Whale Song (21 page)

I leaned against the wall, listening to their words

“
Poor Sarah,” my grandmother wailed. “First her mother, now…if Jack goes to prison, I―” She broke into hysterical sobs.

Devastated, I raced upstairs to my room.

I somehow convinced myself that my memory of that day might save my father―that perhaps he had tripped over the cord and maybe my mother’s death had been an accident.

If only I could remember.

Gritting my teeth, I mentally walked myself through the moments just before my mother’s death. My father and I were alone in her room
.
I argued with him about something. Then the next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed.

Maybe I saw him do it. Is that why I can’t remember?

My memory was blank, like an empty chalkboard. There was nothing I could say to any court judge to make him believe my father was innocent. Nothing I could remember would help him.

My stomach churned.

I crawled into bed and fell asleep holding onto my wolf pendant. If I dreamt at all that night, I don’t remember that either.

As a compromise to my grandparents, my father arranged a small, informal funeral service in a small chapel in Bamfield. We gathered, united in grief, under a tempestuous sky filled with churning thunderheads. The wind howled through the thin-walled church, causing the stained-glass windows to vibrate as Father Verhagen solemnly welcomed everyone inside.

A blue-robed choir stood to the left of the pulpit, singing a melancholy rendition of
Amazing Grace
, accompanied by an old pipe organ. To the right, a beautiful ceramic urn, hand-painted by a local Indian artist sat on a raised platform, surrounded by flowers and wreaths. A copper-framed photograph of my mother was positioned near the urn.

I plodded up the aisle and stood in front of the urn. Then I reached out and caressed the photo of my mother.

“
A handful of ashes,” I murmured. “That’s all that’s left of you.” Looking at her filled me with misery and longing.

My father, grandparents and I took our seats in the front row of pews while the Dixon family sat on the opposite side. Behind them, my father’s co-workers crowded together, whispering and casting sympathetic glances at my father and me. People from Bamfield, some of whom had attended the beach ceremony, also showed up. I noticed Adam and his family sitting in one of the back pews. Annie was sitting beside him with her aunt. Even Mrs. Higginson and some of my other teachers were there. Mrs. Makowski sat behind me, sniffling into a lacy handkerchief, telling everyone that I had a wonderful future ahead of me―that I was a great artist just like my mother.

Father Verhagen began the service. “We are here to remember Daniella, to celebrate her life and her faith.”

I slipped into my own little world, lulled into a sense of security by the priest’s words, by his promises that my mother was moving on to a better place and by his certainty that my remaining family would be taken care of.

Tears of sorrow coursed silently down my cheeks. My father squeezed my hand and I held on tightly, refusing to let go. I stared down at our folded hands and wept for my mother.

After the service, we filed out through the double doors of the church and stepped outside. A cold wind flailed at us as we waited at the top of the stairs, sheltered by the porch overhang.

Father Verhagen stopped me. “Your mother is in Heaven, Sarah. God will look after her now.”

For some unexplainable reason, his innocent comment made me furious.
“Who will look after me?”
I wanted to demand. But I bit my lip instead and hurried down the stairs, out into the rain.

“
Jack Richardson?” a familiar voice called from the crowd.

A tall figure walked toward us.

My heart stopped.

Sgt. Washinski placed a restraining hand on my father’s arm.

“
I need you to come with me, please?” he said with authority.

Everyone watched in disbelief as a patrol car pulled up beside us, its lights flashing. My father walked passively toward the vehicle, resigned to his fate. He looked over his shoulder and opened his mouth to say something, but immediately closed it and tossed my grandfather his car keys instead.

“
Take Sarah home,” he told Nonno Rocco.

Sgt. Washinski gave me an apologetic look. Then he turned to my father. “We’re placing you under arrest for the second-degree murder of your wife Daniella Richardson.”

The crowd gasped in shock.

I was horrified. “Dad, what’s going on?”

I tried to run toward him, but Nonno Rocco restrained me. I struggled to get free, hysterically beating my hands against my grandfather’s arms. “Daddy!” I screamed.

“
You have the right to remain silent,” Sgt. Washinski continued, pulling my father arms behind his back. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Handcuffs encircled my father’s wrists and snapped shut.

“
You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand your rights?”

My father nodded, looking dazed and unsteady as he was escorted into the back seat of the patrol car.

“
Wait!” I shrieked. “What about Mom’s ashes?”

Sgt. Washinski slammed the car door, climbed in front and drove away. In the backseat window, I saw my father’s face pressed to the glass. Then they were gone.

“
Your papa will be back,” my grandmother said.

“
But Nonna Sofia,” I wept. “We have to throw Mom’s ashes in the ocean.”

I clutched her arm―afraid that if I let go, she too would be taken from me.

“
Ah,
carina
,” she said softly. “We’ll do that when your papa comes home.”

Nonno Rocco brought my father’s car around.

My grandmother climbed into the back seat and patted the space beside her. “Let’s go home, Sarah.”

I looked over my shoulder at the dispersing crowd. Annie and Goldie sprinted toward me. Behind them, hobbled Nana.

“
Are you okay?” Goldie asked me.

“
Nothing is okay.”

I could barely look at my two friends. My father had been arrested in front of their eyes. Everyone would think that he had
murdered my mother. That my father was a murderer.

