Redeemed

by Maggie Blackbird

  After the opening prayer, conducted by the elder who advised the Indigenous Women’s Alliance board of directors, and a song by the Mountain View drum group, they were off.

  The Kabatay family walked in front, followed by the board of directors for the Indigenous Women’s Alliance. Everyone else brought up the rear. The dreary gray clouds continued to hide the sun. From the west, a strong wind blew.

  A few local drummers held their hand drums and sang songs. Some people in the passing vehicles tooted and cheered, while others booed and told the Indians to go home and quit complaining.

  Bridget had expected a split outcome. She glanced over her shoulder. Adam held his sign. He walked beside Darryl and Emery. Behind them, Mom, Dad, and Jude held their signs.

  The cold cut through the layers of Bridget’s clothing. The nippy wind cast a chill through the afternoon air. Ice seemed to hover everywhere, looking for available skin to claim. Mittens kept her hands warm while holding the sign she’d made—What Happened to Sheena Keesha?

  Northwestern Ontario News rode in a van, cameras on hand, to capture the walk. The local TV station mingled amongst the protesters, filming and interviewing people.

  Clayton’s stone expression remained plastered on his skinny face. Every time a reporter approached him, he launched into one of his heartfelt speeches. Having the Kabatay family present still worried Bridget. Yes, they were quite passionate about their causes, but they tended to lean toward a narrow-minded approach, based on how they handled the Healing the Spirit workshop by attempting to stop band council from funding the church’s hydro bill.

  They rounded the corner from Amber Drive and headed up Jade Crescent. The big building Bridget used to visit waited. At least the parking lot remained full. They had called the executive director of Children and Family Services to inform them of the walk.

  After five more minutes of walking, everyone assembled in front of the big brown building.

  Clayton stood on the cement steps. He held up his arms.

  Bridget crossed her fingers and sent up a silent prayer he wouldn’t say something too outrageous.

  “In the past, the Anishinaabeg had their own governing system. We also had our own way to teach our children. Watch. Always, children watched what we did. Girls watched their mothers. Boys watched their fathers. If a child was without a parent, they were cared for by someone. Nobody was ever alone,” Clayton said in a voice full of conviction.

  A cheer erupted from the crowd.

  “There were no policies in place to decide who’d take the orphaned child. Why? Because everyone cared about the child. If family wasn’t present, and I speak about the Anishinaabe way of defining family—grandfather, grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, and brothers—those close to the family would then raise the child.

  “If a child was mistreated, that person no longer cared for the child. The babe was handed to a person who’d show the child the same love and care the absent family members would.

  “We were known to adopt others. Brothers. Sisters. Uncles. Aunts. Grandfathers. Grandmothers. Mothers. Fathers.

  “We didn’t have guidelines telling us section this or rule number that should be adhered to. Our system worked. It worked from the day Creator breathed life into us.

  “Our four-legged brothers and sisters taught us how to care for our young. Animals don’t tell their babes what to do and how to do it. They show the fledglings through action. Watch and learn. That was our way.

  “Now the Canadian government thinks to interfere again, after interfering in our lives ever since they sailed over here.

  “When missionaries attempted to persuade us to enter their mission schools, many of us said no. In order to have this land, they had to do away with the Indian to make way for the wave of new people settling here. If they couldn’t kill us off, as they more than tried to do, they’d assimilate us.

  “Thus, they created the Indian Residential Schools in the late nineteenth century. Take those children when they’re very young, five or six years old, and put them in the schools before they can learn by watching their family how they should live.

  “What did they learn in these schools? They sure didn’t learn about family, how to be a member of the family, or how to raise a family. They learned how to work in the kitchen, fields, and barn. Learned a trade, if they were lucky. Learned skills to clean, cook, and sew. Learned about religion.

  “They also learned about sexual abuse, emotional abuse, mental abuse, spiritual abuse, and physical abuse. They learned this from the priests and nuns who taught them.

