I nodded.
“Please answer out loud.”
“Y-yes,” I said in a small voice.
He approached me, placing his hands on the rail in front of me, effectively blocking my view. “At one time were you left alone with your father, in your mother’s room?”
“Yes, sir,” I said a little louder.
He slid his glasses to the tip of his nose and peered down at me. “What happened next?”
I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t remember.”
“Did you leave the room?”
“I…don’t know.” I was distracted by my father who was anxiously whispering to his lawyer.
“Is it true that your father turned off the heart monitor first?”
A memory flashed in my mind. The heart monitor. Puh-pum.
I swear I heard a heartbeat. I shook my pounding head, desperate to clear my thoughts. My stomach heaved and I thought I was going to throw up.
The prosecutor turned to the jury. “And that your father proceeded to shut off the life support machines―including the respirator―against Dr. Michaels’ orders?”
I envisioned the respirator pumping oxygen into my mother’s lungs. Puff! Puff! I could almost see my mother’s chest buckling, gasping for air. I could faintly recall the colored buttons on the machines, especially the glowing yellow ones.
The prosecutor thumped one hand on the rail. “Answer the question, please.”
I glanced from the kind-looking judge in his regal robes to the man in the suit in front of me. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Did your father shut off all the machines?”
Hot bile rose in my throat. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
He glared at me. “Oh, come on. You were right there in the room.”
“Objection!” Mr. Gregory yelled, coming to my rescue. “He’s badgering the witness. The child’s doctor has already confirmed that Sarah Richardson has hysterical amnesia. It’s brought on by extreme trauma.” He eyed the prosecutor and frowned. “Sarah may not have been in the room She’s telling you what she knows. She can’t remember.”
“Is there any reason to question this witness any further?” the judge asked the prosecutor.
The man pursed his lips. “No, none at all.”
“You may step down, Miss Richardson,” the judge said in a gentle voice.
My legs were numb and tingling as I walked past my father. He started to rise but his lawyer pulled at his sleeve. Pushing past the small gate, I returned to the seat beside my grandmother. The rest of the afternoon was a blur.
Later, I visited with my father and Mr. Gregory in one of the waiting areas. Everyone was tense and exhausted.
“You did great, honey,” my father said tiredly. He looked older with every passing day. “I’ll see you soon.”
After a round of hugs, he was escorted away by a guard.
On the last day of my father’s court case, my grandmother cried softly, praying on a rosary during the entire drive to Victoria.
When we reached the courthouse, Nonno Rocco parked the car and we walked up the steps. Inside, photographers snapped our pictures while reporters shoved microphones into our faces.
“How do you feel knowing that your son-in-law murdered your daughter?” one man asked.
“Get those out of the way,” my grandfather growled.
He stared at me, his eyes welling with compassion, and Nonna Sofia hugged me close, shielding me from the voracious claws of the paparazzi. I knew that my grandparents hated what the publicity was doing to me―to all of us.
“Mr. Rossetti!” someone yelled. “Do you believe your son-in-law killed your daughter?”
My grandfather spun on one heel. “Leave us alone.”
Mr. Gregory appeared in a doorway. “Mr. Rossetti? Jack wants to speak to you.” He escorted Nonno Rocco inside and closed the door, leaving Nonna Sofia and me to wait in a tiny, private room, away from the reporters.
“Nonna Sofia, what’s going on?” I asked, biting my lip.
My grandmother sighed. “I don’t know, piccolina. I’m sure it is nothing.”
“Will Daddy be coming home after this?” I asked, holding my breath, afraid of her answer.
She put on a brave face. “I’m sure he will.”
But I knew she was lying.
My grandfather stepped into the room. His brows were pinched and his lips thinned as he glanced at Nonna Sofia. He whispered something to her and her face grew alarmed.
Something was wrong.
“We must stay here and wait,” she said to me. “Only Nonno can go in today.”
“Why?” I demanded. “I want to see my dad.”
Nonno Rocco leaned forward and gripped me lightly by the shoulders. “You must be brave for your papa. It was his decision that you stay here with your grandmother.”
“But I know Daddy would want me there,” I argued, holding my head up defiantly. “Why would he want me to stay here?”
Nonno Rocco shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but we must trust your father. He’s only doing what’s best for you.”
Someone knocked on the door and a guard escorted us to some chairs just outside the courtroom doors. The reporters had been moved to another part of the building so the hall was quiet.
Nonno Rocco kissed my grandmother and me before walking through the huge double doors. They slammed shut behind him, the boom echoing in the hall long after he was gone.
It felt like we waited for an eternity.
After an hour, I got to my feet and began examining the artwork that graced the hall walls in the old building.
“Nonna Sofia! Look at this painting!”
My grandmother rose to her feet and joined me.
On the wall was a painting by an Indian artist. It showed a ceremonial dance around a campfire. What fascinated me most was the odd figure dancing around the campfire. The dancer was cloaked in a long black cape and he wore a wolf mask. As I stared into his eyes, I thought he oddly resembled Chief Spencer’s son―the one who had danced the Dance of the Wolf.