“
Sarah,” Annie said. “They must’ve made a mistake.”

Goldie nodded. “We know he didn’t do anything wrong. And we know he didn’t hurt your mom. He’d never do anything
that
bad.”

We formed a circle. With our heads bowed, we held onto each other tightly.
Three Warriors
. As soon as those two words entered my head, a smug voice in my mind whispered, ‘
Some warrior you are!’
I let go of my friends and took a step back.

Nana beckoned to me. She hunched forward, placing both of her aged hands on my damp face. Then she looked me right in the eye. “Remember, great warriors
never
stop trying.”

I blinked, bewildered by her words. Had she read my mind?

For the rest of the day, I thought about her strange comment.

The days flew past, but the nights were endless torture. They were filled with nightmares of death and hopeless despair. At times, I questioned my sanity and whether I would endure. My mother was dead and my father was a murderer.

I thought of him, trapped behind steel bars. His lawyer did his best to get him released on his own recognizance, but bail was denied. The prosecutor thought that my father was a flight risk because he had strong ties to the United States.

Nonno Rocco was adamant that we would stay in the house in Bamfield until the jury released my father. My grandfather drove to Victoria every day that my father’s case appeared in court. Sometimes Nonna Sofia would go with him and I would stay at Goldie’s house.

Nana visited my house often that winter. She would exchange recipes with my Italian grandmother over a steaming pot of herbal tea. They swapped stories from their childhood and legends from their countries, all the time trying to ignore the terrible things that were happening to our family.

One morning, my grandmother sat down next to me at the dining room table. Nana sat at the other end, waiting patiently.

“
You have missed so much school this year,” Nonna Sofia said with a sigh. “That is not so good. Your father wants you to go back to school.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed. “But―”

“
Sarah, your education is very important,” my grandmother interjected. “I know it’s difficult, especially with your father…away. You will go back after New Years.”

Nana nodded in agreement and I felt betrayed, angry.

I stomped outside onto the deck.

I didn’t want to go to school. How could I face everyone? The only one I wanted to see was Goldie.

She’s the only one who understands.

I peeked in the window and glimpsed my grandmother and Nana talking seriously. Neither of them looked at me, so I darted down the path to the beach. Running along the shore, I headed for Goldie’s house. I was halfway there when I stopped. My friend was still in school.

I yanked my bike from behind the trees near the driveway and jumped on it. Then I pedaled down the driveway, not knowing where I was going, not caring. I just knew that I needed to get away, to escape the walls that were closing in around me. I rode down the meandering main road and stopped in front of Adam’s house.

I don’t know why. I hadn’t seen much of him lately.

I leaned my bike against some bushes, brushed the leaves off my sweater, then strolled over to his front yard. The tire swing moved slowly in the soft breeze, calling me and I climbed into it and began pumping my legs. The wind danced through my hair and I closed my eyes, leaning backwards as far as I could go. I felt liberated.

“
Hey,” someone called.

Startled, I opened my eyes.

Adam stood beside me, watching me thoughtfully.

Embarrassed, I skidded to an abrupt stop. “I, uh…sorry.”

“
Aw, don’t worry about it,” he said with a chuckle. “No one uses that old thing much anyway. My mom’ll be happy to know
someone
had fun on it today. She keeps threatening to burn it.”

“
Doesn’t your brother use it?” I mumbled.

“
Darren? Nope. He wouldn’t be caught dead on that thing.”

Fascinated by him, I secretly admired his tanned, handsome face, his golden eyes and his quirky smile. All of a sudden, I recalled my first kiss―the moment when his warm lips had touched mine.

I blushed.

We stood in awkward silence, neither of us knowing what to say. The only sounds were the wind whistling through the trees and a wind chime tinkling nearby.

Adam’s expression softened. “I’m sorry―”

“
I just wanted―” I said at the same time.

He laughed, his golden eyes twinkling. “You first.”

“
Thanks for coming to my mom’s funeral.”

“
You’re welcome.”

I gave him a hesitant look. “I was curious why you weren’t at the beach ceremony.” I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to me.

Adam kicked at a small rock in the grass, shooting it under some bushes. “I had to go to the mainland with my parents and we left the day before your mom…died. We just got back a few days ago.” He looked up at me. “I’m really sorry about your mom. Your dad too.”

He stepped behind me, grabbed the swing ropes and pulled them toward him. I held my breath. Then he let go. We remained like that for some time―me stuffed into that old tire swing and him pushing me.

I learned that he’d been born in Petawawa, Ontario. His parents had met on the Queen Charlotte Islands. His mother was a Haida Indian and his father had been in the Canadian Armed Forces, stationed at the base in Masset when they’d met and married. After a posting to Ontario, Adam’s father resigned from the military and they moved to Bamfield.

“
And here I am,” Adam said. “What about you?”

I described my experiences growing up in Wyoming, the grassy plains and mountains, the long bus ride to the school in Buffalo and the Shoshone man who had lived in our barn. I told him about Amber-Lynn. She still wrote to me occasionally, but mostly that friendship had faded. I admitted to him that I felt guilty about leaving her behind.

“
Sometimes change is good,” he said. “Sometimes you just need to move on, maybe to better things.”

I giggled. “Jeez, Adam, now you really sound like an Indian.”