Nish, p.6
Nish, page 6
“So I signed a nursing contract with the government for one year. Nurse Charlotte, as they would soon call me, would work in Matimekush, a small Innu community tucked away in the near–ghost town of Schefferville, at the fifty-fifth parallel.
“I arrived on the train from Sept-Îles to Schefferville in the fall with two other nurses. One was Abenaki, and the second was a ‘full-blooded’ Quebecer. Well … a combination of bloods!
“But a surprise awaited me when I arrived: contrary to what I had been told, the Matimekush clinic wasn’t ready. There was a delay. I was going to realize later that there is always a delay. Because there were no buildings available, and more importantly, no equipment to treat people, the Chief made an agreement with the town of Schefferville to reserve some offices in their clinic for the treatment of the Innu, a place normally reserved for white people with some exceptions. This is where I started working as a nurse.
“I quickly realized that in this clinic, there was one way of doing things for the Innu and another for the white people. I hated this mentality, and as soon as I finished my shift or had a day off, I was busy organizing everything so that the Innu clinic would open as soon as possible. I was young and slight, but I didn’t let that hold me back!
“After nine months, everything was in place for the clinic to finally open in the spring. The place didn’t look like much. It looked more like those low-cost houses built for Indians by the government — all the same, small, poorly insulated and beige. A bit like our house.
“People already knew me by the time I worked my first official shift at the clinic. In small villages you get to know people quickly. They called me Mrs. Charlotte. No matter how many times I said I was Huron-Wendat, my red hair made many people doubt me, especially the Elders. They were the ones who took the longest to build trust with.
“Northern Elders are not like Southern Elders, Elo. The first few times I had to care for them, they didn’t speak. They would barely answer my questions. In the South, they would tell me about their lives, and sometimes I felt that they needed company more than they needed to be cared for. Here, it’s different. They observe. For a long time. They don’t talk much, or as your father’s mother would say, they don’t talk for nothing, like in the South.”
I stifle my laughter so I don’t wake up my father. Then, maybe to make me laugh even harder, my mother tells me the story of the ladies with the green feet.
“When I first came here, one of the first tasks I had was to care for elderly women with diabetes. One day, early in the morning, a woman in her sixties came to the clinic. She spoke only Innu-aimun. Her feet were obviously hurting. I told her as best I could that the doctor wasn’t there that day, but that I could look at her feet. She shook her head no. But she stayed in the waiting room all morning, watching me greet the ailing patients and rush into the doctor’s office with them. I tried again to explain to her that the doctor wasn’t coming, but she still stayed. I thought she didn’t understand me. Her French was obviously limited.
“At lunch, she offered me her baloney sandwich. She smiled, and I saw that she had only a few teeth. I offered her my soup, and she waved her hand as if to say we were making a trade. She laughed loudly and for a long time. At four o’clock, as I was about to leave and another nurse was going to replace me for the evening shift, she waved and pointed to the consulting room. She went in, I followed her in, and then she closed the door. She took off her shoes and her wool socks. Her nails were green, as if lichen had invaded them. I realized then that this woman had diabetes, or, as they call it here, the sugar disease.
“I examined the woman carefully and, after making sure that her sugar levels were normal, I sat down on the small stool. I put the woman in the examination chair and then took the first foot. I cut her nails gently so as not to cause her any injury. I washed her feet, brushed off her fungus. The procedure took ninety minutes. I went to get her clean cotton socks and gave her some instructions that I’m not sure she understood, telling her that she had to come back to see the doctor as soon as possible. She handed me her band card. Her name was Celeste Meloatam. I took her to the front desk and made an appointment for her with the doctor the following week. I wrote it all down on a little paper and gave it to her. She left much the same way she came in, silent, no smile.
“The next day, I had two ladies with green feet. That’s how I gained respect around here, Elo. One fungus at a time. It was the only way.”
I smile at my mother.
“And what about Dad? He has nothing to do with your story?” I ask, knowing the answer very well.
“Oh! Your dad was no stranger to this sudden surge of acceptance that the community had for me, but for a different reason.
“As I was about to celebrate my first Christmas at the clinic, a young man came in with a bloody hand. I was off duty and busy preparing the Christmas Eve meal for myself and the other two nurses. Anita, the Abenaki nurse who would finish her contract at the beginning of January, entered the nurses’ residence in a hurry.
“‘Charlotte, you have to come and help us. We need you. Grab your coat and come!’
“‘What’s the matter?’
“‘Come on! You’re going to love this!’
“So I accompanied Anita to the clinic located barely fifty metres away.
“In front of us were two young men, one of whom had a nail stuck in his left hand. I remembered seeing them a few times the last time there was construction on the clinic. France, the other nurse, was busy mopping up the blood that was flowing from the wound.
“‘He’s my brother. I didn’t do it on purpose!’
“‘Nice place to put a nail. You’d better go to the Schefferville clinic, I think,’ said France.
“‘We went there, but the doctor is gone to Quebec City for three days for his Christmas vacation. There’s no one to replace him. So as long as we had some silly nurses, we thought we’d come and see the green feet nurse. My brother is a carpenter. He works in construction. He needs his hand.’