  “What did they have to give to the community when they returned? Tons of baggage. Bags of abuse. Bags of anger. Bags of confusion. Bags of repression. Bags of silence.

  “Yes, silence. What happens in silence? It festers inside you. And it grows bigger the more you feed it.

  “So what did our great-grandparents pass on? Their baggage. What did our grandparents pass on? Their baggage. What did our parents pass on? Their baggage.

  “Now they tell us we are bad parents and not fit to care for our own children.”

  Clayton used his thin lips to point at Adam. “That man there. He came to our community at the beginning of September, trying to find a way to heal. This man lost his child to Children and Family Services. He’s trying to get his child back, but they won’t give him his very own son, after he’s proven he’s capable of caring for his child.

  “Instead, Children and Family Services placed his child in another foster home. They took his child from his original foster mother, a woman who cared for the child for almost four years.

  “Would this have happened among the Anishinaabeg? No!” Clayton raised his fist and shook it. “We would have said, He’s trying. He’s proven he’s learned from his mistakes. He’s more than fit to care for his child again. Let him have his child. Then we would’ve watched him to make sure he was honoring what he promised us—to care for the child in the Anishinaabe way, so one day the child could pass on his knowledge, his experience, his culture to his own children.

  “A girl went missing under Children and Family Services’ care. How many more have to go missing before something is done? She was found in the water. The police investigated. They called it a tragic accident. She drowned.

  “For kids who grew up north, who swim all summer in our many lakes, they sure do drown a lot, don’t they? Isn’t it strange how they never drown at their home reserves?

  “I’m going to speak about the elephant in the room. The so-called savages drunk at the river banks. When they pass out, they’re rolled into the water. Or they’re forced out into the water to avoid being beaten by racists. That’s what happens. I say this, but everyone tells me there’s no proof.

  “I know this because it happened to my uncles. All three of them. Two survived. One drowned. To this day, his death is still marked on his file as accidental drowning.

  “No more!” Clayton raised his hands in the air. “I say no more will I allow this to happen. Stand up, Anishinaabeg, stand up and fight for those who can’t speak—the dead, the children, the animals, the standing people we call trees, and for the Great Mother. None of them can speak. So we must speak for them!”

  Bridget’s breath rattled, and her lungs expanded against her ribcage. Enemy of the family or not, the fine speech, Clayton’s passionate words, were nails clawing at her chest, demanding she rise and speak for those who couldn’t. And she would.

  Once the cheering died down and the drumming stopped, Bridget yelled, “I think we should have the right to speak to those in charge at Children and Family Services!”

  “Yes, we should!” Clayton shouted. “Where are they? We stand outside of their building, but they’re not here.” He whipped around on his heel and faced the double doors leading into the building.

  “Where are you? Have you heard what we said? Or will you choose to ignore our cries? Just as your first prime minister ignored our cries. Just as the other prime ministers and
government officials ignored our cries. Just as the religious institutions ignored our cries. Just as the people of Canada ignored our cries.

  “We are only Indians. What do we matter? In the twenty-first century, is a dead Indian still the only good Indian?”

  Again, everyone cheered.

  The chairman, Priscilla, for the Indigenous Women’s Alliance, stepped forward. “I propose we meet with Children and Family Services. I want results. I want answers. I want to know why Sheena Keesha went missing and drowned under the care of the Province of Ontario. I want to know why this man can only see his child one hour a week, after he’s more than proven he’s fit for unsupervised visits.

  “I don’t ask for Children and Family Services to break their own guidelines. I ask why he isn’t allowed to take his child out for dinner. Bring his child to a movie in the evening. Spend quality time on the weekend with his child.” She thrust her finger at Adam.

  “And I also want to know why his original caregiver can’t continue caring for the child.” She pointed at Bridget.

  Bridget swallowed. She moved closer to Adam in the crowd and clutched his arm. Tears formed in her eyes. Everyone was present, fighting for her and Adam’s rights. Fighting for Sheena Keesha’s rights. Fighting for all those who’d died in care, and those who died simply for being Anishinaabe.

