North of Normal- A memoir of my wilderness childhood, my unusual family, and how I survived both

by Cea Sunrise Person

  I was taking a bath one evening in the galvanized laundry tub when I felt Barry’s eyes on me. A little later he slipped outside for a cigarette, so I stepped out of the tub and quickly wrapped myself in a towel. Mom pulled it off my body and began drying my hair with it.

  “Mom!” I said, snatching it back and glancing at the door.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Without warning, my eyes welled up with tears. “It—it’s Barry. It’s just, you know, he looks at me . . .”

  “Cea.” She shook her head. “You have a beautiful body. You shouldn’t be ashamed—”

  “Mom! I mean . . . he looks at me! And other stuff—”

  “Stop it, Cea, just stop it. You’re being ridiculous. It’s natural for you to have urges, you shouldn’t be ashamed—”

  “Urges? Urges? I—” In a moment of understanding, I shook my head helplessly. My mother would never see the world the way other parents did, and I was on my own.

  But there was still one thing I could do.

  “OPERATOR, HOW MAY I help you?”

  “Police,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’d like to talk to the police.”

  This was my chance. It was a Friday after school, the house was empty, and I knew exactly what I was going to say. Ten minutes later, the island’s only cop, known to all as Constable Dave, pulled into our driveway. I stepped aside to let him in and smiled weakly. He was tall, his eyes were kind, and the moment I saw him I knew I wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

  “What seems to be the problem, young lady?” he asked, and I dissolved into tears. They wouldn’t stop. They streamed down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. I held my arm across my face to hide my eyes.

  “Well, hey now,” Constable Dave said softly, glancing around at the two-by-fours, wires and pink insulation that made up my home. “It’s all right, okay? You can tell me anything. Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s . . . I don’t know,” I sniffled, rubbing at my eyes. “At the hardware store, I guess. Or getting groceries. Her friend Sherrie takes her. Mom can’t drive . . .” I tried to think up a reason for having brought the police all the way up here.

  “Okay,” he said, smiling and nodding. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you called.”

  I wiped my sleeve across my nose, buying time, and finally took a deep breath. “There’s, um . . . there’s a man who’s been following me.” Instantly, Constable Dave’s face turned hard. I swallowed. “After school. He pulled over in his car and asked me if I would touch his . . . his thing. I said no.”

  “Give me a description,” Constable Dave said, whipping out his notepad. “And then we’ll go find him.”

  It took him one hour, six checked houses and three changed descriptions to figure me out. After the last regretful homeowner closed the door behind us, Constable Dave settled into his cruiser and sighed deeply.

  I looked at him, certain of what was coming next. “I’m sorry,” I said, staring down at my hands. “I just . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Mm,” he replied, nodding slowly. I had expected him to be furious, but he seemed perfectly calm. “So, tell me. How are things at home?”

  “Home? Um . . . fine, I guess.”

  “Yes? So, no problems with your mother? Or her husband—”

  “Boyfriend.”

  “Okay, boyfriend. No problems with him?”

  I shook my head, feeling Constable Dave’s eyes on the side of my face. He watched me for a moment, and then he reached forward and started the ignition. “All right, then. Let’s get you home.”

  Mom was waiting for us when we pulled into the driveway. She rushed at the car, pulling my door open before we had even stopped. “Cea! Thank God! What happened?”

  I let her hug me, listening with dread as I heard Constable Dave’s door open. He took my mother aside and said a few words to her, then he tipped his hat at us and drove away. Mom stood in front of me with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “How could you do such a thing?” she asked angrily. “Why?”

  I scuffed my toe on the ground and didn’t answer.

  “Was it because of Barry?” she asked finally. I didn’t respond. She stepped close to me and stroked my hair. “Sweetheart. There’s no need to call the police, or anyone else. Okay? I won’t let anything terrible happen to you. Besides, remember. We need Barry.” She reached out to hug me. “And you have a mother who loves you, right? That’s more than a lot of kids in the world have.”