“‘Yes, we figured that out,’ France replied.
“‘The what? The who? The green feet nurse?’ I asked.
“‘That’s you, the green feet nurse,’ replied the man who would become your father several years later.”
My mother looks at me, a little amused, then continues her story by imitating my father’s voice, to which I raise my eyebrows, just to say, “Mom, you don’t really do a good imitation of him.”
“‘What’s your name?’
“‘David.’
“‘When did this happen, David?’
“‘About an hour ago.’
“Your father had beautiful, deep, mysterious, almond-shaped black eyes. I remember being amazed by David’s restraint and calm, complaining little despite the severity of the injury.
“‘Come into the examination room. Keep the pressure on your hand with the towel. Girls, follow me into the doctor’s office.’”
My mother is putting a lot of effort into her story tonight. It seems to me that she has never been so energetic telling this story. She continues:
“‘What are we supposed to do?’ said France. ‘Do we take it out?’
“‘You know the doctor has to do that,’ said Anita.
“‘Do we have a choice? Do you think that before the white people came here we waited for permission from the doctors or the government? After all, it’s just a matter of taking out a nail, cleaning, sewing and watching.’”
There. My mother had spoken. That’s why I know she’ll never give up.
“‘What about the infection?’ cut in France.
“‘Like I said, we’ll keep an eye on it. And I’ll vaccinate him just in case. I’ll take care of it. Anita, go get the vaccine. Come on, let’s go!’
“Then I headed for the examination room.
“‘Gentlemen, we’re going to remove the nail. But we’ll have to see you often over the next week to make sure it doesn’t get infected. And we will have to be careful not to say that we did it. You’ll have to say that you removed it yourself and that we just tended to the wound. Have you been vaccinated against tetanus?’
“‘Against what? I don’t know. We had all kinds of vaccines about two years ago,’ your dad said.
“So I walked up to him and spoke softly. ‘I’m not allowed to give you shots for pain, but I can give you Tylenol. You’ll have to be brave. Look at me, not your hand.’
“‘I understand. Go ahead!’
“I settled down, asked France to prepare the instruments, and Anita to clean the wound as much as possible around the nail. I was the youngest, but I knew I was the least afraid. I was pretty excited about the idea of taking the nail out. It was something I had never done. I put on gloves, positioned your father’s hand as best I could, and then asked Anita to hold it as tightly as possible. I took the pliers, pressed them under the head of the nail, and started to pull. Your father didn’t flinch. He was looking at the reflections in my hair. I hadn’t had time to make a ponytail, and it was gathered up roughly in a twist behind my back so it would stay in place. Later your father told me that this way of braiding my hair charmed him.
“The whole process took about ten minutes. Anita sponged the blood between the pulls. Fortunately, the nail had not gone through the hand. I finished the operation by stitching up the wound.
“‘It’s over. Now we have to give it time to heal. You’re going to have to keep your hand still as much as possible, take Tylenol every four hours, and come back and see us tomorrow afternoon, and then every day. Not a word about what was done here, or we could get fired. We didn’t operate, but we can treat you every day and change your dressings. Do you understand?
“‘Yes, yes, we won’t tell. We’re quite capable of making up stories,’ said your uncle.
“‘If you feel that it’s getting hot, very swollen, or doesn’t smell right, come back right away,’ I warned your father, looking directly into his eyes.
“Your father remained silent and just looked at me.
“Anita put on a splint and a bandage to hold everything in place. Then your father and uncle left.
“On Christmas Eve, over caribou filet mignon and hare stew, Anita pointed out that your father had beautiful eyes. I had noticed them, of course, but I didn’t say anything. I had also seen that little twinkle in his eyes when he looked at me, the ‘Star of David.’
“David showed up at the clinic as planned the next afternoon. Nurse France and I were there. We waved him into the examination room and removed his bandage. We cleaned the wound and re-dressed it. For the next four days, we did exactly the same thing. On the fifth day, while I was off work, Anita came to get me.
“‘Come and see. I’m telling you, you did a great job. The wound looks great!’
“Your father’s hand, which had been rather whitish since the accident, had regained its colour and was turning pink, a golden pink that matched his dark complexion.
“‘Come back again tomorrow. After that, a visit every two days should be enough.’
“‘Thank you, Nurse Charlotte. I never told you that. And thank you, ladies.’
“‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m not a specialist, but I think it’ll be fine.’”
My mother tucks a strand of hair back from her face and smiles at me. At that very moment, I know she has everything under control and that everything will be okay. My heart sinks. My mother has always been able to get out of any situation and has a solution for everything. In my opinion, she invented the expression “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” In fact, she repeated it to us, making it a mantra.
“Well, it’s pretty late, honey. Go to bed.”
I am getting sleepy. I head for my room, where I find Leon with his eyes open. “It’s okay, Leon. Go back to sleep.”
The morning comes too early for me, but I can already hear everyone else buzzing around the house.
At eight thirty we’re ready to leave to drive my parents to the little airport in Schefferville. Kukum Francine is right on time.
