The Abduction of Mary Rose

by Joan Hall Hovey

  Naomi envisioned another little girl, one not so lucky. She saw her in her mind's eye walking to the bus stop that night, so terrified, unable to escape her tormentors. No one to stop them. To save her.

  "Did they ever find the two men who...?"

  "No. The caretaker of the cemetery said he heard her screams that night. He told the police he reached the top of the hill just in time to see a man forcing her into the back seat and the car speed off. Unfortunately he wasn't able to give a description of either of them, or of the car, except to say that it was a navy or black in colour. It was too dark out, his glimpse of them too brief. He only knew there were two of them. No. They never did catch those animals."

  On the word animals, the doorbell rang, jolting Naomi's heart as she stared at the door, panic washing through her. She couldn't do this. Not now.

  "Your first arrival," Frank said, getting to his feet with some difficulty. "I'll put the tea and coffee on. You might want to put out the food."

  "Oh, no, please, Frank. You answer. Tell them I'm sorry. I can't...."

  "Of course you can. You must. I happen to know you're made of sterner stuff than that." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's your duty as Lillian Waters’ daughter. And you are her daughter," he added firmly. "Whatever you're feeling right now."

  * * *

  It wasn't as bad as she had imagined, just a matter of pasting on a welcoming smile and going through the motions of being a gracious hostess. Easy for the most part, since those who came were themselves so kind and sensitive to her feelings; no one even mentioned the write-up in the paper. But everyone had read the obituary, and the fact of it was as large as the proverbial elephant in the kitchen. Curiosity and pity, even bewilderment, was behind every smile.

  The only one of the Bradleys to show up was Charlotte, Edna's daughter, who despite Naomi's protests, insisted on staying to help her clean up, then hugged her hard in the doorway on the way out. "I'll miss Aunt Lili," Charlotte said. "I loved her too, you know, Naomi. She was my aunt."

  She nodded. "Did you know, Charlotte?" she asked softly. "Did everyone know but me?"

  To her credit, she didn't pretend not to know what Naomi was talking about. "No, Aunt Lili swore Mom to secrecy. And she did keep the promise until Aunt Lili was gone. You have to give her that. She really does believe she did the right thing in telling you, you know. She thought you had a right to know. But I know how hard it must be. We all feel horrible for you, Naomi. It's why Ted didn't come. He couldn't face you after what Mom did. Dad feels the same way."

  Naomi said she understood, was somewhat mollified to know the entire family wasn't in agreement with Edna's tactics. But she knew 'having a right to know' had nothing to do with why Edna told her. Let Charlotte keep whatever illusions about her mother she had. None of this was her fault. It was good of her to come.

  Alone now, the silence of the house crowding in on her, she wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, where just a short time ago, she and Frank had sat. Where he had told her the rest of it.

  Looking up at her mother's portrait above the fireplace, a heaviness the size of a truck settled in her heart. I didn't know you at all, she thought. She sat for a time. Then she wearily climbed the stairs to her room.

  Standing before the vanity mirror, she gazed at her reflection in the glass. She examined the shape and colour of her eyes, the fine arch of her brows, her near black hair, her cheekbones high in an oval-shaped face. A face she had convinced herself bore a likeness to her father's, whom Mom had told her had Hawaiian ancestry in his background. 'A great-great-grandmother, if I remember correctly', she had said. Naomi smiled faintly now at the lie. You couldn't say she wasn't creative. She had chosen her surrogate father well.

  Frank told her she was terrified someone from around here would make the connection between that tragic young woman and Naomi, so she couldn't take the chance of telling her she had Native blood in her veins. 'She had to keep that from you, Naomi, and I know how much that bothered her. She didn't think she had a choice,' Frank had told her.

  She looked around at the room she had occupied for all of her life, the room that bore witness to girlhood secrets, hurts and triumphs, hopes and dreams. Her eye fell upon the books in the bookcase: a biography of Emily Carr, Jane Eyre, her favourite book ever. She'd reread it not that long ago, and found new layers to be appreciated as an adult.

