“You know, Roger, I’m to blame. No, I’m not going into a ‘this-is-all-my-fault’ routine. It’s just that I wanted her to have all these good memories of our parents. I always told her, just the good things that happened when we lived with them. I knew that they had drinking problems. That’s why we were taken away. I should have told her that, when I gave her those addresses so she could look for them. But I didn’t. I just gave her the stuff and hoped that her search would come to an end. And she went out and found our father and found that he was an old drunk. I’m sure she never told me all of the things she discovered because she felt she had to protect me from the truth. She carried that around with her all alone, not wanting to share her problems. And I knew about it! Well, not the part about our mother committing suicide. So many lies to protect. And in the end, they destroy anyway. I just can’t understand why all that would have such an adverse effect on her.”
“I wish I could say something that would help.” Roger said.
“Maybe, maybe she just used these things as an excuse to start drinking. Maybe she was an alcoholic all along and she just needed some real good reason to start into it. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I guess anything is possible. The reasons for drinking can be complicated.”
“Sometimes I think if we really were white, we wouldn’t have all these complications in our lives. I’d just be a wife, maybe a working mother, just an ordinary person. You know what I mean? There probably wouldn’t be any problem with alcoholism. Our lives would be so different. But as it is, I lie to protect her and she lies to protect me, and we both lose out. I don’t know. If I was more like her or she was more like me, maybe we wouldn’t have pulled apart.”
“Maybe you’ve both pulled too much in different directions. Cheryl has identified with the Indian people and all the wrongs that have been done to them. And you, having identified with the white people, well, she’s taken everything she’s felt, out on you. Earlier when you told me the things she used to say when she was drunk, well, she wouldn’t believe them herself when she was sober. I think, from what you’ve told me, Cheryl saw you in a typical white role. You supplied her with all her needs. You stayed in Winnipeg to help her, to be by her side. You’ve made her take handouts. You’ve stressed that she can depend on you, right?”
“Well, I am her big sister. I had to watch out for her.”
“Maybe you could have told her that you needed help from her, in return. Or at least, not have made it so clear that you were in charge. People need to feel that they are needed and worthwhile. On top of all that, she blames herself for your rape and she knows you blame her, as well. I’d say Cheryl has a very low self-image right now. Drinking helps wipe out that image. And she can’t let herself become sober because it hurts when she’s sober. So she drinks again.”
“What kind of help could she have given me? I have everything I need.”
“April, I’m sure Cheryl could have given you something that is very important. Right now, I don’t know exactly. But something to do with your attitudes about yourselves.”
“That night, I just wanted her to go to bed and sleep off the alcohol. I wanted for us to really talk when she was completely sober.”
The weeks passed and Roger and I continued to look for Cheryl. She had never come back to the house. Every day when I’d get home, I’d look in her room and everything was always just as it had been that first night. We returned to DeCarlos regularly but always without any luck. Sometimes. we’d drive, around and I’d spot someone who I was sure was Cheryl. I’d get Roger to park the car and I would jump out and go after that person. But when the woman would turn to me, my excitement would turn to disappointment because it was never Cheryl.
The month of April brought erratic temperatures. Some days were warm enough to tempt impatient women into their shorts. The nights brought back the cold temperatures, though, sometimes even below freezing. April 18, 1973, my birthday, was a cold rainy day. I stayed home, hoping Cheryl would remember and come home. But she didn’t. Roger and I celebrated alone.
Ten days later, it was the same kind of dismal day. The winds started early in the afternoon, first in short bursts as if gathering momentum for the gales that would follow. It had drizzled off and on for the previous several days. Since it was a Saturday, Roger and I had been out combing the city, more specifically, the hotels. We’d even gone to all the hotels along Main Street. The rain began to fall more and more heavily, as the day wore on, and the wind had also picked up. Early in the evening, we decided to call it quits after I had rushed out into the rain, thinking a stranger had been Cheryl.