As usual the airport is quiet, nothing like the big airports we see in the movies. After my parents check in, I give my father a big hug one last time (not too big, though), and I see that my observation about his weight loss was right. I make my mother promise to take good care of him and to send news as soon as they arrive in Wendake. Even though Kukum wants to leave, I prefer to wait for the plane to take off.
Meli and Ati surprise me by arriving at the airport just as my parents are leaving. I have the most amazing friends in the world. Joce also makes an appearance. And even though I know he is there for my brother, his presence warms my heart. I imagine that maybe he’s there for me too a little bit.
The sun is particularly warm for this last week of April, and the thermometer shows five degrees, which is pretty rare for this time of year. After warning Kukum that I won’t be coming home with her and my brother, I hop on Ati’s old snowmobile. We spend the day playing darts and Fortnite on the big forty-four-inch TV in Meli’s basement, with an obligatory interlude in the sun for about an hour. Her father is in a really good mood today. He keeps coming over to offer us chips, cookies or Kool-Aid. Around four, Ati drops me at my grandmother’s house. My brother is there already.
Tonight Kukum makes us her famous Cheez Whiz macaroni with fake bacon bits. Famous as in she’s the only one who makes this recipe. Leon hates it. I’m fine with it. I’m not that hungry anyway.
Kukum Francine tries to make conversation as best she can, but she is as worried as we are. She talks about school, hockey, our friends. I guess that takes her mind off things too. I want to tell her about the rumour of the mine’s involvement in John’s disappearance, but I promised Joce I would wait. Besides, it would be a lot of excitement for one day. I’ll ask her about the orange lakes at least, but tomorrow.
We wait for our mother’s call, which doesn’t come. Before we all go to bed, Leon even asks Kukum if the line works.
I don’t think my brother will sleep very well again tonight. He chose to sleep on the sofa. Maybe so he wouldn’t miss our mother’s call.
The call finally comes in the morning. I’m the first one to pick up the phone.
“Hello, Mom? Are you there yet? Why didn’t you call us before?”
“Hello, my dear. The plane to Quebec City was delayed in Sept-Îles. We arrived at eleven. It was much too late.”
“Is Dad okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine. He just woke up. Do you want to talk to him? David, they want to talk to you.”
I can hear my father pick up the phone.
“Dad? Are you okay? Not too tired?”
“Hello, sweetheart! No, no, I’m really okay. It’s a beautiful day here. It must be fifteen degrees. I don’t need my coat anymore. Is Grandma being a good host?”
“Yes, Dad, everything is fine. She made us her Cheez Whiz pasta.”
“Yummy!” says my father, knowing full well that we don’t really like it. “Well, you have to get to school now. It’s already late. We’ll call you tomorrow at dinnertime.”
“Okay, Dad. Wait! Leon wants to talk to you.”
My brother almost snatches the phone out of my hand. I wave to him to hurry up; we’ll miss the bus. He talks to my father for a few seconds and throws on his boots.
“Iame Kukum.9 See you tonight!” I call to my grandmother before Leon and I run to the bus stop, steps from my grandmother’s house.
8 Without your brother.
9 Bye, Grandmother.
LEON
When the bus drops us off at Kukum’s after school this afternoon I have a little lump in my throat. I miss my parents. Kukum can probably feel it because she bombards me with a thousand questions before I even put down my backpack. Elo is as silent as I am.
“How was your day, kids?”
“We talked about economics today,” I say, placing my bag on the bench my father made for my grandmother two years ago.
“There’s not much of an economy around here, besides mining and hunting. That covers it all,” adds Elo.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” my grandmother interrupts. “Who is your teacher?”
“Utshimau Leblanc.”10
“Eukuan eshe!11 Well, he doesn’t know the mines like the rest of us.”
“What do you mean, Kukum?”
“He’s from the South. Maybe it’s time you knew the other side of the story,” says Kukum, putting the hare in the oven.
“Yeah, exactly. Can you tell us about the orange lakes? Leon and I were little then. What’s the story? And where does the mine fit into all of this? And the Innu who work there, are they treated well? Tell us again,” asks my sister, a little too eager for my taste.
“I’ve already told you a little about it, but I haven’t told you everything.”
“Okay, tell us!” she insists, never taking her eyes off Kukum, as if she were conducting an interrogation.
Kukum sits down on her peach-toned rocking chair and begins her story in front of a very attentive Elo, who straddles one of the green chairs at the table. I listen distractedly, wondering how my father is doing, uncertain whether to remain standing or sit down.
“The mines came here in the mid-1950s. I was still a baby. In those days, there were a few dozen of us. Most of the families were still living at Lac-John. A few years before the mines were created, the government came and told us to move to Matimekush, that they had built houses for us. Your great-grandfather, my father, did not want to leave. My house is still there, by the way — the house we should have had. Or rather what’s left of it. In those days, the Innu lived with the Naskapi. We were not separated like today. My family came from Uashat Mak Mani-Utenam originally. That’s why you have so much family over there.”
“Yes, we know that. But what about the mine?”
“Come on, Elo! Take it easy! Where’s the fire?”
“Leon, there are things you don’t know, and you’d better learn them, because—”
