Liv Unravelled

by Donna Bishop

  “Even though I won, you have good aim. You’re gonna be a great hunter.”

  Joey’s heart soars at the praise. I get a strong impression of this little guy’s self-image — he sees himself as lesser than Peter, but well within range of bettering him. He’s driven by this competition, eager to learn and develop skills. He’s thin, but there’s a solidness to him. In addition to being taller, Peter is also heavier. His face is rounder; he’s stocky and powerful.

  I realize that the boys are calling each other by different names, in their own language. Joey is called what translates as Cedar Standing Tall. Peter is Eagle Feather. They reserve these names for times when they are all by themselves. It’s dangerous these days to use names that sound too “Indian.”

  Now they’ve decided to try to catch a fish — they’re searching the beach and surrounding forest for materials to make spears. Joey has the idea of making a fence in the water so they can herd the fish into the shallows and spear them more easily. It must be autumn, as the salmon are spawning. The boys wade out into the frigid water, struggling against the current, and try to plant the sticks, but they won’t stay in place wedged between the rocks. They cheerfully abandon that idea and head back up the trail — hunger is leading them home.

  These two keep up a constant stream of chatter as they saunter along, which provides me with more information.

  Peter’s father, Billy, who is Joey’s uncle, teaches both of them the skills of hunting and fishing. Joey never met his father, the son of a Norwegian settler who went to fight the Germans and never came back. Joey and his mother are also reliant on Uncle Billy for meat and fish — as her brother, it’s his duty to see that they eat.

  ~ ~ ~

  My spirit thread is dancing forward through time. As if in a movie, I see Joey’s life unfold, watch him grow, and observe how he lives. Their home is a one-room cabin, heated by a small cast iron stove. They have only candles for light, so they seem to rise with the sun and sleep with the moon. Their food comes from the forest, the river and the ocean — except for the fry bread Joey’s mother makes when they have flour. She serves warm chunks of it from the cast iron frying pan and they dip it in oolichan oil, which smells as fishy as you might expect. Joey loves it.

  You can see where Joey gets his delicate features — his mother’s face is heart-shaped, with defined cheekbones, framed by her glossy black hair. There’s a particular alertness to her eyes — they shine, especially when she’s looking at her son. Her name is Ista, in honour of the first woman in Nuxalk culture. She has been widowed for seven years, since before Joey was born, and she hasn’t taken another man. She tells Joey about his father, who was kind and brave, with laughing eyes. I wonder within this hypnotic dreaming if this Norwegian connection is where Joey and my blood and spirit lines met up.

  She works ceaselessly, sometimes with other women from the village and sometimes on her own, foraging in the forest for all manners of berries, shoots and seeds. These she dries or smokes and stores for the future. She strips bark, collects roots and weaves baskets to trade for the things she can’t get otherwise. She’s trying to carry her weight, so as not to be a burden to her brother-in-law and his family.

  Joey and Peter spend their days in the forest, playing games, competing and inadvertently picking up the skills they’ll need when they are older. They’re inseparable, except at night when they go to their own homes, which are not far apart in the cluster of dwellings known as Nuxalk, which is now called Bella Coola.

  I cast my thread forward.

  ~ ~ ~

  There’s Joey. I try to join with him, but I meet with resistance. He’s blocking me — I don’t think he’s aware of me — he’s just closed. I’ll hover in his company instead, as I did with Veda when she was an infant.

  I now realize that Joey isn’t at home. This is a large, drafty room with a high ceiling. The only light comes through the partly open door. I can make out two rows of beds down each side of the room. Each bed holds a child, covered with a grey wool blanket. A residential school.

  Even though I can’t merge with Joey, I can sense that he is awake, lying rigid — alert, listening.

  This is chillingly familiar to my own childhood — lying awake, dreading the sound of my father’s approach. But this isn’t Joey’s father, a man who would never have harmed him. This is a man in a black robe.