  Chapter Thirty-eight: All the Aces

  Adam sat on the sofa at Bridget’s condo. What a long day. But a good day. As for the reporter getting in his face, at least he hadn’t plugged the pushy guy. Anger management class and the recovery meetings were paying off. Good thing Bridget had stepped up to address the asshole’s questions. And she’d done so in a way that didn’t impede too much on their personal lives.

  The Indigenous Women’s Alliance had secured a meeting with the heads of Children and Family Services to address aboriginal children in care. But the clincher was Adam and Bridget’s chance to meet with the executive director to review Kyle’s case file. He’d bet his old canteen at the iron house The Hawk would be there, clipboard and all.

  They’d skipped the dinner at Jude’s house, since Kyle was there. Of all the stupid bullshit. Adam couldn’t even attend a celebration for today’s successes.

  Bridget handed Adam the cola he’d requested. She held a cup of tea.

  “Well?” He set the cola on his knee and patted hers.

  “Well what?” She snuggled up against him.

  The story of their month. Time alone for a couple of hours. Sometimes they’d talk, and other times they’d hit the sheets. Then she’d drop him off for his twelve-step meeting and race to Jude’s.

  “We made it a month. We didn’t think we would.” Adam draped his arm around her.

  “No, I didn’t think so.” Bridget rested her head on his shoulder. “I guess I need a boost of faith. I worried a lot.”

  “And what’d worrying get you?”

  “A wasted month worrying.” Bridget giggled. “What about you? You can’t tell me you weren’t worried.”

  “I worried. But I attend twelve-step meetings. The members keep me in line.” He kissed the top of her head. “One more hurdle, kwe.”

  “I know.” Bridget lifted her head and gazed at him. “I think it’ll be a positive outcome. We got a lot of press this afternoon. Our social media pages blew up, too.”

  “Yeah, lots of support.” Adam wasn’t sure about people getting a glimpse of his personal life, but swallowing his pride had worked. It’d helped him when he’d first tried to sober up, and the helping hand had paid off again.

  “Welp...” He shifted on the couch. Squeezed his toes. Ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth.

  “Spit it out.” Bridget playfully smacked his stomach. “Something’s on your mind.”

  “You’re the boss.” Again, he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. “Am I saving up to buy you an engagement ring or what?”

  “Is that your way of asking me to marry you? Like last time?” She straightened to a sitting position, staring at him.

  Adam weakly chuckled. “I’m not good at that formal stuff. But if you want me to get on one knee...”

  “No. Skip the bended knee. It’s not you. And yes, you can get me an engagement ring for Christmas.” She pecked his lips, her eyes glittering.

  “Long engagement?” Maybe that was the best route to take. Last time they’d rushed. This time he’d secure his own pad. A simple room at a boarding house.

  “I think we can wait a year.” Bridget nodded.

  “It’ll give us time to scope out a house of our own.” Adam sipped his cola. “I can’t keep living at the halfway house. I’m overstaying my welcome. Others need a bed there.”

  Bridget’s skin glowed.

  “I’m not hinting to move in either. Like I said, we’ll do it right this time. Slow and easy. I think once you get Kyle back, we’ll stick to this new visitation schedule the executive director will set up for me.”

  “I’d like that.” Her voice was as toasty as her gaze. “And you’re right. It’ll give me time to find a permanent place. And plan a proper wedding. I know who I want to give me away.”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be your dad?”

  “Silly.” She pecked his cheek. “My dad’s a deacon. He’ll marry us at Christ the King. Jude’ll walk me down the aisle.”

  “I like that. A wedding at the rez. Maybe a fall wedding. Same time next year, hmm?”

  “Kyle could be our ring bearer...”

  “Oh, err... I guess Emery could stand up for me.”

  “Next year. Our wedding.”