A wave of roaring voices erupted from behind the courtroom door. I heard the sound a gavel banging on a solid surface. Suddenly, the door beside us squeaked and swung open. A guard exited. He gave us a brief nod as he passed by. My grandmother and I nervously looked at each other, unaware that the final day of my father’s freedom had just arrived.
Mr. Gregory and Nonno Rocco stepped out into the hall. My father’s lawyer patted my grandfather on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Nonno Rocco looked at Nonna Sofia. When their eyes met, he shook his head very slowly. My grandmother instantly broke into tears.
I waited for my father.
But he never showed.
My grandparents took me aside and broke the news.
After careful deliberation, the jury had found my father guilty of the second-degree murder of my mother, Daniella Andria Rossetti Richardson. He was sentenced to twelve years in Matsqui Institute, a medium-security federal prison on the outskirts of Abbotsford, BC.
I was sentenced to growing up without either of my parents.
PART THREE
Bridge of the Gods
eighteen
After my father’s incarceration, I prepared to move to my grandparents’ house on the mainland. Nonna Sofia and I packed away all of my parents’ belongings. I wrapped my mother’s jewelry box with my father’s favorite shirt and stuffed it deep into a box filled with clothing and various knick-knacks. We loaded everything―including my things―into a moving van, and I said a tearful goodbye to my beautiful room with the view of the ocean.
Then I walked for the last time on the beach.
“I love you, Mom,” I sobbed, tracing the words into the sand with a stick. I circled them with a heart.
I whispered farewell to the sandy beach and wooden raft, then plodded back to the house that was no longer my home. It was time to say goodbye to Goldie and the Dixon family.
They wa
ited in the driveway, their faces painfully sad.
“Don’t forget me, Sarah,” Goldie said, trying not to cry. She handed me a package. “Open it in the car. It’s from all of us.”
Nana brushed my bangs from my eyes. “Some day your memories will bring you home, Hai Nai Yu. Keep your eyes open for Wolf and don’t forget the lesson that Seagull learned.”
Sometimes holding onto things only brought suffering.
As we pulled away from 231 Bayview Lane, I pressed my face against the window. Goldie turned away, sobbing, while her family waved. Nana watched us leave, her long black hair with its unusual white streak blowing in the breeze. I saw her reach a hand upward and pluck something from the sky. She held it high above her head and waved it slowly.
I recognized the object―an eagle’s feather.
A minute later, we rounded a curve and they were gone.
With a sniffle, I opened the package that Goldie had given me. I cried out softly at the apparition of a silver wolf. The ornament was about six inches long and shaped from pearlized ceramic.
I stared at it in dismay.
The wolf strained its head as it voicelessly howled at me.
Follow me!
My grandparents lived in a tiny, crowded two-bedroom condominium in North Vancouver. It was awkward to watch them as they made room for me. Their spare bedroom contained a twin bed and Nonna Sofia’s sewing machine, yet within a month they had decorated it in a way that was much more suited to a girl my age.
The high school was a few blocks away and although it was swarming with teenagers, I made very few friends. Rumors preceded me and I was ostracized by my fellow classmates. But that didn’t matter to me. I had already begun to disconnect myself from life.
I kept in touch with Annie and Goldie during the first two months, but because they reminded me of melancholy times, I stopped writing and calling. I convinced myself that I was being unselfish by letting their friendship slip away, that they needed to move on without me. Nana frequently stayed with us, hoping to cheer me up with her Indian legends. But I became cynical and short-tempered, and eventually she stopped visiting.
I spent the first year surrounding myself with negative emotions, distrusting anyone who tried to get close to me. I packed away everything that reminded me of my mother and my past life in Bamfield, including the wolf ornament that the Dixons had given me. Every night, I fervently prayed that my amnesia would take away everything―every rotten memory.
My grandparents constantly reminisced about my life in Bamfield. I think they believed it would help to soften me. Nonno Rocco would remind me of the trips on the research schooner with my dad and Nonna Sofia would smile and ask me questions.
“I don’t remember,” I’d always reply.
I figured if I answered that way often enough, they’d get the hint and leave me alone. I also thought that the more I said those three words, the more real they would become.
My grandparents grew concerned and afraid, so they sent me to counselors, psychologists and even to church. But nothing helped. I didn’t want to forgive my mother for dying. And I didn’t want to forgive my father for killing her. I internalized my emotions and became increasingly depressed. Especially after my first visit to Matsqui Institute to see my father.
That day, I was filled with apprehension. I’d overheard horror stories from the boys in my class about prison riots and the sexual abuse that inmates were often subjected to. When I entered through the prison gates, I heard them slam and lock with finality.
“Oh God,” I moaned, terrified of being trapped inside.
After we walked through a metal detector, my grandmother’s purse was searched and we were told to empty our pockets. Then we were led to the visitor’s area. I sat down at a table while my grandparents chatted a few feet away with a guard.