  On the lower shelf, more treasured books from her childhood by authors Judy Blume, E.B. White, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol and others that had informed and entertained her, helped to shape her view of the world and of herself.

  She'd updated the decor over the years from the little girl pink and white to the earth tones she'd come to prefer as she grew older. She painstakingly stripped and sanded each piece of the white-painted furniture in her bedroom: a vanity, a vanity stool she'd found at a yard sale, and the two night tables, and stained them a rich warm oak, almost the exact shade of the floor. Forest green scatter mats lent colour to the room. The dresser itself was a heavy old antique treasure, hand-crafted with decorative carving that she loved. She remembered what a hard time the moving men had had getting it up the stairs.

  Her room. All the things in it were hers. The pictures, the books, the teak monkey totem 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil' that she kept on the dresser, another yard sale treasure. A small print of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks hung on the antique white wall. Yes, despite all this, she felt now as if she were occupying the room by default. She felt like a fraud.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, other than to drag herself to the bathroom to feed Molly, who had settled herself on the bed in mournful sympathy, Naomi did not leave the house. She ate little, ignored the doorbell and the persistently ringing phone downstairs. She was glad there was no phone in her bedroom. She tried to bully herself out of her self-pity party, but that wasn't working either. It just made her cry more. Then, one night the old childhood dream returned, this time more vivid than ever before, the voice insistent, commanding, refusing to be ignored.

  The beating of wings came softly at first, from somewhere far off, gradually growing in volume, and the pounding of her heart thundered in chorus. She felt the familiar rise of panic and tried to wake, but the dream held her captive. It both drew her in and at the same time terrified her. In it, she was always trying to outrun the great beating wings, and each time, barely escaping to wakefulness before it could descend on her.

  Whap … whap … whap came the creature in pursuit of her. Only this time a voice was urging Naomi not to run away. A gentle yet commanding voice. Despite the fear, she obeyed, stopped running, and slowly turned. Then, as the great shadow-winged creature settled on a nearby tree, the closing of its wings as soft and warm as a velvet shroud, she finally understood that the creature was an eagle, and that it meant her no harm.

  "Find the evil ones," it told her.

  Just a dream, she told herself the following morning. It means nothing. You're stressed out, not yourself, whoever the hell that is. You can't put too much stock in dreams. But the next night, the dream came again, and all her arguments fell away.

  "Find the evil ones, 'Ntus," the eagle repeated.

  Chapter Six

  Early next morning, dressed in jeans and a grey baggy sweatshirt, Naomi came downstairs with a rather vague idea of learning more about what happened to her birth mother, and why her attackers were never found and punished. She was quiet inside, thoughtful, as she made herself a mug of coffee and took it with her to the studio, which was just off the living room. Once one room, it was now divided into two closet-sized spaces with a sound-proofed door between them, the first serving as her office, the second as a recording studio. It suited her purposes fine.

  This was an old house with gingerbread trim, set above and well back from the road, with a gravel horseshoe driveway and a hilly lawn. There was a lovely spreading chestnut tree in one corner of the lot.

 
At the back of the house, what was once a grassy field had grown wild with brush, weeds and alders. Her mother had purchased the modest-sized Victorian 'fixer-upper' on 233 Elizabeth Avenue years ago, apparently while awaiting Naomi's birth. Aunt Edna thought the house was too big for just the two of them, but it wasn't. It was exactly right. Naomi grew in this house and had always loved it. And these two little rooms were her corner of the world. Her den. Den—such an apt word. A place for an animal to hide away. For her, a place where she felt safe and content. Not so different. She liked the analogy. Here, she could tuck herself in, away from the world, yet connected to it in a way that suited her temperament.

