For over an hour everyone had talked, but no ideas stuck. Adam continued to fiddle with the handle on his coffee mug. Maybe he should finally say something.
He cleared his throat. “S’okay if I throw in a dollar?”
The four women and one man nodded. So did Bridget.
“In the pen, the way to get attention and make changes... you riot.”
Everyone gaped except Bridget.
“I’m not saying have a riot. But when there were riots, people listened. Even the press. Shit changed for the better.” He squeezed his toes. “Lookit what those women did with the Motionless No More movement a couple of years ago. It’s still going strong. Up at Bridget’s reserve, there’s a family still protesting about the Indian Residential Schools. Maybe Emery can say more. He was there when shit hit the fan in July.”
Emery’s face flushed to a hot shade of pink.
Everyone at the table stared at him.
He laid aside his pen. “Yes, the protest.” Emery coughed. “At Ottertail Lake, the local parish proposed a request for financial assistance to chief and council for Healing the Spirit, a workshop hosted last week to initiate reconciliation between the Christian communities and band members affected by the Indian Residential Schools.”
Everyone glanced around at each other, nodding.
“There were concerns from a few band members. One being my spouse.” More pink climbed up Emery’s face. If the guy got any more bashful, he’d turn into a tube of kwe’s favorite lipstick. “Their concerns were valid. They believed the band shouldn’t fund a workshop hosted by a religion responsible for assimilating First Nations people into Western society. Those schools destroyed families and destroyed lives. My father was one of those who attended an Indian Residential School.”
Emery blinked a few times. “This family, the Kabatays, staged a protest outside of the church for over a week. And yes, as Adam mentioned, the protest got a lot of attention, especially those from the parish. The protesters’ concerns were taken seriously. A special meeting was held by chief and council to address their grievances. My spouse was elected to speak on behalf of the protesters, and the parish asked me to speak on behalf of the church.”
“Everything was resolved?” an older woman named Maryanne asked.
“The majority were pleased, except for the Kabatays.” Emery tapped the pen he held against his mouth.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“They feel Christian and First Nations communities shouldn’t reconcile.”
“Did they say why?” Maryanne peered at him.
“They believe what was done to First Nations communities is unforgiveable. When Healing the Spirit happened last week, the Kabatay family protested outside of the church.”
Pursing her lips, Maryanne glanced at Adam. “It’s too bad the conflict with this family wasn’t resolved.”
“Not everything is.” Adam gripped his coffee mug. The Hawk was more stubborn than the Kabatay family. The committee might be able to make a dent in Sheena Keesha’s case, but nobody at Children and Family Services would reconsider his measly one hour a week.
“I think a walk might get everyone’s attention. Round up as many people as we can. Even the Kabatays, if they wanna participate.” Adam rose to refill his coffee.
“The Kabatays?” Bridget sounded like she’d swallowed a pack of marbles.
“Yep. Them, too. They got protesting down to a science.” Adam poured the coffee into his mug at the fancy serving counter.
“Um, yes, they, uh... do.” Emery started writing again.
“What kind of walk?” The question came from Maryanne.
“One for Sheena. Get some more numbers on the other kids who’ve gone missing in care.” Adam stirred the coffee and meandered back to his chair. “Call the media. Ask that Clayton guy to speak at the end of the walk in front of Children and Family Services. He knows how to get a crowd worked up. He sure knew how to open his big mouth outside the workshop and hand me some major lip.”
Now it was time for Bridget to turn her favorite shade of pink lipstick. She eyed a stiff Emery, who mirrored a cardboard cutout.
Adam slurped back a helping of coffee. “What’d you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Ralph, said. “We should look at what we want to accomplish for the walk. Think up a date for it to happen. Advertising to get people involved. It’s a great start.”
“Is, uh, is everyone in favor?” Bridget poked her gaze around the table.
“Adam said rioting gets results. Sometimes people have to stir the pot to get results,” the older woman, Nadine, added.
Everyone raised their hands to pass the motion.
Bridget’s hand also inched up. “Then that’s what we’ll do. The walk should start here and end at Children and Family Services so we can address why they failed to keep this girl safe, and what they’re going to do to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”
Once shit hit the fan, The Hawk would kick Adam’s ass. But Raven Kabatay was right—it was time he got off his butt and started helping others now that he could. And the old-timers at the recovery meetings usual spiel of trusting a higher power was something Adam must cling to.
* * * *
Bridget pulled up at the halfway house. She’d dropped Emery off at the condo so she could have a moment alone with Adam. His curfew was killing her. They had no quality time together.
Adam wrapped her hand in his. “I gotta get inside pretty quick or the PO’ll bust my balls.”
“I know.” Emery’s words of practicing patience rang in Bridget’s ears. But patience sucked. Like a whiny little girl, she wanted everything now—Kyle, nights in bed with Adam, answers to Sheena Keesha.
In order to produce an effective protest, a month was required to establish a walk from the Indigenous Women’s Alliance to Children and Family Services.
“I understand, kwe.” Adam ran his other hand along her hair. “I thought about it, too.”
Bridget’s sagging chest inflated. “Thought about what?”
