The adults discussed the plans quietly, while I mindlessly watched The Carol Burnett Show on TV. Carol didn’t seem funny to me that evening. When she tugged on her ear to send that secret message to her grandmother, I tugged on mine and prayed that my mother was up in heaven, listening. Then I cried.
Shortly before eight, we left for the service on the beach.
It was a night I’d never forget.
In the gloom of a hidden moon, we strolled down the beach, arm in arm, lost in our grief. My father, my grandparents and me. As we rounded the bend, the Dixon house was ablaze in light from a crackling bonfire that blazed on the sandy beach. Oil lanterns circled widely around the fire pit. The glow from the flickering flames threw sinuous shadows on the side of the house.
Our gaze swept the beach, seeking out the Dixons.
When we saw them, we came to an immediate halt.
There were people everywhere―lined along the beach, hidden by trees and bushes, and camouflaged by gnarled logs and driftwood that separated the grass from the rocks. Indians from town were dressed in ceremonial clothing and their long beaded capes and feathered masks frightened me.
Nana introduced us to Ta’yii Ha’wilh Donald Spencer, head chief of the Huu-ay-aht people. Chief Spencer had a hawk-like nose and black shoulder-length hair. It was braided and wrapped with strips of hide. He wore a massive headdress covered with eagle feathers and beads.
He shook hands with my father. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Then his penetrating black eyes peered into mine. “Welcome, Sarah Richardson, daughter of Daniella Richardson who has gone to the Great Spirit.”
He reached out, placed one hand on my shoulder and spoke strange Indian words. Afterward, he turned and welcomed my father in the same way.
“This is all so…wonderful,” my grandmother sobbed.
My grandparents were stunned by the warm welcome they received from complete strangers. Over twenty-five people attended. People whom we barely knew surrounded us, and I felt humbled and very grateful.
We were escorted down to the fire and motioned to sit in a circle around it. I sat on a blanket between Nana and Nonna Sofia. Nonno Rocco and my father sat next to my grandmother. Beside them sat Goldie and her parents.
The circle closed and the ceremony began.
Tribal dancers in their colorful costumes and intimidating open-mouthed masks stood within the circle around the fire pit. A white-haired elder started beating on a deerskin drum and a younger man joined him with a hand-carved rattle. The drummer began to chant in a raspy voice while the dancers moved in unison as smoke weaved through their writhing bodies.
It seemed more like a dream…ethereal.
Chief Spencer stood up, tall and regal in the firelight, exuding an air of quiet authority. “Welcome,” he began. “Today we say goodbye to Daniella Richardson―daughter, wife, mother and friend. She blessed us with her graciousness, rejoiced in the beauty of nature and captured the essence of the Great Spirit in her art.” His deep voiced thundered in the night.
The beating of the drum, combined with the chanting voices that surrounded me, lulled me into an odd calm. I relaxed and leaned against Nana.
Suddenly, the singing and drumming stopped.
I looked around me, disoriented, and tasted bitter smoke.
Out of the depths of the lush green forest came a huge, lumbering form. A creature with the body of a man cloaked in black and the head of a wolf stepped toward the circle of light.
I gasped in terror and clung to Nana’s arm.
“Don’t be afraid, Hai Nai Yu,” she murmured. “It’s the chief’s son. He’s going to dance a special ceremonial dance about Wolf, the ancient spirit messenger who travels far and wide.”
I looked up at her wise face and she patted my hand.
“Wolf is a sage, a powerful spiritual teacher. He talks to the Spirit World and will guide your mother there.”
Drums and rattles sounded again, beating like a heartbeat.
Puh-pum! Puh-pum! Puh-pum!
Holding my head high, I was determined to be brave while the chief’s son danced in the glow of the fire―his wolf mask howling at the invisible moon.
“Wolf medicine is very strong,” Chief Spencer said, offering me his hand. “It can heal in ways that the human world cannot.”
I stumbled to my feet. My limbs felt tired and weak. The full impact of my mother’s death suddenly hit me as I stood in front of the chief, all eyes upon me. My gaze swept across the flames toward the wolf dancer. His wolf mask glared back at me.
I shivered.
“She does not remember,” Nana rasped.
Chief Spencer’s intense eyes rested on me. “She will. When Wolf walks by her, she will remember…when she is ready to see him.”
She nodded thoughtfully and smiled at me.
I loved that old Indian woman―regardless of her age, the color of her skin or whether or not we were related. She once told me that we were all connected. Everyone and everything. That night I believed my connection to the people I loved was stronger than a steel rope. And as unbreakable.
When the music stopped, the wolf dancer disappeared into the forest. It was almost as if he’d never existed. I tried to comprehend what the chief had said―that I’d regain my memory when Wolf walked past me. I peered nervously into the bushes, wanting to remember, but mostly afraid to.
My father stood beside me, looking slightly out of place.
Chief Spencer greeted him. “Husband of Daniella, gone to the Great Spirit, we wish you peace. Take comfort in knowing that her spirit lives on―in the earth, trees, wind and water. And in your child.” He handed my father a small black pouch. “Hang this in your home as a sign that good spirits are always welcome.”