  This room was originally intended as a guestroom, but since they rarely had overnight guests, her mother suggested she take it as her own. When Naomi began to get work narrating audio books, Lillian had a man come and put up a soundproof wall, with a door erected between the computer workspace and the recording studio to isolate the hum of the computer and other noises the powerful mic managed to pick up. One wall in the recording studio had built-in floor to ceiling bookshelves, every space filled to bursting with books.

  For the window facing the street she'd bought wooden shutters and hung heavy drapes to further muffle any noise, although the sound of traffic could barely be heard this far back from the road. If she was recording, and a big, noisy truck did happen to rattle by, she would just wait until it passed before continuing, later editing out any offending noise.

  Now, seated at the computer, its familiar hum welcoming her, she brought up the Google search engine, typed Mi'kmaq Dictionary into the box and clicked enter. She sipped her coffee and waited. Almost immediately, a couple of promising sites came up, the second one down owned by a professor of Native languages at the local university. She clicked on it and scrolled down the alphabetical list of Native words on the screen. The word 'Ntus jumped out at her. Beside it was the English translation: 'My daughter'. Under the sleeves of her sweatshirt, goosebumps rose on her arms. 'Ntus.

  Find the evil ones, 'Ntus.

  Find the evil ones, my daughter.

  She sat quietly for a time, letting the revelation take its full effect. Her birth mother had spoken to her in a dream. What other explanation could there be? How else would she have known the word 'Ntus? I know no Mi'kmaq.

  The first stirrings of curiosity and wonder rippled through her, mixed in with the myriad of emotions she was already dealing with.

  She found herself distracted by the amount of information on the 'net about the Mi'kmaq, MicMac, or First Nations people, as they had come to be known. One site linked to the next. And the next. She learned about sculptors like Randy Simon of Big Cove, painters like Leonard Paul, and writers, including the late poet laureate Rita Joe of Nova Scotia. Naomi had read some of her haunting yet joyful poetry. Words that told of her life, and her response to that life. A spiritual, yet down-to-earth woman.

  It was the spiritual aspect of the Mi'kmaq culture that most captured her interest, however. For example, the Mi'kmaq did not make a distinction, as the white man did, between what was natural and what was supernatural. They believed, at least those who still held to the old ways did, that not only people, but animals, the sun, river and even rocks could have a spirit. The Mi'kmaq believe that all of the universe is filled with a spirit called mntu or Manitou, with the sun holding special significance. They hold great respect for animals, and all nature. The eagle in particular is highly revered, believed to be a sacred messenger sent from the Spirit Creator, Gisoolg. When she finished reading many stories and poems about eagles, any lingering doubt that Mary Rose had visited her last night, as she had on other nights, left her.

  She thought of herself growing inside of the young girl's womb for those eight months that she lay in a coma, hooked up to tubes and machines to keep them both alive. She didn't hate me for being there. On the contrary—she wanted me to live. To avenge her.

  I never heard her voice. Only her heartbeat, the pumping of blood through her body. Sustaining me until I could survive in the world on my own. It gave Naomi a strange feeling imagining herself the daughter of this young woman, who, until only recently, was unknown to her. She had no doubt that at some deep level, Mary Rose, even as she lay in a deep sleep, was aware of the child growing inside her. Aware of me.

  "She's been trying to communicate with me for a long time, Molly," she said to her friend curled up at her feet. "Ever since I was a little girl. I was afraid and closed myself to her spirit. She wants me to find her killers."

  Molly raised her head and blinked green eyes at her as if in understanding. Naomi turned back to the computer. But her efforts to find some mention of Mary Rose's abduction went unrewarded. She found nothing on the case, although she did find an alarming number of rapes and murders of other Native women across the country in which their perpetrators had escaped justice. One case particularly brutal case involved the murder of Betty Osborne, a Saskatchewan Native girl. The nineteen year old had been picked up in a car by four men, gang-raped, then stabbed to death with a screwdriver. 'Evil' was really the only word to describe such a heinous act.