When we got to my place, I was still soaked to the bone. I felt so discouraged. While I changed, Roger made us coffee. Then we sat silently in the living room, just listening to the steady pelting of the rain against the windows. I wondered what Roger was thinking. Maybe he thought I wasn’t worth all the trouble and aggravation. Maybe he wanted to call it quits with me but not at his time, because of Cheryl. I sighed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Oh nothing. Just wondering about all the trouble I’ve put you to, like how much time and gas you’ve wasted. When you could be out, enjoying yourself.”
“Well, the gas and time is nothing. And even though we’re not out, living it up, I do enjoy being with you. So stop thinking that way. Everything will be worthwhile, once we find Cheryl.”
“You really and truly don’t mind?”
“In spite of her current problems, I think Cheryl is quite a person and she is your sister.”
I laid my head on his lap, reassured. It felt so good to be near Roger. It seemed hard to believe I had held him away for so long. I would have been completely content, except for Cheryl.
Suddenly, the phone rang, exploding into the stillness of the house. I jumped. By the second ring, I got there and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Is this April?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Nancy. Cheryl has been staying with me.” Nancy’s voice sounded shaky.
“I remember you. What about Cheryl? Is she okay?” I said anxiously, shooting out the questions.
“She just left here. I didn’t want her to go. She seems okay but in a funny way. I wanted her to stay here. But she said she had to go. She said goodbye to me as if she wasn’t going to see me again.” Nancy sniffled.
“Do you know where she was going?”
“No. And I couldn’t go after her because I’ve been sick the past couple of days and I’m not dressed. My Mom thinks she’s going to do something terrible. My Mom’s the one who told me to call you. Maybe you can do something. I’m so worried.”
“Oh no.” I leaned against the wall, my voice was barely a whisper.
Roger was at my side and then he took the receiver from me. “What’s going on,” he asked Nancy. He listened to her for a few minutes and then asked for her address. Then he asked some questions about what Cheryl was wearing. When he hung up, he immediately called the police. He explained the situation and gave them Nancy’s address and told them we’d meet them there.
It was still raining but not as heavily as we drove to the address on Henry Avenue. There were a number of look-alike, run-down shacks and we found Nancy’s house among them. Nancy opened the door before we could knock.
“Anything new?” Roger asked immediately.
“No. I didn’t know how to stop her. I just didn’t know how to stop her,” Nancy sobbed.
“It’s all right, Nancy, don’t worry. We called the police and I’m sure everything is going to be okay. Thank you for calling me.” What I really wanted to say to her was that she should have called me a lot earlier. But she looked so sorrowful.
“Let’s drive around and see if we can spot her,” Roger suggested.
We had pulled away when Roger noticed a police car arrive and stop in front of Nancy’s house. He braked and put the car in reverse.
We both got out and walked back to the car. I was hoping they had found her. I looked in the back of the car for Cheryl but there was no Cheryl. Roger exchanged some words with the officer, who then turned and asked me if I had even the vaguest idea where she might have gone.
“No, I don’t. We’ve been looking for her and looking for her and all this time she was here. If only Nancy had called us before this. Now I just don’t know where she could be.”
“…and you know what our poor, dear mother did? She jumped off the Louise Bridge, is what she did. She committed suicide…” Cheryl’s words flashed across my mind.
“She jumped off the Louise Bridge…” I said out loud.
“What’s that?” Roger asked.
’‘Our mother. Our mother killed herself by jumping off the Louise Bridge. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you just said that she did it, you didn’t say…never mind, let’s go over there.”
Roger briefly explained this to the officer and he agreed to drive over to the bridge to check it out. Roger and I jumped in the car and followed the police cruiser. It was only a few minutes ride but it seemed to take a lifetime.
“Why doesn’t he put his flashers and siren on, for crying out loud?” I said impatiently as we stopped at a red light on Main Street. My eyes were still combing the sidewalks. Maybe she had stopped for a drink someplace. Maybe she had gone back home. Maybe her goodbye to Nancy meant she was going to move back home. Oh, I’d give her such a big hug if that’s what she had done.