  On one hand, I feel compelled to stay, to be here for Joey through whatever happens, but it’s excruciating — even though I have no corporeal shape, a traitor to my own past spirit, I’m jittery and agitated. I have to go — I’m casting forward.

  ~ ~ ~

  This time Joey is less guarded and he allows me to bond with him. He’s with a group of boys in the hallway of the school. Peter is there too. They’re joking and laughing — tentatively enjoying a rare moment of unsupervised play. I hear one of the boys speaking in an unfamiliar language.

  “Number 527,” a voice calls out — loudly, imperiously. The boys freeze. A priest looms at the end of the hall and strides toward them.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice harsh. Joey gathers his courage and steps forward. At the school, he’s not Joey, not Cedar Standing Tall. He is 527.

  “I’m sorry, Father.” Perhaps he hopes his submissiveness will be enough. But the imposing black-robed figure sweeps forward, takes his arm roughly and begins dragging him down the hallway.

  Joey feels the blows stinging his bare backside, but he doesn’t react. He’s absent. I sense him closing his mind, taking himself elsewhere — he conjures images of tall cedars, a tumbling, rushing river.

  ~ ~ ~

  I see a ship slowly plying its way through choppy waves down a long channel. The shoreline is a wall of enormous trees broken by the occasional rocky point or towering cliff. I am drawn inside to a passenger area, where Joey and Peter sit on a hard bench. A dour priest sits behind them, his head bent over a black-bound Bible. There are a few other passengers, but they’re on the other side of the ship.

  A feeling of dread overcomes me and I’m suddenly nauseated. It is different than what I felt when I met up with Detlef — with him, I despised his tarnished soul. Now, it’s the circumstances that scare me. I’m horrified at the damage being inflicted on these two boys. The blue thread shimmers between us, but again Joey is closed to me. I can only watch.

  Peter is leaning against Joey weakly. His hands are pressed against his chest, his breathing shallow. Both boys rock with the movement of the ship, but Peter lolls as if he might slip off the bench. He begins to cough and lurches upright, his body clenching with the effort. Joey steadies him.

  The school is sending them home to see their families, not out of kindness, but because Peter is dying. They probably hope he’ll die at home to save them adding another death to their statistics.

  ~ ~ ~

  Joey walks slowly up to his uncle’s house to find Peter propped on the step with a blanket over his shoulders, enjoying the sun, the cool breeze and most of all the freedom from the torture and abuse of the residential school.

  “Hi,” he says when Joey sits beside him. “I like to be out here. Inside, I cough so much, my mother is afraid I’ll give the sickness to my sister.”

  Joey gives a little grunt of understanding. His once strong cousin is now a featherweight and he’s disappearing.

  “I know I am dying, Joey. We’ve both seen other kids at the school sick like this. I’m ready to die.”

  Joey nods. “Remember right before they took us? That was the last time I felt good.”

  Peter shifts against Joey, groaning quietly that he’s tired. His illness has made him weak, but it won’t let him sleep for long because of the coughing.

  “I will not go back to that school,” Joey says firmly. “They took us from our families, starved us and beat us. They do those horrible things to our bodies. Sex things. I’m not doing that any more. I know what we can do.”

  Peter glances quickly at him, a question in his eyes. “The
father says that if we stray, the devil will throw us into the fiery pits of hell.”

  “The father is wrong. He's not our father anyway.”

  Joey opens the door and talks to Peter’s mother, telling her they’re going for a walk. She comes out, touches Peter’s forehead and looks into his eyes.

  “Do you feel well enough, Peter? Are you sure?”

  He smiles and assures her that he feels stronger from sitting in the sun. She tells Joey not to take him too far.

  They follow the trail to the river — the same one where I first encountered them. Bound by the blue cord, I follow, filled with apprehension. Peter has to stop frequently to cough — great wracking coughs that leave him shaken and gasping. Joey attends to him, wipes his mouth — and finds blood.

  When they reach the top of the canyon and stand overlooking the great river, they stop and turn to face each other. I hear them softly address one another, using their Nuxalk names.

