Snakebite, p.6
Snakebite, page 6
The brain injury support group helped me a bit. She didn’t want me to go. She said her love was enough. She said she gave up her past life for us. Deep down, I felt I owed her something, part of me. But parts of me were already missing, maybe from the accident, I think. I don’t think I’ll ever gain my past back. According to her, I shouldn’t want it. It wasn’t good for me, or her.
I owed her something, after all. She worked her ass off in town with two part-time jobs. So, I decided to ask for help. My counselor from group therapy helped me put together a resume and he even drove me all over town, practically holding my hand as we went from this store to that.
I started to get stressed. Not one call for an interview, not one bite. No one wanted to hire a wreck of a man. No one would give me a chance. Not even the mill my dad and his dad worked at. I was thinking maybe they could honor my family, something like that.
I knew Christmas was coming and bills were mounting. With time, the debts would snowball and roll down that hill of life and squish me. I could feel pain radiating throughout my chest kicking my lungs out, making it hard to breathe. Anxiety is a bitch. Brain damage is a fucking thorn.
Worse though…something was missing. Something felt just not right, and I couldn’t shake it no matter how hard I tried.
Guisy aged quickly. My babe’s mane wasn’t kept up. She gained major weight and started to frump right out. I felt bad for her, but I didn’t feel compelled to nag her. I just bided time and started to walk for exercise and meditate to relieve some stress.
The Native reservation was a mile out of town. Eventually I gained enough endurance, one day at a time, to move forward. I journeyed, sojourned into their beautiful valley between two hills. Of course, I was nervous—never been on no Injun village before—but something drew me in. I became lost in her hills.
Their roads were paved, sidewalks fragranced by the apple orchards and the rows upon rows of Bing cherries: Life.
The first building I came across looked like a busy place. The sign above the door read “Health Administration” and an all-familiar scent hit me: fried bread—bannock—the bread of love. What the fuck? Where did that come from? The receptionist was smiling and offered to tour me throughout the building without me even asking. Maybe my spirit said it all.
She led me to an office and asked me to fill out paperwork. One sheet was a criminal record check. I obliged, just honored to be close to something yummy. I knew we were close because I heard the clanging of dishes in a nearby kitchen. She left me to finish the employment application and, when I was done, I ventured quickly to somewhere familiar. Maybe I have been here before?
I walked through the doors and was surprised by the setup. It was a recreation center. There were old people, young couples, kids and babies sitting all over at round tables. Murals of eagles, buffalo, salmon and the four directions beckoned me home. I walked until I hit the kitchen. There, ready to serve me, was an elderly native woman full of smiles with warm, brown, chocolate eyes.
The following day, I started work as the resident repairman, security, and backup cook. And I loved every day of my job. At times, I couldn’t believe I was taking their money. They thought I was helping them. But it was these people, these lovely souls nurturing me, that moved me forward.
One of the volunteers didn’t show up, so Auntie asked me to either cook up the lunch or read to the children. I love kids. I think I always wanted one, or a dozen, so I quickly cleaned myself up and set up rows of tiny little wooden chairs. I wiped each one down and put a little snack beneath each: a bag of chips, a water bottle, and a peanut-free granola bar that I picked up in town as a treat for the wee ones. It made me happy to give back to my community.
Slowly, parents trickled in and they all sat close to the open kitchen sipping their coffee and colas, nibbling on veggies and fruit.
I sat and waited, animated and ready to connect. Book in hand, I cleared my throat and started in character. I took them away to another land, theatrically trained, and we flourished.
Theatrically trained? Yes, I think I am. I was, I mean.
Minutes later, a Child Protection Agent came up to me and interrupted the story. A small child was standing behind her. The agent pulled up an adult chair and pointed for the child to sit. Then she left.
I enunciated slowly and as kind as I could to engage the child. But her shoulders slumped. Her long, black, messy hair covered her chest and all her face. Her little white Keds, well-used and not so white, hung loosely on her tiny feet far above the ground like meat hooks. She was pitiful.