Finally, we reached the Louise Bridge. I could see some figures on the bridge waving toward the police car. Roger parked behind the cruiser, its lights now flashing. I jumped out into the rain which was coming down in torrents, and ran to where the police officer was talking to two strangers on the bridge.
“…not five minutes ago,” one of them was saying, “she just stood up on the railing, I tell you, and jumped off. Ask Stan here. He was with me. We both saw it. We tried to stop it, Officer. We slammed on the brakes but we couldn’t get there in time. Christ, one minute she was standing there, balancing, and the next, nothing. Why would she want to do a thing like that? Those Indians are always killing themselves. If they aren’t shooting each other on the reserves, it’s this. Holy jumpin’ Jupiter! What a night this has been. And now this. I tell you it’s unbelievable.”
I was looking down at the waters, looking for the body. It was too dark to see anything, too murky. The man’s words rang in my ears. What did he know? Someday, maybe, I could explain to people like him why they did it. Roger had placed his arm around me. I was crying. My tears were mixed with the rain and they dropped down to where Cheryl was, in that murky water I had once loved to watch. Now I watched, hoping that Cheryl was somewhere down there, alive. But I knew there was no hope. Not for Cheryl. Not anymore. I ached inside. I wanted to let loose with my tears. I felt like sobbing, screaming, wailing. But I just stood there, using the railing for support. Hiding the agony I felt. The agony of being too late, always too late.
After answering some questions for the police officer, Roger and I drove back to Nancy’s house. When she opened the door, she saw right away from my expression that the worst had happened. She burst into tears. Her mother saw Nancy begin to cry and walked over and put her arms around her and hugged her. Then she came over to me, a complete stranger, and also gave me a comforting hug. Roger quickly and briefly explained what had happened.
While Nancy’s mother busied herself making tea, she said, “Cheryl was like a daughter, you know? She was such a good person. She helped Nancy, you know.”
“Yeah, whenever I needed help, she was there.” Nancy started sobbing again but between sobs she continued. “Sometimes, when we needed money, Cheryl would give it to us. She never made us feel like we owed her, you know? When I would get depressed, Cheryl would cheer me up, make me laugh.”
“Cheryl would buy groceries,” Nancy’s mother said, “and she would always joke that they ate them all up anyways.”
Nancy and her mother exchanged looks.
Then Nancy said, “I’m not the only one Cheryl helped. She did a lot for other girls, too. Especially at the Centre. She had these big plans, you know. And she used to organize lots of things at the Centre for young people. Then she quit. She changed real sudden but I never knew why. Oh, she’d still help people but she wouldn’t go out of her way anymore. And then she met that creep and he moved in with us so I moved back home ’cause Dad left.”
I appreciated them comforting me. I sat in silence because I could think of nothing to say to comfort them in return. We stayed until Nancy’s mother said, “Well, enough for tonight. You’re probably tired. You go home and get yourself some sleep.”
“Thanks for coming back to tell us about Cheryl,” Nancy came over to where I was standing and hugged me. Then she said, “Cheryl left some things for us to take care of. Like the typewriter you sent for a gift. She didn’t want Mark selling it on her. And the other is, well, you come back when you’re feeling better. Tonight is not the right time. You will come back?”
It seemed very important to Nancy that I return, so I promised I would.
When we were back in the car, I said to Roger, “Imagine that, they’re so poor and yet they kept that typewriter for Cheryl all that time, when they could have sold it. And the way they talked about her, like they really did love her. They give out such a family feeling. Cheryl must have liked that a lot. No wonder she felt more at home with them than she did with me.”
“I think you should come over to my place tonight, all right?”
“All right, thanks. Cheryl hasn’t been home for a long time but somehow the house would feel much more empty tonight.”