  I tried to nod my head, but it quickly turned into a shake back and forth, back and forth, and my eyes flooded with tears for the second time that day. My mother was crazy, and there was nothing I could do about it. When I could finally talk again, I looked away from her when I spoke.

  “I want to go and meet my dad.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  U.M. stood for Unaccompanied Minor, according to the smiling stewardess who placed the blue and white pin on my T-shirt before walking me to Security. She was the nicest person I’d met here at Vancouver International Airport. The man at Customs looked like he was mad at me even before I opened my mouth, and now a line of uniformed men and women were blocking my way. It was June of 1978, I was eight years old, and I was finally going to meet my father—if I could just get past these people.

  “You can go now,” the stewardess said, nudging me from behind.

  I stepped forward through a metal archway, and it beeped loudly.

  The woman on the other side held her hand up like a stop sign. “Empty your pockets, please.”

  My heart thumped. I knew what was in one of them, and I was pretty sure this lady wasn’t going to be very happy about it. I looked back at the stewardess, but she was deep in conversation with a man in an outfit that looked a lot like hers.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out Papa Dick’s roach clip. The security woman took it from me and held it up as if it were a live worm. “Wait here,” she said, and walked over to another officer. I watched their lips move silently as they stared at it. The man brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. The woman jerked her thumb toward me, and then walked back over to me.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “I . . .” I swallowed hard. “I made it.”

  “You made it?”

  “Yes. I got some beads in my Christmas stocking, so I made it for my grandfather . . .”

  “In your Christmas stocking,” the woman repeated. She looked at the roach clip again, then she stepped closer to me and lowered her voice. “Young lady, do you know what this is?”

  I nodded.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” I nodded again. “It’s a roach clip.”

  She stared back at me. “And you know what it’s used for.”

  “Of course. But it’s never been used for that. He just . . . wore it on his belt loop. Like a decoration.”

  She was looking at me as if I had two heads. “Like a decoration. Uh-huh. I guess that could be possible. But young lady, there’s no way I can allow you to keep this. Any items of a drug paraphernalia nature must be confiscated immediately.”

  Panic gripped me. I didn’t even know what confiscated meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. “But—but it’s—It’s Papa Dick’s roach clip! I—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please lower your voice.”

  I glanced around in desperation. My stewardess was now standing near the conveyor belt, looking at me with a tight smile. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the security lady, slipping my roach clip into a zip-lock bag. “She’s all yours.”

  The stewardess stepped forward and took my hand. “Are you okay, dear?” she asked quietly as we walked away.

  I nodded back to her, hoping she wouldn’t notice that my eyes were about to overflow with tears. All I could think of was that meeting my dad better be worth giving up Papa Dick’s roach clip.

  THE PLANE BANKED LEFT and I pressed my face to the
glass, looking down at the tiny buildings, cars and patches of green below. San Francisco. This was a real city, with skyscrapers and an impossibly long bridge disappearing into the fog in the distance. I could feel sweat gathering in my armpits.

  A whining sound came from below—just the landing gear, a stewardess said when she saw my face—and ten minutes later, the plane touched down and pulled up to the gate. My heart was thudding so hard I could feel my pulse in my neck. I gathered my new coloring book and crayons, and the stewardess walked me into the arrivals area. I scanned the faces behind the ropes, praying I would recognize him. And there he was. Standing with a boxy hat on his head, smiling at me with front teeth that looked just like mine, a gap in the middle. He walked around the rope and stood in front of me.

  “I’m Greg. I’m your father,” he said, and I smiled back at him for the first and last time that whole visit.

  IT WAS THE LONGEST week of my life. My father, who I insisted on calling Greg, was smart, funny and kind. He started each morning by making breakfast for me, and then he and his wife Karen would take me out to the park or library or lunch. And I spent the entire time hiding, petrified of having a conversation with him.