The children beside her scrunched their noses and held them tight, reacting in a delicate way as not to chastise their comrade of war. My heart was falling to an all-familiar place of unknown. Broken, my heart; and Auntie’s too. You can’t mess with an elder woman who loves her people so fucking much she’d kill for them, die for them.
Auntie pulled a chair up beside Broken and sat quietly, listening to our story. Her gnarled hand slowly moved to the child’s. The children quit making their funny noises and their youthful chirps. Auntie pulled a sweater out from her bingo bag. She warmed the hand, relaxing the broken one. Her ancient momma hand lightly touched a shoulder then moved her long crown over to her back. The wee one tilted her head and looked down at Auntie’s white nurse shoes. She slipped the handknitted purple sweater onto the child. Broken smiled at Auntie and quickly moved up onto her lap.
It was then, when she held her dimpled chin up, that I cried. Soundless and moved, I witnessed the calm and comfort on her tiny little face as the elder smoothed her hair down into place and tenderly gave her love and affection. The little child looked up at me. She was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Her eyes were worn and had seen much devastation.
I see you there, little one.
I feel a small crack in my concrete walls, holding my memory of her back.
This wee girl reminds me of someone.
I’ve searched for her repeatedly. No Face.
And here she is, coming to me, resuscitating and giving me life: Little doctor.
That face, those brown eyes. She reminds me of a place I once was. A reservation I once fell in love with. Children I helped save. Of a native woman who once saved me.
Walls shatter, and there in my memory was her: Jay.
God!
It felt like such a long drive back to her.
I reflected as memory came to me, like pouring thick cream into a black coffee. And I reveled in it. All I want is her.
I raced through the door only to find an empty house. A note sat on our kitchen table. It read, “I’ve gone home. I can’t do this anymore.”
After several weeks trying to convince my family doctor to grant me permission to travel, I celebrated! I had medication that would help my brain cope with elevation and hopefully I could make it across the States without a brain bleed.
I remembered our wedding ceremony in our Sacred Sweat lodge, and so I called upon Creator to join me on this journey. I would never let her go. She’s my medicine. I want to spend the rest of my days with my babe.
I packed my bag. I knew it would be a long drive back to Seattle, to the reserve she came from. I slept a lot these days, so I’d have to pull over many times to be safe.
When I finally got to Guisy’s band office, the Chief greets me as if I was family—our embrace is long and much needed.
“Where is Guisy?” I ask the aged man donning his cowboy hat.
He walks me outside, to the back field. Then he points. “There, she’s there.”
I want to die. He points to a grave site, a graveyard. His head lowers. A sharp pain shoots through my chest finding space in my shoulders.
God, no. No! I scream but nothing comes out of my voice box except a loud, tight sigh. My tear ducts damaged from my accident, I cry on the inside. Fucking God! What have you done?
The graveyard is gloomy but for a few bushels of flowers. Each cross is pauper with no names, no headstones. I don’t know which one is hers. The Chief leaves me.
I walk to the freshest mound of dirt and fall to my knees. I decide I want to die.
Now that I remember her, life without her is no life at all. How and why would God take her? Take me for fuck’s sake! The good always die young.
I shake so hard my whole body reacts in shock. I can barely breathe.
“Hey mister, it’s getting dark. Not supposed to be in our graveyard when it’s dark. It’s against the rules, dontcha know?” someone calls out. “Didn’t your mama teach you that?”
“Leave me,” I cry. My swollen eyes don’t want to look upon anyone ever again.
“Hey! I just cleaned up that grave. Watch out. I have to nail this plaque up.” I get up off my knees, and she shoves me gently before hammering away. I drop back down to my knees then she kneels beside me.
“Come on. I have to lock the gate up. Want a cup of java?” she chirps. Bloody hell, what a rude little woman.
I get up and start to follow her until she stops and turns to me. Her baseball hat barely covers her messy hair flowing all over her small, courteous shoulders. I stop walking, mad at her mostly because I’m pissed and hurt and need a bottle of whiskey. I turn towards her ready to rage. Then I pause. She takes off her baseball cap and I pull out my glasses and put them on as fast as I can.
“Johnny boy, my love, is that you?”
I fall to my knees in silence, crying.
Zena Schultz, Snakebite