  “Eagle Feather.”

  “Cedar Standing Tall.”

  They know there’s only one way to escape fire, and that’s with water. Oh no… They’re going to jump!

  Adrenaline rushes through Joey’s body. He feels more alive than he’s felt for a very long time. He hears the high-pitched call of an eagle and he takes it as a sign — it gives him strength. He tightens his grip on his cousin’s hand.

  “Now,” says Joey.

  I stay with them. My spirit stays with Joey. I can’t let them do this alone. My stomach lurches as he drops through the air. Peter’s hand lets go and it seems to Joey as if Peter is falling upwards — no, he’s flying! He imagines wings growing long and strong for his cousin. The energies of all their ancestors and relations are in the sky with them. Peter becomes an eagle.

  And still Joey is falling, almost like he’s sliding down a glowing band of blue toward the water, which now teems with the movement of thousands of large fish, their silver scales flashing. They’ve gathered to meet him. As he finally crashes into the turmoil of water, he has no fear and feels as whole as when he was made by Creator. He’s suspended, swept downstream by the endlessly moving water, limp.

  My soul swims free — I am the salmon.

  Celeste is sitting in front of her on the footstool wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Such courage. My heart is breaking. They were so proud, refusing to allow themselves to be taken again. It’s a fucking travesty what was done to them. To all of them, all of us.”

  Liv is beyond words. An ache in her chest threatens her breathing. Tears trail down her cheeks. Celeste hands her a tissue. She can see the deep pain in her eyes.

  “That must have been hard for you too,” she croaks, “With your family history.”

  “So many sad stories — and they get sadder with each generation that suffers new hells based on the one before.”

  Liv knows her friend’s story — at least the part Celeste herself knows. She was adopted to a white family as a child. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she found out that she’d been forcibly removed from her Métis parents. Her French/Cree father committed suicide. Her Ojibway mother died on the street. Both had spent their childhoods in the red brick fortress of the residential school system.

  Celeste went to university out east and studied psychology and anthropology. While there, she had the chance to explore her own roots, history and culture, and with the help of an amazing Indigenous counsellor, find a way to not only heal herself, but find her own calling.

  They sit quietly for a long time. Then Celeste rises and puts the kettle on.

  As she walks home Liv ponders the devastating stories of Joey and Celeste. The only other First Nations person she had known well, a girl named Suzy, had a similarly tragic story.

  Suzy showed up in September of grade four and Liv knew right away she wanted to be her friend. She'd always felt, and been treated, like an outsider, With her hand-me-down clothes and rough family life. There was a sadness to Suzy that told her they had that in common.

  They gravitated to each other and were soon inseparable. Together they learned how to be the best rope-skippers, hop-scotchers and monkey bar athletes. They shared the ability to shut out the rest of the world and create their own safe one.

  She never liked to bring friends home after school, not knowing what kind of mood her dad would be in, so they went to Suzy’s squalid rented house at the bottom the street. The mess didn’t seem to embarrass her. The first thing they’d do is forage in the kitchen for something to eat — a box of cereal or crackers or cookies. Liv would never do that at home — she and her brothers were never free to self-serve, probably because money was scarce and her mom had to make the groceries last.

  It soon became apparent that both of Suzy's parents had drinking problems, although her dad was in AA. Suzy’s mom was always there, but she rarely got out of bed. She’d call out and Suzy would stand in the doorway and talk to her. She seemed to only care about herself and often got Suzy to bring her a bottle of beer.

  Her dad was always friendly when he got home from work. He was Blackfoot, from southern Alberta, and he had some great stories about his childhood, working the trapline, picking berries and fishing. Liv got the feeling he knew her dad, perhaps from his drinking days. It was a small town. He once called Liv a blonde Indian. He said she wore her sad face on the inside. She was ten by this time, so she kind of knew what he meant. Most of the world saw her as a happy, sweet kid, but those who knew pain could see it inside of her as well.