  The gentle command played in her mind. Find the evil ones, 'Ntus.

  "I will," she whispered. "I will."

  The fish tank screen saver popped up and she realized she'd been sitting there for a full fifteen minutes without touching the keyboard. She shut off the machine and went out to the kitchen, her mind swimming with thoughts and half-formed thoughts, her resolve strong to find justice for Mary Rose. She could only imagine the terror and pain her birth mother suffered at the hands of her killers. Why had nothing been done to find and punish those men? She was suddenly furious.

  You don't know that nothing was done. You don't know anything about it. Well, she would know. She'd make it her business to know.

  She opened the fridge door and took out the last quart of milk on the shelf, eyed the expiry date and sniffed the contents. Grimacing at the rank sourness that rose up to her, Naomi poured the milk down the sink, turning on the cold water faucet to wash it and the smell away. Through the window over the sink, she could see big blue patches in the clouds. Should be a nice day, she thought, as her eye wandered across the abandoned field to the backs of the houses on Keel Street. Some ambitious woman had hung out a line of snowy white sheets and pillow cases that blew gently in the breeze. It was rare to see clothes on a line nowadays, with most people preferring the convenience of dryers, herself included. But she remembered her mother would sometimes put out a line of wash on her day off from the hospital, when Naomi was at school. You could bury your face in them, they always smelled so nice.

  For some reason, this thought brought a lump to her throat. She must be in bad shape to get emotional over laundry.

  Naomi checked the cupboard and saw she was down to her last can of cat food. There was a pan of cakes no one had yet touched that she'd put in the freezer.

  "How do you feel about brownies, Molly?" she said aloud, even though the cat was nowhere to be seen. She'd do a little grocery shopping while she was out. She'd also pick up some cleaning supplies and scour this place. Her mother Lillian would be appalled at Naomi's slovenliness. Maybe I take after my father, she thought, and laughed aloud. A hollow, bitter sound in the empty house.

  Chapter Seven

  Less than an hour later, she was at the library. From the first time she had climbed those wide grey stone steps and entered through the heavy oak doors of River's End Public Library, it was a magical place for her a hushed, warm haven where, through the pages of a book she could travel to far off exotic lands. She could experience vouraciously the characters' lives through the author's words. Naomi loved books, loved their smell, their feel, and their secrets.

  But now she paid little mind to the books on the shelves as she made her way to the row of wooden filing cabinets against the far wall, the same cabinets that had been here when she was still in school, each labeled River's End Tribune, with corresponding dates. The sun shin
ing in the high window polished the dark wood, the knobs on the drawers. A grade school girl sat at a far table, reading, and the same sun turned her hair a lovely molten gold, like doll's hair.

  Naomi quickly spotted the drawer she was looking for, 64C, and pulled it open. She scanned the row of films in their boxes, selecting four of them. Closing the drawer, she headed for the only machine in the bank of five not in use.

  Removing the first film from its box, she placed it on the spindle, slid the film under the roller and glass and threaded it into the take-up reel. She adjusted the controls until the page came into sharp focus. As she began turning the knob, the pages whisked past her eyes in a blur and she slowed the speed, so that she could scan each headline before the next page came up.

  As if lying in wait, long before she was ready for the emotional impact the words would have, the headline jumped out at her:

  Unidentified Girl Found Unconscious on Black Pond Road.

  The blood rushed warm to her cheeks, and her heart beat faster as she read the write-up beneath the headline.

  RIVER'S END - An elderly man out walking his dog on Black Pond Road this morning discovered a young woman lying unconscious by the side of the road. But for her socks and one white sneaker, she was unclothed. What is assumed to be her clothing lay beside her, likely tossed there, police say, by her assailant(s). The items included a denim skirt, white shirt, underclothes, and a right sneaker matching the one she wore. The young woman had been badly beaten, apparently left for dead. She is approximately five foot four inches, 110 pounds, and is believed to be aboriginal.