Just Pretending

by Lisa Bird-Wilson

  “Let’s ask him then,” said Cydric.

  “Well,” Wesakechak looked around at the group, feeling his power. He made us wait for his answer, and then, like the parent of bickering children, he proclaimed, “You’ll have to share.”

  After that, a squabble ensued about how we would choose what to wish for. Angel and Cydric kept insisting they had special rights to the wishes since they had both touched the bottle.

  Then Wes had a great idea. “We’ll do a talking circle,” he said. He cited tradition, and none of us could argue, although Christian looked as if he might burst into tears. It was all too much for him. Then Wes pulled a giant bong from his bag and set it on the grass. After watching him fish through every pocket for a lighter, Gabe finally handed him his. We sat on the grass in a circle and watched Wes light up. Smoke rose from the tube and wound itself around his head.

  “Okay,” Wes said, holding the smoke in his lungs, “whoever has the bong gets to talk.” He passed it to Gabe, who was sitting on his left.

  Gabe took a toke and then sat back, looking thoughtful. We all waited. “Pass,” he finally said and handed the bong over to Mika.

  Mika copied Gabe, saying, “Pass,” as well. She tried to hand the bong to Christian but he shook his head and put both his hands up like an innocent at the inquisition. Cydric made a mocking sound with his teeth – Cydric hated everyone, but especially Christian. I wanted to tell Christian he’d be the first to be shot at an inquisition but it wasn’t my turn to talk. Mika reached around Christian and gave the bong to Réal. One by one, each of us, Réal, Angel, Cydric and me, did exactly the same thing as Gabe and Mika, all saying, “Pass,” until the bong once again rested in Wes’s hands.

  “Nobody’s talking,” Wes observed.

  “I’m looking for some inspiration,” Gabe said, rubbing the scar on his forehead. “God, aren’t we all,” Angel muttered.

  “I can tell you a story,” offered Wes.

  “I like stories,” Mika said, settling into her spot on the grass. She reminded me of a little kid, even though we were far past that.

  “Once, after the people had all been made from the clay of the earth, and the animals were in their proper places, and the spirits were honoured, and all was right and balanced in the Indigenous world, the Creator decided to go on a holiday,” Wes began.

  “Wait a minute,” said Cydric. “Why are we doing this?”

  “Shhh,” Angel hissed.

  Wesakechak continued. “And when She went on Her holiday, She left Old Wesakechak in charge.” Wes was talking about himself in the third person, as if he was a storied legend. “That was back when She still thought She could trust him. He meant well. Really he did.

  “He fell asleep by the fire after a fine feast. Oh, that was a good feast that time. And the fire was warm. And Wesakechak’s belly was full.” As if on cue, Wes’s belly grumbled. He looked down sadly at it, remembering the time of the good feast. “After Old Wesakechak had that fine feast, he fell asleep. And a terrible thing happened.”

  We were listening carefully.

  “Wesakechak, he fell asleep, but not before he gave instructions to his rear end to wake him up if anything went wrong.”

  Mika giggled.

  “Well, he was so full from his meal, and so warm from the fire, that he fell into a deep, deep sleep. He never even heard if his rear end warned him or not.” Wes looked miserable at this part of the story. “What happened while Creator was on holidays and Wesakechak slept, you ask? The Europeans came in and colonized the place! When Creator returned, She exclaimed, ‘Wesakechak! What have you done!?!’

  “Ever since that time, we’ve been trying to find a solution to the European problem.” Wes shook his head unhappily.

  “Each time Creator and Wesakechak came up with a plan, it backfired. Creator tried to distract the Europeans with their own bureaucracy. She sent them an idea but it got muddled in the translation and eventually turned into the Department of Indian Affairs and the Indian Act. Creator help us all,” Wes said, rolling his eyes. “It’ll keep us busy forever.” Wes sat back and looked at us expectantly.

  “I like that story,” said Mika. “Sort of.”

  “What’s it mean?” asked Christian suspiciously.

  Réal looked thoughtful, and Gabe punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. We were all quiet for a moment.