When I finally got to sleep, it was long past midnight. I dreamt of Cheryl. I could hear her laughter, but I couldn’t find her. I looked and looked but all I could hear was Cheryl laughing. When I did find her, she was in some kind of muddy quicksand. I put my arm out to reach her, to help her, but she wouldn’t take my hand. She just kept laughing and sinking down, deeper and deepen. I begged her and begged her to take my hand and I began crying uncontrollably. When I woke up, I was still crying and Roger was hugging me. When I had quieted down, I lay my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. A couple of times, the left over sobs would shake my whole body and Roger would hold me a little tighter. Gradually, I went back to sleep.
The next morning, the police called and asked if we could identify the body they had pulled out of the river. When we returned a few hours later, I was in more of a daze than I had been before. It was final. It had been Cheryl.
Roger did almost everything for me the next few days. I was mostly silent, pondering the why of Cheryl’s death. Once in a while, I would talk about Cheryl to Roger. Roger helped me with the funeral arrangements. Actually, he did almost everything. After some hesitation, I phoned the Steindalls. I had a long talk with Mrs. Steindall, telling her of Cheryl’s death and explaining the absence of our visits. She was very understanding and very sympathetic. That same evening, the night before the funeral, they came to Roger’s place to see me.
The funeral service was small and simple. Most of the people who came were Indian and Metis. They had heard about Cheryl’s death through Nancy and her mother. They gave me an insight into Cheryl’s past by the glowing remarks they made about her, Again, I wanted to cry for the waste of such a beautiful life. But I didn’t. I remained outwardly emotionless. Nancy asked me again to come over to their place in the near future and again, I promised I would.
When it was all over, and Cheryl was buried, I knew it was time to return to the house, alone. Roger seemed to understand my need and drove me back. He didn’t come in with me. Before he left, he said, “Take as much time as you need, April. Then call me. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Roger, thank you for everything. I love you.”
Roger smiled, “I love you too, April.”
CHAPTER 17
I entered the hous
e which now seemed so empty, so cold. I decided I would pack all of Cheryl’s things away in a big trunk, even her clothes. That way I’d always have a part of her. And being able to touch her belongings would strengthen that feeling.
I opened the door to Cheryl’s room and the first thing I noticed was an empty whiskey bottle. I hadn’t really noticed it before when I had gone into her room, to look for addresses or names. But there it stood on Cheryl’s dresser, mocking me. Suddenly, I was filled with a deep hatred of what it had once contained. I grabbed it by the neck, raised it high and brought it down, smashing it against the edge of the dresser. Again and again, I brought it down, until it was smashed into a million pieces. I was screaming, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
My tears came flooding out and I continued screaming, “I hate you for what you’ve done to my sister! I hate you for what you’ve done to my parents! I hate you for what you’ve done to my people! Our people!”
I threw myself on Cheryl’s bed, letting all my pent-up tears pour out. I pounded my fists into the bed, allowing my emotions to tumble out. I felt a frenzied rage at how alcohol had torn our lives apart, had torn apart the lives of our people. I felt angry for having done so many wrong things at so many wrong times. And I felt self-pity because I would no longer have Cheryl with me.
“Oh, Cheryl, why did you have to go and kill yourself? All those people at the funeral, they loved you so much. Didn’t they count? I loved you so much. Didn’t that count? Didn’t it matter to you? You had so much going for you. You didn’t have to kill yourself, Cheryl! Why? Why?”
I writhed on the bed as if I were in physical pain. At times I would become still, but not for long. Stronger emotions would come crashing down on me and I would toss and turn again, trying to exorcise the painful anguish from within. I pounded my fists into the bed, again and again, in frustration. “If only…” Those words repeated themselves over and over in my head. But it was too late. Cheryl’s death was final.
When I had spent the last of my tears, I sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the mess I had made in the room. The floor had scattered fragments of the whiskey bottle all over it. Cheryl’s pillow was soaked with my tears. I looked again at the floor. If only I could smash the problem of alcoholism as easily as I had that bottle.
April Raintree Page 20