Next, he gave my father a small totem pole carved from red cedar and hand-painted in a natural finish. “The totem represents the importance of family.”
He turned to me, his gaze intense. It made me uneasy, until he smiled. “Daughter of the Great Spirit your journey will be long. You must not fear the memories. Your mother’s spirit and Wolf will guide you. Take these tokens wherever you go.”
He fastened a silver chain around my neck, fastening it gently. Dangling from it was a silver howling wolf pendant.
“The first will guide you on your journey of truth―providing you’re brave enough to follow its trail.”
He gave me a large gleaming feather. “Eagle’s feather is a gift from the creator and most sacred to us. It will help you to seek the wisdom of the Great Spirit. As Eagle soars high, his vision grows―as will your vision.”
My last gift was a small totem pole carved from cedar like my father’s, and painted with red, black and gold. In the dimness of the night, I examined it, but it wasn’t until I heard the chief’s words that I understood what I was seeing.
“The Sea Wolf is both whale and wolf, connecting you to land and sea. He will help you find peace, wisdom and unity. He is messenger and guide.”
I thanked him quietly and kept the gifts close to me.
The rest of that night passed in a blur. Many of the townspeople had brought dishes of hot food―deliciously seasoned deer stew and casseroles that tasted heavenly. We sat on pieces of driftwood while we ate in the dark.
Just before midnight, moonlight escaped from between the clouds. A beam of light shot through the sky, caressed the ocean and bounced off the restless waves.
Somewhere deep in the woods, a wolf let out an ominous howl. It sent shivers down my spine and I turned to my father for comfort. But instead, I caught Chief Spencer staring at me.
The wolf howled again. Aaa-ooo…
And so my journey began.
When I went to bed that night, I carefully placed my precious gifts on the dresser. My grandparents kissed me goodnight, leaving my father and I alone. He sat on the edge of the bed and tucked the blankets around me. Not a word was said.
Then he let out a sigh. “That was a wonderful ceremony.”
“Yeah, it was,” I said. “Mom would’ve loved it.”
My father stood up, walked to the door. “She certainly would’ve. I love you, Sarah.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Alone, I climbed out of bed and crawled into the window seat. A tear rolled down my cheek. I felt empty.
“Goodnight, Mom,” I whispered.
I had disturbing dreams throughout that night, dreams of an eagle swooping down upon me and carrying me off to the den of an ancient silver wolf. Surrounded by murky shadows, I listened for the approaching sounds of my wolf guide and when I heard the patter of paws climbing the rocks below, I held my breath.
A dark shadow lingered in the entrance to the wolf’s den. I felt its hot breath at my throat and when I tried to scream no sound came from my mouth. The shape howled mournfully and its hypnotic voice echoed in the darkness.
“Follow me.”
Stumbling from my dream-cave, I found myself on a beach. A plaintive cry resounded across the ocean and a plume of sea mist caught my eye. A mama killer whale was skimming the surface, staring at me intently.
“We are all connected,” she said.
The wolf-shape beckoned me down a path. “This is the path to the truth.”
I took a few steps and stopped. My feet had sunk in the sand and rocks.
“Wait!” I yelled. “I can’t move. I’m stuck.”
The wolf’s yellow eyes sought mine. “Follow my trail…when you’re ready.”
As the wolf-shape vanished, I thought I heard a melancholy sigh. Puff…puff. The eerily familiar sound echoed through the trees.
Then my dream faded into a restless sleep.
sixteen
I awoke to the sound of the surf crashing against the shore, and a distant memory of a killer whale surfaced in my mind. I heard birds singing cheerfully outside. When I went to open the window, something caught the corner of my eye. The gifts I had received the night before were gone.
Where are they?
Panicking, I searched the floor and behind the dresser, but my gifts weren’t there. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a tattered t-shirt, and was about to throw the shirt over my head when I felt something cold against my chest. My fingers touched the silver necklace hesitantly. When did I put this on?
I walked toward my bed to straighten the blanket and it was then that I saw the eagle feather lying on the bedside table, the carved totem pole next to it. Bewildered, I picked up my treasures and placed them back on the dresser.
Wearing the silver necklace, I went downstairs to the dining room. My grandfather was at the table reading the newspaper and drinking strong coffee. Nonna Sofia was making apple pancakes, but I told her I wasn’t very hungry.
“Piccolina, are you all right?” she asked in dismay.
“I’m tired, that’s all.” I stifled a yawn. “Where’s Dad?”
“He went for a walk on the beach,” she replied, expertly flipping the pancakes.
“Nonna Sofia, did you move the things I got last night?”
My grandmother stopped pouring batter into the pan and bustled over to me. “What? Did you lose them?”
I shook my head. “No, I just thought…uh…forget it.”
I realized that I must have been sleepwalking. I must have moved everything and placed the necklace around my neck.
Strange.
When we were finished breakfast, my grandfather cleared his throat. “Your dad and I have to make some arrangements today. Your mom’s…funeral will be tomorrow.”
I nodded mutely.
“Goldie was by earlier,” my grandmother said. “She brought you some things from school. Why don’t you try to catch up on your schoolwork?”