  “Wishes,” reminded Cydric, tapping his fingertips on the ground impatiently in front of him. “Back to the wishes.”

  “Let’s wish for a million dollars,” said Mika excitedly.

  Wes made a strangled sound and we all looked at him. “Where would I get a million dollars?!” he exclaimed. After a second, he added, “If we all go down to the food court at the mall, maybe we could collect enough empties to go and buy a case. But we’ll have to hurry – the LB closes by six on Saturdays.”

  “Today’s Wednesday,” said Gabe.

  “No it’s not,” said Christian. “It’s Sunday and the LB isn’t open.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Cydric. “You tried to pull that one before.”

  “Man, I’m getting hungry, and the bugs are bad. Can we move this along already?” Angel interrupted.

  “Was that a wish?” asked Wes hopefully. I could tell he was still thinking about that case.

  “Just wishful thinking,” said Angel. “Not the same thing.”

  “Well if I had a wish, I’d wish not to be poor,” said Cydric.

  “But how do you know you’re poor?” Réal piped up. I thought I heard Gabe groan. We’d heard this all before. “Is it just because we’re supposed to be poor that we come to think of ourselves that way?” Réal prodded.

  “I don’t think of myself as poor,” Mika piped in. Then I knew she was lying.

  “Well even if you don’t, everyone who sees you thinks of you as poor,” said Réal.

  “No they don’t. They think she has bad breath and fleas.” This helpful comment came from Angel.

  “Hey!” Mika protested.

  “Just jokes,” Angel said lightly, which was her response to everything.

  “I told you, it’s because they expect you to be poor,” Réal said, ignoring the tension between Mika and Angel. “So therefore you are poor. Get it?” Réal asked, raising his eyebrows. Then he added firmly, “But we don’t have to accept it. I want you to know that.”

  “Réal, you should be a fucking professor,” Cydric said with mock admiration. “Are you sure you’re Métis? We’re starting to think you’re a white guy.” We all laughed.

  “Anybody got a smoke?” asked Wes, yawning. No one answered. “Some sacred tobacco?” he prompted again.

  “You know I don’t believe in that superstition,” said Christian.

  “What superstition do you believe in?” asked Wes, smiling.

  “Tobacco is one of the four sacred plants to First Nations,” said Angel knowledgeably.

  “How would you know?” asked Mika. “You’ve only been an Indian for two weeks!”

  “Good old Bill C-31,” said Cydric. “Making Indians out of all of us.”

  “That’s Eye-nac for you,” said Angel.

  “Eye-rack,” quipped Gabe.

  “Indian Nation Abolishment Commission – their job is to make policies to get rid of us.” We all laughed.

  “Isn’t that what the Indian Act is for?” joked Wes.

  “No, the Indian Act is in case we run out of toilet paper,” laughed Angel.

  “Seriously, what good is it?” asked Christian.

  “Paternalistic,” said Gabe.

  “Sexist,” said Réal.

  “Outdated,” said Christian.

  “The Métis are lucky. We define ourselves,” said Réal.

  “Otipemisiwak,” said Gabe. “We’re the people who own ourselves.”

  “Can we wish away the Indian Act?” asked Christian.

  “What good would that do?”

  “It might be bad, but at least it’s something,” said Ré
al.

  “I’m afraid I can’t get rid of the Indian Act anyway,” said Wes, shaking his head. “It’s too political. I try to stay out of the politics. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He winked at Mika and she blushed.

  “I gotta take a leak,” Réal said, getting up and heading for a dense stand of bushes closer to the water.

  As soon as Réal was out of earshot, Angel whispered in a mock stage voice, “He’s got cancer,” she pointed to her throat. “Neck cancer. We should wish him better. Cured.”

  “Throat,” Gabe interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Throat,” he said, pointing. “It’s cancer of the throat.”

  “Throat, neck, whatever. It’s still cancer,” Angel said, waving her hand in the air.

  “That’s an unusual place to get cancer,” said Mika.

  “Réal’s not an ordinary guy,” answered Angel simply.

  “I predict his words will live one hundred years. Maybe more,” said Gabe.