“What you’re thinking. How much easier if I was at your place.” Adam grunted. “I’d hear from the old-timers not to rush it. Leave it in my higher power’s hands. If we’re together again, it has to be for the right reasons. Something we really want. Not because of a curfew.”
Bridget’s chest deflated. “I know. God tells me the same thing—to trust Him. But I’ve always been impatient.”
“Hey, it’s what I love about you.”
“Sometimes you’re as logical as Emery.” Bridget wanted to laugh, but grief swallowed the giggle.
“Not logical. Streetwise. Keeps you from getting shanked in the pen or knifed in the bar.” He leaned in. “I just told you it’s what I love about you. You ever gonna get around to telling me how you really feel?”
She fingered Adam’s jawline. “You mean that I love you?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.” The words flowed easily from her heart.
“I love you, too, kwe.” And the intensity in his eyes said so.
Adam’s lips molded against her mouth. Bridget shifted to get closer, nibble at his warm flesh, and delight in his lush breaths. Pleasure quaked between her legs. The maddening spot between her pussy lips felt as if Adam was tracing his finger around her clit.
Adam broke the kiss. “I’m horny, too. Patience.”
“Horny?” Bridget smacked his arm.
“What’s wrong with admitting you’re horny? You got a helluva beautiful cunt, don’t you?”
“Yes. Damn straight I do. The finest cunt around.” She giggled. “So if I lowered my hand, I’d find something hard?”
“Don’t push it, woman.” Adam snorted. “I’d better get inside before I bust my curfew and end up wearing another set of silver bracelets.”
Again, Bridget’s chest deflated. “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow after work. I have to drop off Emery at the airport first. He said Darryl needs him at home, and he sure booked his fligh
t fast. I think they miss each other, but they won’t admit it. They are newlyweds.”
“Good enough for ‘em. If we can’t do the nasty, nobody should.” Adam snickered.
Bridget cringed. “Don’t say that. Nobody wants to hear about their brother’s sex life. Ugh.”
Adam chuckled. “Get me around five-thirty.”
“I will.”
He got out of the truck and meandered down the walkway. Halfway there, he stopped to light a cigarette.
Bridget smacked the steering wheel, frustrated about going to bed alone for the umpteenth time. She drove off.
Chapter Thirty-seven: When the Eagle Screams
Bridget finished painting the last sign in the basement of the Indigenous Women’s Alliance. So much had happened over the last month. Between work’s demands, rushing to see Kyle in the mornings and evenings, racing to get Adam at the halfway house for time alone at the condo and then dropping him off at his recovery meeting, she was forever sprinting against the clock.
At least Stephen had taken the news well when he’d called and she informed him she couldn’t see him anymore. As a matter of fact, he’d sounded preoccupied when they’d spoken during the middle of September.
Thanksgiving had come and gone. That had been a frigid afternoon from the tension between Jude and Charlene. A fight, Jude had muttered while carving the turkey. A fight he wouldn’t elaborate on. After they’d eaten, Charlene had left the house. She hadn’t returned by the time Bridget had kissed Kyle goodnight, who’d whined about missing his dad on the special day.
Mrs. Dale wasn’t giving an inch. She’d vetoed Adam’s request to spend the Monday holiday with his son.
Their walk to Children and Family Services today might bear fruit. Bridget had enough of that woman’s interference. Yes, Mrs. Dale was only doing her job, but the woman should allow Adam more visitation time based on his transition into society.
He’d stuck to his curfew, which had been moved to ten o’clock, thanks to the recommendation from his parole officer. He faithfully attended his recovery meetings. He never missed a day of work, and even covered shifts when other cooks called in sick.
Adam was across the room, working on another sign. Because of the amount of overtime he’d put in, he’d scheduled the day off.
The basement was packed. Mom, Dad, Emery, Darryl, and Jude were also helping prepare last-minute items. The Kabatay family pitched in, too. Clayton had agreed to speak on behalf of the protesters. Of course the two families kept their respective distances.
The Catholic Women’s Association had asked to also participate in the walk. The women were donating sandwiches and dainties to eat after the demonstration. Many were in the kitchen, readying the dishes.
The participants had enough vehicles to bring everyone back to the building once the walk concluded. In two hours, they’d leave Ray Boulevard and head for Oliver Road. Then they’d continue down Balmoral Street. Once they reached Central Avenue, they’d walk along Amber Drive, ending at Jade Crescent.
Friday afternoon was the perfect day. There’d be much traffic during the walk. Children and Family Services didn’t close until four-thirty. They’d reach the building before the doors locked for the weekend.
The chief and the people from Mountain View First Nation were present. A reporter from the paper wandered about, speaking to various people. Even the local news station had arrived.
The committee had created social media accounts where people could interact and receive updates about today’s big day.
Bridget sat with her calves tucked under her thighs. She leaned back, resting her bottom against the soles of her running shoes she’d worn for the walk. The weather had cooperated, to a point. Although the sun wasn’t present, they wouldn’t have to walk in the rain.
“You’re Adam Guimond, aren’t you?” the reporter asked. “The people over there mentioned your child’s in care.”