The visitor’s area was filled with other relatives waiting for their loved ones. When a rough-looking inmate filed past me, I stared at him, terrified. The short, obese black man eyed me indecently and whispered a crude comment as he passed by.
I cringed and looked at the wall. Hurry up, Dad!
Then I saw him.
Relieved, I jumped to my feet. “Dad―”
My voice caught in the back of my throat.
My father’s closely cropped hair was more gray than blond. His face was gaunt and bruised, and there were dark, puffy circles under his eyes. Although he wore the standard prison uniform, it was obvious that he’d lost weight.
“Hey, Sarah,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He hugged me quickly. Then he flicked a self-conscious look at the prison guard. “How’s school?”
“Good,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Are the teachers nice?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
We talked about school, my grandparents, anything except my mother, her death or the fact that my father was in prison for murder. I wanted to ask him what prison was like, but I didn’t have the nerve. I don’t think I could have handled the truth.
After a few minutes, Nonno Rocco and Nonna Sofia joined us. They talked about inconsequential things. I stared at the floor, lost in my thoughts, and didn’t notice when the guard signaled to my father that it was time for him to leave. I felt relieved―thankful that the visit was over. I hated the prison. I hated the bars.
My father wrapped his arms around me, leaned close to my ear. “Do you remember anything yet?”
I shook my head.
When I stepped outside the prison walls, I groaned with relief and breathed in fresh air. I told myself that I’d never go back, no matter what. But my father begged me to see him, and I did.
After the second visit, I hid in my bedroom, pulled out my art books and furiously began my own form of therapy. I drew. I produced pictures of horrible things―demons sent to destroy me, creatures from the sea, anything to vent my anger. Upon seeing my works of art, the psychologist told my grandparents that visiting my father had done me more harm than good. The visits stopped.
In November of 1980, I implored my grandparents to bring me back to Matsqui Institute. I missed my father. For some reason, Nonno Rocco wouldn’t look me in the eye. He tried to convince me that visiting hours had been cut back, that it wasn’t the right time or that my father couldn’t have visitors that day.
Finally, in February ‘81, I visited my father for the third time. Some of the inmates who walked past me were even seedier than the last time I’d been there. And some looked like normal, law-abiding men―the kind you’d meet anywhere. There was, however, a definite undercurrent running through the prison. I felt it in the unusual restlessness amongst the prisoners.
Even my father appeared agitated.
“Is everything okay?” I asked stiffly. “You need anything?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m good.”
We stumbled through an awkward game of ‘catch up’. Neither of us had anything important to say. We’d both shut down.
I couldn’t wait for the visit to be over and I glanced at my watch uneasily. When our time was up, I rushed outside. I stood in the rain, lifted my face, and cleansed my soul.
In early June, I flicked on the television during a break from studying and caught a news report that made my heart stop.
Matsqui Institute was on fire.
I ran into the kitchen. “Nonna!”
“What is it?” my grandmother cried out, alarmed. “What’s wrong, carina?”
We watched in horror as reporters commentated on a prison riot while camera footage showed flames engulfing several of the prison buildings.
“Over three hundred inmates have seized control of Matsqui Institute,” a reporter stated. “Eight staff members are fighting for their lives on the roof of one of the burning buildings. Rescue teams are now on their way.”
The camera panned over to the eight trapped men. They waved frantically at a helicopter hovering above them. The men were airlifted from the building minutes before it collapsed
.
“What about Dad?” I asked fearfully.
My grandmother rushed to the phone. I heard her speaking to my grandfather in Italian. I couldn’t understand a word, but the sound of someone sobbing translates in any language.
“Nonno will call us back,” she reassured me when she had hung up the phone.
We sat at the kitchen table, waiting, daring the phone to ring.
Half an hour later, Nonno Rocco called. My grandmother murmured a few words before passing me the phone.
“Sarah, your papa is fine,” my grandfather said.
His voice sounded tinny through the phone receiver.
“Did he get hurt?” I asked anxiously.
“He’s a little bruised and sore. He got trampled in the riot but…he’s okay.”
I sniffled. “Can I see him?”
The line was muffled. “I’m sorry, carina,” Nonno Rocco said a minute later. “They have to fix the prison before visitors can come back.”
My grandmother hugged me after I hung up. “Don’t you worry. You’ll see your papa soon.”
Once more, I threw myself into my art. I painted and designed posters for imaginary plays. Anything to help me escape from the reality that was my life. When kids at school asked about my parents, I lied. I told them that my mother was a famous artist who toured the world and that my father traveled with her. No one really believed me.
I wrote my father every day, sometimes more than five pages detailing my day. But everything I told him was a lie. Except that I wanted him to come home. Every day after school, I waited by the phone, praying that he’d call me. The phone calls became less frequent.
I did what I could to help my grandparents. But mostly, I just stayed out of their way. I knew that they loved me, but I often wondered whether I was a burden to them. At times, their modest home felt claustrophobic and I’d escape outside. I wandered the streets, leaving Nonna Sofia and Nonno Rocco to worry about me.
Whale Song: A Novel Page 16