  * * * *

  Bridget and Adam were on the top floor of Children and Family Services. The executive director’s office overlooked the street. Mrs. Dale sat in the chair to the right. Bridget in the middle, and Adam on the left. Ms. Fletcher would have the final say regarding Kyle.

  Ms. Fletcher removed her glasses. She set the tip of the arm in her mouth, glancing at the file in front of her. “I’ve had a chance to review your file. I’m sorry it’s taken two weeks to get back to you. But we’ve been readying for the meeting with the Indigenous Women’s Alliance.” A hint of accusation lingered in her tone.

  If the executive director meant to produce guilt from Bridget, tough luck. If Children and Family Services had followed their mandate of reuniting families, this meeting wouldn’t have happened.

  “Yes, work always keeps us busy. I’ve had many meetings myself.” Bridget set her purse on the floor. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

  “I’ve reviewed Mrs. Dale’s notes,” Ms. Fletcher continued on flatly. “The supervised visits are proceeding on a positive note. I won’t grant Mr. Guimond full-time care...”

  Heat raced through Bridget’s veins, but Adam clutched her hand. He rubbed his thumb along her scorching flesh, as if reassuring her he was okay.

  “Please understand it hasn’t been long enough to make a true assessment.” Ms. Fletcher’s gaze was firm. “I’ll withdraw supervised visits, though. Mr. Guimond, you may see Kyle outside of your residence, but the caregiver must be present at all times. I recommend you can spend the evenings with Kyle after he’s done school up until seven-thirty. Kyle needs time to wind down afterward in order to prepare for bed.”

  Adam’s fingers almost crushed Bridget’s hand, but he wasn’t angry, he was squeezing her from joy by the way his face glowed.

  “Ms. Matawapit, I’ll return Kyle to your care. You’ve more than proven his needs come first. I interviewed your brother, and he’s informed me you’ve been present every evening and have dedicated your weekends to him.

  “Understand that what you previously did—not adhering to the rules by providing Adam with a ride to and from the memorial—violated the agreement you consented to as a foster parent when you were first approved as a caregiver. Kyle’s still under the legal care of Children and Family Services.” A threat-like tone lingered in her voice.

  Although it pained Bridget to agree, she nodded.
/>   “If you two decide to cohabitate, this must be reviewed by Children and Family Services.” Ms. Fletcher directed her stare at Bridget and then Adam.

  “We won’t be.” Hopefully Bridget didn’t sound flippant. “We’ve decided to wait until we’re married.”

  “I see...” Ms. Fletcher tapped the arm tip of her glasses on the folder. “Is there a set date?”

  “We’re considering next year. October.”

  “Then there’s no need to speak about this further. If Adam proves to be a fit parent during this time period, my recommendation will be to grant him full custody of his child.” Ms. Fletcher sat back in her chair, her assessing look matching the authority she bore. “Are there any questions?”

  Bridget shook her head. “I’ll be sure to call if I have any.”

  “I will, too,” Adam muttered.

  “Then our meeting’s over. Thank you for taking the time to come here.” Ms. Fletcher directed her attention at Mrs. Dale. “I’ll send the paperwork to you. You’ll use the amended details for supervising both of their files.”

  The heat in Bridget’s veins vanished. They’d done it. She stood. No more supervised visits. Yes, there’d be monthly home inspections, but they were almost free.

  School was finished. Adam had completed work for the day. Finally, they’d have their first family dinner. Kyle pranced into the condo. He hadn’t stopped cheering ever since they’d picked up Adam at the halfway house.

  “Can I, Dad? Can I help you?” Kyle dumped his backpack on the floor.

  “Sure can.” Adam swaggered into the condo. He’d announced on the drive over he was looking for a rooming house, and Kyle wanted to help his father find a new place.

  “I’ll be able to go there, right, Dad?”

  “You can if I accompany you. But you won’t if you don’t pick up your backpack and put it in the right spot.” Bridget folded her arms.

  “Aww, Mom.” Kyle kicked at the throw rug in the small foyer. “It’s a special day. I can be with Dad all I want.”