Why had Clayton brought Adam’s personal life into the walk? Bridget rose and scurried over to him.
The reporter held up his small recorder. “If you don’t mind, might I ask you a few questions?”
“That’s what he does.” Adam pointed at Clayton, surrounded by his sisters and mother.
“I’m aware of that.” The reporter bristled. “I told you already, he said I should speak to you. His sister, Raven, mentioned your own child’s in care. She added you’re having a tough time acquiring him back.”
Adam folded his arms. The look he sent the reporter would have sent anyone else scurrying, but the feisty man, probably used to dealing with intimidating people, continued to hold up his recorder.
“I’m Bridget Matawapit. His son’s former foster parent.” She held out her hand.
“Former?” The reporter quirked his sagging brow. “Mike Nelson. Thunder Bay Times. Might I ask why you’re the former caregiver?”
“Yes, you may.”
Mike grinned. “Well?”
“Because I developed a relationship with the child’s father, Children and Family Services revoked my status as a caregiver for Mr. Guimond’s child. They felt it was a conflict of interest on my part and could harm the child’s emotional well-being.”
“Really? How do you feel about their decision?”
“I more than provided adequate care. I also ensured the visitation rules were enforced. However, when I offered to retrieve Mr. Guimond from his current residence to attend the memorial service of a dear friend of his, Children and Family Services accused me of not following their guidelines, because the child accompanied me in my vehicle.”
“So the three of you were in the company of others?”
“Yes. The only time we were alone was during the drive to and from the church. How do you explain to a seven-year-old child that he can’t speak to his father at a memorial service, surrounded by numerous people who are speaking to his father?”
“Is this child aware of the rules?”
“Of course. I explained to him that he would see his father one hour a week in the visitation room at Children and Family Services.”
“How did that go?”
“Considering the child hasn’t seen his father in almost four years, by the second visit they were bonding. Mr. Guimond has done everything required of him, and beyond, to prove he is fit to be a father again.”
“And they still haven’t relented on his visitation time?”
“No.” Bridget made sure the reporter caught the tension in her voice. “Up until my care was revoked, I attended each visitation session and witnessed a father and his child developing a loving and trusting relationship.” She motioned at Jude. “My brother has current care of the child.”
“The agency at least placed the child with people he knows?”
“Yes. I made sure of that. I fought for Kyle’s right to be among people who love him. Putting him with strangers would have harmed his emotional and mental well-being.”
“Might I interview your brother?”
“Sure.” Bridget waved over Jude.
Jude ambled to them.
“Mike Nelson of the Thunder Bay Times. I understand you’re the current caregiver for Adam Guimond’s child.”
“Yes, I am.” Jude sent a puzzled look to Bridget and Adam.
“Mr. Nelson’s interviewing us about the state of Adam’s child in care, and what we’re currently challenging,” Bridget told her brother.
“Oh, yes.” Jude nodded.
“How do you feel about this?” Mike held the tape recorder to Jude.
“I feel Children and Family Services made the wrong decision.” Jude’s eyes narrowed the same as Dad’s did when he was distressed. “My sister cared for this child for almost four years before Adam relocated to Thunder Bay.”
“There weren’t any problems during this time period?” Mike asked.
“No.” Bridget shook her head. “The caseworker and I had a good working relationship. It wasn’t until Mr. Guimond returned to Thunder Bay, requesting to become a f
ull-time father to his son again, that problems occurred.”
“Problems? Would this be the decision made by Children and Family Services when the two of you entered into a relationship?”
“No. This started beforehand. As I said, Adam more than proved his sincerity.”
“May I ask why you lost your child to care?” Mike stared at Adam.
Adam’s jawline hardened. He glared at Bridget.
“I think the question’s a bit personal. We should focus on what the Children and Family Services mandate is. And that’s to provide adequate care and to reunite families. Not to impede the process.” Bridget kept her tone even.
“You feel it’s being impeded?” Mike again quirked his thick brow.
“Yes. What’s happening right now more than proves they are impeding, not assisting. The child’s currently in my brother’s care. Adam can only see his child one hour a week, after almost two months. To allow the relationship to develop, they need to spend more time together. The progress they’ve made has exceeded Children and Family Services expectations.”
“Then this walk is more than about Sheena Keesha? Is it also about other parents who lost their children to care?”
“Yes.” Bridget nodded. “When parents are making efforts—and succeeding—to reclaim their children, the agency should encourage not only the parents, but the child.”
“I’ll be sure to contact Children and Family Services about your case. I’d like to hear what they have to say,” Mike said into his small recorder.
“Please do. I’d love to hear their answers as much as you.” Bridget took Adam’s stiff arm.
She steered them away from the reporter.
Jude walked beside them. “Kyle wanted to come. It wasn’t easy telling him he had to go to school.”
Bridget rubbed the back of her aching neck. Naturally, Kyle wanted to be here. He knew what this walk was about. Although having children present could help the cause, they were minors, and because they were in care, should have their privacy respected.
When would this end? When would she have her child back?
Redeemed Page 32