I gaped at her as if she had gone insane. School?
It seemed like years since I had sat at my desk and studied. I felt guilty because my mother had wanted me to have a proper education, but part of me simply didn’t care. After all, my mother was gone. Forever.
I wandered out onto the deck, half-listening to the murmurs of my father and grandfather. I stared up at the sky and thought of my mother―her smile and her warmth. I recalled her last days in the hospital and tried to remember what she had whispered to me before going into a coma.
Why can I only see a dark hole when I push myself to remember?
Later that day, while my dad was in town, I overheard my grandparents arguing―something they rarely ever did.
“Rocco,” Nonna Sofia said. “He was following her wishes.”
“How do we really know those were Daniella’s wishes?” my grandfather snapped. “Just because he says so?”
“We cannot doubt him, Rocco. He loved Daniella. He would never hurt her on purpose. She made him promise.” Her muffled sniffles grew louder.
“Shhh…Sofia, bella,” he consoled her. “I know…”
I leaned against the wall, listening to their words
“Poor Sarah,” my grandmother wailed. “First her mother, now…if Jack goes to prison, I―” She broke into hysterical sobs.
Devastated, I raced upstairs to my room.
I somehow convinced myself that my memory of that day might save my father―that perhaps he had tripped over the cord and maybe my mother’s death had been an accident.
If only I could remember.
Gritting my teeth, I mentally walked myself through the moments just before my mother’s death. My father and I were alone in her room. I argued with him about something. Then the next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed.
Maybe I saw him do it. Is that why I can’t remember?
My memory was blank, like an empty chalkboard. There was nothing I could say to any court judge to make him believe my father was innocent. Nothing I could remember would help him.
My stomach churned.
I crawled into bed and fell asleep holding onto my wolf pendant. If I dreamt at all that night, I don’t remember that either.
As a compromise to my grandparents, my father arranged a small, informal funeral service in a small chapel in Bamfield. We gathered, united in grief, under a tempestuous sky filled with churning thunderheads. The wind howled through the thin-walled church, causing the stained-glass windows to vibrate as Father Verhagen solemnly welcomed everyone inside.
A blue-robed choir stood to the left of the pulpit, singing a melancholy rendition of Amazing Grace, accompanied by an old pipe organ. To the right, a beautiful ceramic urn, hand-painted by a local Indian artist sat on a raised platform, surrounded by flowers and wreaths. A copper-framed photograph of my mother was positioned near the urn.
I plodded up the aisle and stood in front of the urn. Then I reached out and caressed the photo of my mother.
“A handful of ashes,” I murmured. “That’s all that’s left of you.” Looking at her filled me with misery and longing.
My father, grandparents and I took our seats in the front row of pews while the Dixon family sat on the opposite side. Behind them, my father’s co-workers crowded together, whispering and casting sympathetic glances at my father and me. People from Bamfield, some of whom had attended the beach ceremony, also showed up. I noticed Adam and his family sitting in one of the back pews. Annie was sitting beside him with her aunt. Even Mrs. Higginson and some of my other teachers were there. Mrs. Makowski sat behind me, sniffling into a lacy handkerchief, telling everyone that I had a wonderful future ahead of me―that I was a great artist just like my mother.
Father Verhagen began the service. “We are here to remember Daniella, to celebrate her life and her faith.”
I slipped into my own little world, lulled into a sense of security by the priest’s words, by his promises that my mother was moving on to a better place and by his certainty that my remaining family would be taken care of.
Tears of sorrow coursed silently down my cheeks. My father squeezed my hand and I held on tightly, refusing to let go. I stared down at our folded hands and wept for my mother.
After the service, we filed out through the do
uble doors of the church and stepped outside. A cold wind flailed at us as we waited at the top of the stairs, sheltered by the porch overhang.
Father Verhagen stopped me. “Your mother is in Heaven, Sarah. God will look after her now.”
For some unexplainable reason, his innocent comment made me furious. “Who will look after me?” I wanted to demand. But I bit my lip instead and hurried down the stairs, out into the rain.
“Jack Richardson?” a familiar voice called from the crowd.
A tall figure walked toward us.
My heart stopped.
Sgt. Washinski placed a restraining hand on my father’s arm.
“I need you to come with me, please?” he said with authority.
Everyone watched in disbelief as a patrol car pulled up beside us, its lights flashing. My father walked passively toward the vehicle, resigned to his fate. He looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth to say something, but immediately closed it and tossed my grandfather his car keys instead.
“Take Sarah home,” he told Nonno Rocco.
Sgt. Washinski gave me an apologetic look. Then he turned to my father. “We’re placing you under arrest for the second-degree murder of your wife Daniella Richardson.”
The crowd gasped in shock.
I was horrified. “Dad, what’s going on?”
I tried to run toward him, but Nonno Rocco restrained me. I struggled to get free, hysterically beating my hands against my grandfather’s arms. “Daddy!” I screamed.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Sgt. Washinski continued, pulling my father arms behind his back. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Handcuffs encircled my father’s wrists and snapped shut.
“You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand your rights?”
My father nodded, looking dazed and unsteady as he was escorted into the back seat of the patrol car.
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