Fire Keeper’s Daughter

I start my day before sunrise, throwing on running clothes and laying a
pinch of semaa at the eastern base of a tree, where sunlight will touch the
tobacco first. Prayers begin with offering semaa and sharing my Spirit
name, clan, and where I am from. I always add an extra name to make sure
Creator knows who I am. A name that connects me to my father—because I
began as a secret, and then a scandal.
I give thanks to Creator and ask for zoongidewin, because I’ll need
courage for what I have to do after my five-mile run. I’ve put it off for a
week.
The sky lightens as I stretch in the driveway. My brother complains
about my lengthy warm-up routine whenever he runs with me. I keep telling
Levi that my longer, bigger, and therefore vastly superior muscles require
more intensive preparation for peak performance. The real reason, which he
would think is dorky, is that I recite the correct anatomical name for each
muscle as I stretch. Not just the superficial muscles, but the deep ones too. I
want an edge over the other college freshmen in my Human Anatomy class
this fall.
By the time I finish my warm-up and anatomy review, the sun peeks
through the trees. One ray of light shines on my semaa offering. Niishin! It
is good.
My first mile is always hardest. Part of me still wants to be in bed with
my cat, Herri, whose purrs are the opposite of an alarm clock. But if I
power through, my breathing will find its rhythm, accompanied by the
swish of my heavy ponytail. My legs and arms will operate on autopilot.
That’s when my mind will wander into the zone, where I’m part of this
world but also somewhere else, and the miles pass in a semi-alert haze.
My route takes me through campus. The prettiest view in Sault Ste.
Marie, Michigan, is on the other side. I blow a kiss as I run past Lake
State’s newest dorm, Fontaine Hall, named after my grandfather on my
mother’s side. My grandmother Mary—I call her GrandMary—insisted I
wear a dress to the dedication ceremony last summer. I was tempted to
scowl in the photos but knew my defiance would hurt Mom more than it
would tick off GrandMary.
I cut through the parking lot behind the student union toward the north
end of campus. The bluff showcases a gorgeous panoramic view of the St.
Marys River, the International Bridge into Canada, and the city of Sault
Sainte Marie, Ontario. Nestled in the bend of the river east of town is my
favorite place in the universe: Sugar Island.
The rising sun hides behind a low, dark cloud at the horizon beyond the
island. I halt in place, awestruck. Shafts of light fan out from the cloud, as if
Sugar Island is the source of the sun’s rays. A cool breeze ruffles my Tshirt, giving me goose bumps in mid-August.
“Ziisabaaka Minising.” I whisper in Anishinaabemowin the name for
the island, which my father taught me when I was little. It sounds like a
prayer. My father’s family, the Firekeeper side, is as much a part of Sugar
Island as its spring-fed streams and sugar maple trees.
When the cloud moves on and the sun reclaims her rays, a gust of wind
propels me forward. Back to my run and to the task ahead.
Forty-five minutes later, I end my run at EverCare, a long-term care facility
a few blocks from home. Today’s run felt backward, peaking in the first
mile and becoming progressively more difficult. I tried chasing the zone,
but it was a mirage just beyond my reach.
“Mornin’, Daunis,” Mrs. Bonasera, the head nurse says from behind the
front desk. “Mary had a good night. Your mom’s already here.”
Still catching my breath, I give my usual good-morning wave.
The hallway seems to lengthen with each step. I steel myself for
possible responses to my announcement. In my imagined scenarios, a single
furrowed brow conveys disappointment, annoyance, and the retracting of
previous accolades.
Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to announce my decision.
Mrs. B. didn’t need to say anything; the heavy scent of roses in the
hallway announces Mom’s presence. When I enter the private room, she’s
gently massaging rose-scented lotion on my grandmother’s thin arms. A
fresh bouquet of yellow roses adds to the floral saturation level.
GrandMary’s been at EverCare for six weeks now and, the month before
that, in the hospital. She had a stroke at my high school graduation party.
Visiting every morning is part of the New Normal, which is what I call what
happens when your universe is shaken so badly you can never regain the
same axis as before. But you try anyway.
My grandmother’s eyes connect with mine. Her left brow raises in
recognition. Her right side is unable to convey anything.
“Bon matin, GrandMary.” I kiss both cheeks before stepping back for
her inspection.
In the Before, her scrutiny of my fashion choices bugged the crap out of
me. But now? Her one-sided scowl at my oversized T-shirt feels like a
perfect slap shot to the top shelf.
“See?” I playfully lift my hem to reveal yellow spandex shorts. “Not
half-naked.”
Halfway through her barely perceptible eye roll, GrandMary’s gaze
turns vacant. It’s like a light bulb behind her eyes that someone switches on
and off arbitrarily.
“Give her a moment,” Mom says, continuing to smooth lotion onto
GrandMary’s arms.
I nod and take in GrandMary’s room. The large picture window with a
view of a nearby playground. The dry-erase board with the heading HELLO!
MY NAME IS MARY FONTAINE, and a line for someone to fill in after MY NURSE.
The line after MY GOALS is blank. The vase of roses surrounded by framed
photographs. GrandMary and Grandpa Lorenzo on their wedding day. A
duo frame with Mom and Uncle David as praying angels in white First
Communion outfits. My senior picture fills a silver frame engraved with
CLASS OF 2004.
The last picture taken of the four of us Fontaines—me, Mom, Uncle
David, and GrandMary—at my final hockey game brings a walnut-sized
lump to my throat. I went to sleep many nights listening to Mom and her
brother laughing, playing cards, and talking in the language they had
invented as children—a hybrid of French, Italian, abbreviated English, and
made-up, nonsensical words. But that was before Uncle David died in April
and GrandMary, grief-stricken, had an intracerebral hemorrhagic stroke two
months later.
