Goldie asked me.
“I’m just tired.”
When the bus reached my house, I hurried down the steps, waved goodbye and rushed inside my house. I hung my jacket in the closet and called out for my mother.
“I’m upstairs!” she yelled back. “I’m almost done painting for today. Be down in a bit, okay?”
Minutes later, she trotted downstairs and joined me on the deck where I was drinking chocolate milk.
“How was school?” she asked.
“It was…okay,” I said hesitantly. “Can you cut my hair?”
Her face registered her shock. “Why on earth would you want to cut your hair? It’s beautiful the way it is. And you know your father likes it long.”
“I know,” I mumbled. “I just want…a change. Can you cut it to the top of my shoulders?”
After supper―much to my father’s dismay―my mother dug out her scissors and comb. When she found the section that Annie had already attacked, she paused and I held my breath.
“What happened here, Sarah?”
“I, uh, tried to cut it myself,” I said quickly.
She resumed cutting. “Well next time just ask me. Don’t try to do it yourself. You made a mess back here.”
Yeah, I made a mess of something.
I thought about Annie. Obviously I had said or done something to offend her. But I couldn’t think of what that was. I had barely spoken two words to her.
“There,” my mother said, brushing my hair. “All done.”
I ran upstairs to my room and looked in the dresser mirror. I swung my head from side-to-side, admiring myself, pleased to discover that my new hairstyle actually suited me. My brown hair was streaked with copper by the summer sun and a natural wave had bounced back because of all the layering my mother had done.
I smiled. “Not bad.”
I had no idea the attention I’d receive the next day, but I did know one thing. Annie had done me a favor.
Whale Song: A Novel Page 4