  “He’s a genius, a mastermind. We should save him if we can.”

  Réal returned and we fell silent.

  And that’s when a truly stupid thing happened.

  “These mosquitoes are as big as helicopters this year,” complained Mika, slapping the air. “I wish they would go away.”

  “Done!” Wesakechak shouted before we even realized what had happened. He jumped up and trotted to the water’s edge.

  “Idiot!” hissed Angel.

  Stunned, we watched as Wes hauled a large stone to the centre of our circle and plopped it down.

  Mika started to cry quietly.

  “Well don’t just sit there; could you give me a hand?” he asked us. He was sweating. We helped him bring the stones. No one spoke.

  When we had created a small circle of stones, Wes had us collect twigs and dry grass. He dug into his backpack and brought out kindling, dry moss and a flint and steel. Réal looked dismayed. Mika cried silently. This was our wish, gone to shit. Still, we helped.

  Wes showed Gabe how to work up a rhythm with the flint on the steel and all of us stood close together in a circle to block any stray breezes. Each time a flurry of sparks looked promising, we leaned in and blew gently on the tinder. Soon the sparks glowed themselves into a small flame under our breath and we murmured a collective sigh of satisfaction. Within a few minutes, the fire was going well, the smoke driving the mosquitoes away.

  “One down,” said Wes. He looked very satisfied.

  Mika sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  Angel was less bad tempered after we had successfully built the fire and she surprised us all when she reached over, patted Mika on the arm and said, “We still have two more. Could have happened to anyone. Just jokes, hey?”

  Most of us laughed half-heartedly to show Mika we didn’t have hard feelings, with the exception of Cydric. Angel was right. It could have been any of us.

  “What’s next?” asked Wes, looking around expectantly.

  All eyes turned to Angel. We waited for her to ask for Réal to be cured. Instead, Cydric interjected in his abrasive tone.

  “This changes everything. We only have two wishes left now. We need to rethink this.”

  “Rethink what?” asked Réal.

  “Rethink our wishes. We need a strategy. I’m not sure I’m willing to waste my wishes on just one person – what if the rest of us have a problem that no one knows about? What if we’re just not telling everyone our problems all the time so no one knows? What about Angel?” he asked, and all our eyes turned to Angel.

  She scowled at Cydric, her eyes such small slits she might well have had them closed.

  “She wants to have a baby but can’t, did any of you know that?” Cydric paused for effect.

  Angel looked like she might spring to her feet at any moment and kick the shit out of Cydric. But she remained still.

  “Or Mika,” Cydric said, and all our eyes swung to Mika’s terrified face. “Mika, who can’t stop having babies. Can’t look after the ones she has.” Cydric’s tone was fierce. Mika looked as if she might burst into tears.

  “What about Christian?” Cydric continued, and we all looked at Christian. “Sitting over there,” Cydric said, pointing, “wanting you all to think he’s perfect when he’s done some of the worst things among us, has the most to be sorry for.” Cydric paused to let this idea percolate. “It’s usually the ones who turn to religion,” he continued, talking about Christian as if he wasn’t eight feet away. “He’s repenting. At least that’s what he thinks. Which of us really knows him? All of us have a past and most of us have things we’re not proud of. Things we’re ashamed of. Things that have driven us to religion, to seek salvation or to try and find forgiveness. Things we’d like to wish away if we could. Do any of you know what happened to Christian’s family…?”

  Christian jumped to his feet. “Shut up!” His face was red and his hands, balled into fists, trembled. “Shut up!” he cried, leaning forward and yelling. “Whatever you think you know about me, you know nothing. I want you to shut your dirty mouth. Just shut your dirty mouth.” Christian’s face was scarlet. His lips shook.

  Cydric smiled at him, cool in the face of Christian’s outburst. With that smile, Cydric appeared to be really enjoying himself. “Or what?” he finally asked.

  Christian stood staring at Cydric, his mouth opening and closing, no words coming out.

  In the impotent silence that fell over Christian, Cydric said quietly, “Tell us Christian, what are you repenting for? Is it the thought of your dead wife or your dead child that makes you most sorry?”