My mother doesn’t laugh in the New Normal.
She looks up. Her jade green eyes are tired and bloodshot. Instead of
sleeping last night, Mom cleaned the house in a frenzy while talking to
Uncle as if he were sitting on the sofa watching her dust and mop. She does
this often. I wake up during those darkest hours, when my mother confesses
her loneliness and regrets to him, unaware that I am fluent in their secret
language.
While I wait for my grandmother to return to herself, I retrieve a lipstick
from the basket on the bedside table. GrandMary believes in greeting the
day with a perfect red smile. Gliding the matte ruby over her thin lips, I
remember my earlier plea for courage. To know zoongidewin is to face your
fears with a strong heart. My hand twitches; the golden tube of lipstick a
jiggling needle on a seismograph.
Mom finishes with the lotion and kisses GrandMary’s forehead. I’ve
been on the receiving end of those kisses so often that an echo of one
warms my own forehead. I hope GrandMary can feel that good medicine
even when the light bulb is off.
When my grandmother was in the hospital, I kept track of how many
times she blinked during the same fifteen-minute window each day. Mom
didn’t mind my record keeping until she noticed the separate tally marks for
LIGHT BULB ON and LIGHT BULB OFF. The overall number of blinks hadn’t
changed, but the percentage of alert ones (LIGHT BULB ON divided by total
blinks) had begun to decrease. My mother got so upset when she saw my
tally that I keep the blink notebook hidden in GrandMary’s private room
now, bringing it out only when Mom isn’t here.
It happens. GrandMary blinks and her eyes brighten. LIGHT BULB ON. Just
like that, her focus sharpens, and she is once again a mighty force of nature,
the Fontaine matriarch.
“GrandMary,” I say quickly. “I’m deferring my admission to U of M
and registering for classes at Lake State. Just for freshman year.” I hold my
breath, anticipating her disappointment in my deviation from the Plan:
Daunis Lorenza Fontaine, MD.
At first, I went along with it, hoping to make her proud. I grew up
overhearing people whisper with a sort of vicious glee about the Big
Scandal of Mary and Lorenzo Fontaine’s Perfect Life. I pretended so well,
and for so long, that her plan became my plan. Our plan. I loved that plan.
But that was in the Before.
GrandMary fixes me with a gaze as tender as my mother’s kisses.
Something passes between my grandmother and me. She understands why I
had to alter our plan.
My nose tingles with pre-cry pinpricks from relief, sadness, or both.
Maybe there’s a word in Anishinaabemowin for when you find solid footing
in the rubble after a tragedy.
Mom rushes around the bed, pulling me into an embrace that whooshes
the air from my lungs. Her joyful sobs vibrate through me. I made my
mother happy. I knew I would, but I didn’t expect to feel such relief myself.
She’s been pushing for me not to go away to college, even encouraging
Levi to pester me about it. Mom pleaded with me to fill out the Lake State
admissions form back in January as a birthday gift to her. I agreed, thinking
there was no way anything would come to pass. Turns out, there was a way.
A bird thuds against the window. My mother startles, releasing me from
her grip. I only get three steps toward the window when the bird rises,
fluttering to regain equilibrium before resuming its journey.
Gramma Pearl—my Anishinaabe nokomis on my Firekeeper side—
considered a bird flying into a window a bad sign. She would rush outside,
one leathered brown hand at her mouth, muttering “uh-uh-oh” at its crooked
neck before calling her sisters to figure out which tragedy was just around
the corner.
But GrandMary would say it was random and unfortunate. Nothing
more than an unintended consequence of a clean window. Indian
superstitions are not facts, Daunis.
My Zhaaganaash and Anishinaabe grandmothers could not have been
more different. One viewed the world as its surface, while the other saw
connections and teachings that run deeper than our known world. Their
push and pull on me has been a tug-of-war my entire life.
When I was seven, I spent a weekend at Gramma Pearl’s tar-paper house
on Sugar Island. I woke up crying with an earache, but the ferry to the
mainland had shut down for the night. She had me pee in a cup, and poured
it into my ear as I rested my head in her lap. Back home for Sunday dinner
at GrandMary and Grandpa Lorenzo’s, I excitedly shared how smart my
other grandmother was. Gramma Pearl fixed my earache with my pee!
GrandMary recoiled and, a heartbeat later, glared at my mother as if this
was her fault. Something split inside me when I saw my mother’s
embarrassment. I learned there were times when I was expected to be a
Fontaine and other times when it was safe to be a Firekeeper.
Mom returns to GrandMary, moving the cashmere blanket aside to
massage lotion on a spindly, alabaster leg. She’s exhausting herself looking
after my grandmother. Mom is convinced she will recover. My mother has
never been good at accepting unpleasant truths.
A week ago, I woke up during one of Mom’s cleaning frenzies.
I’ve lost so much, David. And now her. When Daunis leaves,
j’disparaîtrai.
She used the French word for “disappear.” To fade or pass away.
Eighteen years ago, my arrival changed my mother’s world. Ruined the
life her parents had preordained for her. I am all she has left in this world.
Gramma Pearl always told me, Bad things happen in threes.
Uncle David died in April.
GrandMary had a stroke in June.
If I stay home, I can stop the third bad thing from happening. Even if it
means waiting a little longer to follow the Plan.
“I should go.” I kiss Mom and then GrandMary goodbye. As soon as I
leave the facility, I break into a run. I usually walk the few blocks home as a
cooldown, but today I sprint until I reach my driveway. Gasping, I collapse
beneath my prayer tree. Waiting for my breath to return.
Waiting for the normal part of the New Normal to begin.