  What if he didn’t like me? What if he asked me a bunch of questions about Mom, or Barry, or even Karl? I stuck close to Karen’s side like a smaller shadow, placing her between my father and me as we walked, sliding into restaurant booths beside her, and tagging after her to the bathroom whenever she went. She didn’t seem to mind, smiling at me and offering to trim my hair to look more like hers. “I wasn’t sure if I’d like you, but I do,” she said to me once, and I felt like I’d won the lottery. My dad’s wife wore blouses that buttoned all the way to the top, she never said swear words, and she didn’t seem to think I was weird. I would have let her do whatever she wanted, just as long as she didn’t leave me alone with my dad.

  My father and me in San Francisco, 1978. This is the first time I actually remember meeting him.

  One afternoon, after Greg suggested we go out to the park, I ran to the car and got into the back seat. He slid behind the steering wheel, then twisted around and smiled at me. I realized with horror that Karen wasn’t coming with us.

  “Cea,” he said gently, patting the front seat beside him. “Why don’t you ride up here with me?” I sank down and crossed my arms silently. “I don’t bite, sweetie, I promise.” I flicked my eyes to his uncertainly. “In fact . . .” He lowered his chin and launched into a perfect Donald Duck voice. “You might even like me, Minnie Mouse.”

  I smiled a little, but then caught myself and turned to stare out the window. After a moment, Greg started the engine. All the way to the playground, I thought about what my life might be like if I lived with my dad and his wife. No tipis or tents, no crazy road trips, no pot, no sex right in front of me, no stupid boyfriend telling me to touch his wiener.

  And . . . no Mom. No matter how great I thought my father was, even the thought of life without my mother felt like a betrayal to her. And maybe, if my dad liked me too much, he would take me away from her forever.

  When we got to the park, I launched myself from the car and bolted for the swing set. Greg came over and tried to push me, but I jumped off and ran away and headed over to the slide to play by myself.

  CERTAINLY, MY FATHER TRIED his best with me. At the end of the week, after I bid Karen goodbye, Greg led me to the car and opened the passenger door with a hopeful smile. I hesitated, filled with dread, and then climbed in for the drive back to the airport. The whole way there, I leaned against my door, staring out the side window. Beside me, Greg chatted to the air for a while and then finally fell silent. Eventually I saw a sign for the airport, and relief swept over me.

  “Well,” Greg said, pulling off the highway. “I’m glad you came. And I . . . hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable for you.”

  I shrugged. “Nah, it was fine.”

  “Good. I’m . . . not sure when we’ll see each other again. If there’s, you know, anything you wanted to ask me . . . or tell me . . . you can feel free to. What with all the stuff we had planned this week, we didn’t get much of a chance to talk.”

  I kept my eyes on the passing scenery.

  “Cea? Did you hear me, sweetie?”

  “Yeah. There’s nothing.”

  “Okay.” He slid his hands up the steering wheel. “How . . . how are things with your mom?”

  “Good.”

  “Okay. Well—”

  “I like it here,” I cut in, feeling like I needed to at least say something. “The city, I mean. I’d like to live in a city someday.”

  “Yes. Well, it suits you. Much more than the wilderness does, I think. It was always hard for me to picture you there.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t live there anymore. And I’m not sure if we will again. Mom . . . she’s with Barry now.”

  I clamped my jaws shut, wishing I hadn’t said his name, but I needn’t have worried. We were already pulling into the airport parking lot, and Greg was leaning out his window to get a ticket from the machine.

  Twenty minutes later, he placed my knapsack on my back and gave me a hug goodbye. I waved at him as the stewardess led me away, and then wiped at my eyes as soon as he was out of sight. My dad was so nice and cool and perfect that I never wanted to see him again.