  Christian found his voice and spoke slowly, through clenched teeth. To this day I believe Christian knew what he was doing – I believe he was answering Cydric’s “or what” taunt. I imagine him thinking to himself, “This is what.”

  Out loud, Christian said what many of us might have thought at one time or another. Enunciating every word clearly, he said, “I wish you were dead.”

  Réal gave a sharp intake of breath.

  Gabe groaned.

  Wes hung his head. We all looked at him, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Cydric shut up, for once. Then he said, “Take it back,” in such a quiet voice I didn’t know if he had really spoken.

  Christian took a few steps from the circle and sat on the ground with his back to us. He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, moaning.

  “I feel funny,” Cydric said, patting his arms and legs. “Do I feel funny?”

  Wes looked sadly at the ground, as if he was disappointed in us.

  Réal told Cydric to lie down and to take deep breaths.

  Gabe tried to quiet Christian and stop his rocking and moaning.

  If anyone had cared to look, they would have seen Angel and Mika holding hands.

  We were quiet as we waited to see what would happen next. Cydric closed his eyes. He appeared to be asleep. I wondered if it had happened, if he was dead. I didn’t like Cydric, didn’t like what he did to us or how his negative attitude infected our group, but I would have never wished that on him for real. And I couldn’t believe Christian would either.

  Gabe sat with his arm around Christian and spoke in a whisper. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it sounded soothing. Christian had stopped rocking and making noise.

  Wes sat very still and refused to make eye contact with us.

  Réal was the first to speak. “We have no choice,” he said, obviously talking about the third wish.

  We knew. We all knew it.

  After, when Cydric had been taken away in the ambulance, Wesakechak packed his things into his backpack and prepared to leave.

  “Where will you go, big brother?” we asked, but he didn’t answer.

  I wanted to ask him to stay with us, but I knew it was no use.

  Wesakechak shook our hands, kissed Angel on the cheek and Mika on the lips and left us, headed west, following the river.

  “Do you see that?” asked Mika. We followed her
eyes. With every step Wesakechak took, tiny purple flowers sprang up underfoot like spongy alfalfa. Where there were no flowers a second before, there was a thick bed of tiny flowers even before his foot had fully left the spot. The ground behind him was dotted with purple footprints. It was beautiful.

  “We love you Wesakechak,” we called after him. And we did. We truly did.

  acknowledgements

  I can’t imagine where I would be without family (in all its forms), friends and community. Each has a vital role and influence in my life and has played a part in the making of this book. I want to acknowledge my family for their support and inspiration, especially Declan, my first reader, greatest encourager and most avid fan. I am also very grateful to my talented, ever-patient editor, Warren Cariou, for his shrewd editorial comments, constant enthusiasm and overall support for this book. Many people in the Saskatchewan writing community have mentored, supported, and taken interest in my work as a writer, especially my insightful Visible Ink compatriots and my good friend and first mentor, Jill Robinson. Maarsii, for believing in me and always being enthusiastic about the work. And my thanks, in general, to the many talented and amazing Aboriginal writers who set the example of how it’s done. Finally, the Canada Council for the Arts provided me with a grant to work on these stories, a shot of encouragement for which I am grateful.

  The following stories have been previously published or recognized:

  “Ayekis” appeared in Spring Magazine, 2007, and in New Breed Magazine, Fall 2008.

  “Billy Bird” appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Autumn 2008.

  “Blood Memory” appeared in Geist, Spring 2010, and subsequently in Best Canadian Essays 2011 (Tightrope Books, 2012). It was a finalist for a Western Magazine Award (2011) and nominated to the Journey Prize competition (2010).

  “Just Pretending” appeared in Prairie Fire, Spring 2010.

  “Mister X” received first place in the fiction category of the Short Manuscript Awards, Saskatchewan Writer’s Guild, 2008.

  “The Nirvana Principle” appeared in Grain Magazine, 2008, and was nominated to the Journey Prize competition (2009).

  “Someone’s Been Lying to You” appeared under the title “Cracker” in Zaagidiwin is a Many Splendoured Thing (Ningwakwe Learning Press, 2008).