  One day they arrived at Suzy's after school and found her dad really drunk. He’d fallen off the wagon hard and he was ranting. Liv just went on high alert — she immediately made an excuse to leave, because she just wanted to get out of there.

  Suzy came after her and they hid behind a bush in the park and Liv told her about her dad — not about the sexual abuse, but about his drinking and how he physically abused her family. That was the only other time Liv came close to telling someone, but she didn’t.

  The following Saturday, Liv went to Suzy's house bursting with ideas for things for them to do. The house was empty, littered with trash and abandoned belongings. She never saw her again.

  All this misery and suffering in the world — so many lives fraught with unhappiness and injustice. What purpose does all this turmoil serve? It seems like nobody has any control over what happens to them.

  Then she feels a surge of inspiration. That’s the Wyrd — the rigid fabric of life, woven with everyone’s stories. It’s not just about one person’s story — it’s how they’re all woven together.

  She begins walking faster, excited by this revelation.

  I can alter my life with my own choices. I can change the colour and pattern, just as Ingaborg said. I’m lucky to have been born with choices. I’m a grown woman, and I have changed — I’m no longer the little girl in an unsafe situation. I can use my brain and the cultural privilege life afforded me in far less selfish ways than I have been. Guilt and pity help no one. What of Joey, Veda and Suzy — or any number of other souls who, through no fault of their own, are unable to determine the course of their lives, much less live them?

  22

  ~ Committed ~

  Ross is still in the lockup section of the psychiatric ward and not allowed any visitors for another week. Liv is used to being on her own when it comes to the kids and the farm. It’s now snowing almost every day, which means all her chores are preceded by shovelling paths and sweeping steps. Neighbours have dropped off plenty of firewood, but she still has to chop it and bring it in the house to feed the hungry woodstove at frequent intervals. Without being asked, their neighbour Rob ploughs her driveway on snowy days, so they wake to the rattling engine of his tractor backing and forthing in the yard. The farm is blanketed in a purifying coat of white. Liv smiles to herself at the thought of these lovely neighbours and country folks, who know Ross has been locked up in a psychiatric ward and wouldn’t in a million years want to talk about it — at least not with her —
but still know exactly what needs to be done to help this little family survive. They pitch in without fanfare, to make sure there is wood for warmth, food and a cleared path to the highway.

  The psychiatrist, Dr. Vindloo, has called her several times. He has an earnest tone, with a cultured British accent. He speaks precisely and formally, referring to her often as Mrs. Edwards. He reports that he’s trying to find the optimum medication to manage Ross’ illness, which he has now diagnosed as bipolar disorder with psychotic and delusional features, further complicated by alcoholism and drug addiction. Hearing this, Liv feels a jolt of panic, but she remains attentive and assures him that she’s willing to be a part of Ross’ treatment plan.

  He tells her Ross is not adapting well to being in the hospital.

  “He has been resistant to therapy, Mrs. Edwards. It’s unlikely he would have come in for treatment without being committed against his will.” Liv recognizes this as a huge understatement. She knows Ross is likely acting like a caged animal, pacing and cursing his captors.

  After two weeks, Liv is encouraged to visit. The psych ward looks like any other — a long hallway lined with rooms, grey walls, a bustling nursing station. The pervasive scent of disinfectant has an underlying tinge of body odour and feces. There’s a lounge with a pool table and some couches. Liv wanders up the hallway, feeling uneasy. She follows a red linoleum line to the nursing station and stands tentatively, waiting for one of the staff to notice her. A young woman with dreadlocks and missing front teeth, wearing mint green cotton hospital pajamas, shambles up and takes her arm.

  “You don’t want to be here, lady. They won’t let you go.”

  “Oh, I’m just visiting,” Liv says, flustered.

  “Ya got a cigarette?”

  “No. Sorry,” she smiles apologetically, guiltily, as she’s aware that she actually does have some she brought for Ross.

  Thankfully, a nurse finally notices her and comes to the counter. “Marnie, go on now,” she says to the patient, who sneers and slides off down the hallway.