  WHEN I GOT BACK from visiting my father in late June, Mom had some news for me: she and Barry were breaking up. When she told me, I sank down on my mattress and looked around the room. We had lived in this house for a year, and Barry hadn’t worked on it for more than a handful of days. If anything, it was even worse now than when we had moved in. The refrigerator was broken, replaced by two plastic coolers, and the green tape on the floor that marked the walls had been scuffed away long ago. Even the Porta-Potty was gone, leaving us to do our business in the trees behind the house. All the same, it was home. All I wanted to know was where we would go.

  Mom covered her face and started to cry. “I don’t know,” she said. “Barry said we could stay here until we figure something out.”

  I nodded, but when she reached to put her arms around me, I moved away from her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Somehow, my mother and I always managed to land on our feet. Two weeks after I got back from visiting my dad, Mom came running into the house with a letter in her hand. She waved it at me, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “It’s from Mom and Dad! They’ve found us!” she cried, ripping it open.

  I hurried to her side as a check floated to the ground. I read the number: $150. Mom opened the letter and ran her fingertip over Papa Dick’s handwriting as she read.

  “. . . got a letter at our old P.O. Box in Morley. Phil Mesker still works there and forwarded it to us . . . I guess things didn’t work out with Karl . . . living in the Yukon now, just east of Carcross . . . beautiful tipi site on Lake Tagish . . . not much money but hopefully enough to buy you two bus tickets north . . .”

  Mom stopped and gazed into the distance.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Nothing, just . . . I didn’t write to them. I wonder who . . .” Her voice trailed off. “‘. . . things didn’t work out with Karl.’ Oh my God. Karl must have sent them a letter. I guess he just . . . took a chance and sent it to the old P.O. Box. I can’t believe I never thought to try that. Too obvious, I guess.” Carefully, she refolded the paper and tucked it into the envelope. “Okay,” she said decisively. “We have a plan. I’ll write and let them know we’re coming, then we’ll pack up and get out of here in a few days.”

  I jumped up and down excitedly. Suddenly, none of it mattered—Barry, my dad, or even Mom’s weirdness. We were going home, wherever that was, and things were going to be okay. “Really? We’re going to see Grandma Jeanne and Papa Dick?”

  “Yes!” Mom laughed and hugged me, but then her smile faded. “One thing, though. That money they sent us? We’re going to need it for food and stuff. We’ll need to find another way to get up
there.”

  My heart sank. “Like how?”

  “Like . . .” She thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Like hitchhiking! It’s free and it’s easy, and we can be on our own schedule. It’ll be a fun adventure!”

  Later that night, I read the letter in more detail. Papa Dick had written a lot of stuff about their new home—how they had discovered it on a canoe trip, the scenery surrounding their camp, the freezing winters, their recent purchase of a snow sled and two husky dogs, and even some history, like how the Yukon had once been home to gold prospectors but was now known more for its hard-drinking native population.

  I read all the way to my grandfather’s name at the end, and it was then that I realized he hadn’t asked a single thing about where my mother and I had been for all these years. It was as if, in the time we had been away, we hadn’t even existed.

  THE MOON WAS IN Sagittarius on the day my mother and I left the island, which she said was perfect for travel and new beginnings. The last time I remember seeing Barry was the night before we left. He was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and listening to the Doobie Brothers on his ghetto blaster. Mom said he offered to drive us to the ferry, but then he left early for work the next morning and never came back to pick us up. She and I waited outside with our bags, and then she went back into the unfinished house one last time to call Sherrie for a lift.

  After saying goodbye to Sherrie, Mom and I put our backpacks on and made our way to the ferry’s passenger entrance. Just as we were about to board, I looked across the water and saw a familiar man sitting on a bench at the end of the pier. It was Karl. There was a woman beside him, and he was gazing down at a pink bundle in his arms.

  “Look,” I said, tugging on Mom’s sleeve. “It’s Karl.”

  “Wow,” Mom said, inhaling sharply. “That must be his new wife.”

  “Wife?” I asked, shocked. It had never occurred to me that Karl might find another woman after Mom.