The Abduction of Mary Rose (5 page)

How she must hate me, Naomi thought, finally understanding Edna's hostility toward her. She's never considered me her niece, really, only a dark secret to be tolerated. The Native child whose very existence, in her opinion, brought shame upon the family. And who, as she perceived it, replaced her in her sister's affections. Which was never true. Mom had always loved Edna. She was very protective of her.

Naomi envisioned another little girl, one not so lucky. She saw her in her mind's eye walking to the bus stop that night, so terrified, unable to escape her tormentors. No one to stop them. To save her.

"Did they ever find the two men who...?"

"No. The caretaker of the cemetery said he heard her screams that night. He told the police he reached the top of the hill just in time to see a man forcing her into the back seat and the car speed off. Unfortunately he wasn't able to give a description of either of them, or of the car, except to say that it was a navy or black in colour. It was too dark out, his glimpse of them too brief. He only knew there were two of them. No. They never did catch those animals."

On the word animals, the doorbell rang, jolting Naomi's heart as she stared at the door, panic washing through her. She couldn't do this. Not now.

"Your first arrival," Frank said, getting to his feet with some difficulty. "I'll put the tea and coffee on. You might want to put out the food."

"Oh, no, please, Frank. You answer. Tell them I'm sorry. I can't...."

"Of course you can. You must. I happen to know you're made of sterner stuff than that." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's your duty as Lillian Waters’ daughter. And you are her daughter," he added firmly. "Whatever you're feeling right now."

* * *

It wasn't as bad as she had imagined, just a matter of pasting on a welcoming smile and going through the motions of being a gracious hostess. Easy for the most part, since those who came were themselves so kind and sensitive to her feelings; no one even mentioned the write-up in the paper. But everyone had read the obituary, and the fact of it was as large as the proverbial elephant in the kitchen. Curiosity and pity, even bewilderment, was behind every smile.

The only one of the Bradleys to show up was Charlotte, Edna's daughter, who despite Naomi's protests, insisted on staying to help her clean up, then hugged her hard in the doorway on the way out. "I'll miss Aunt Lili," Charlotte said. "I loved her too, you know, Naomi. She was my aunt."

She nodded. "Did you know, Charlotte?" she asked softly. "Did everyone know but me?"

To her credit, she didn't pretend not to know what Naomi was talking about. "No, Aunt Lili swore Mom to secrecy. And she did keep the promise until Aunt Lili was gone. You have to give her that. She really does believe she did the right thing in telling you, you know. She thought you had a right to know. But I know how hard it must be. We all feel horrible for you, Naomi. It's why Ted didn't come. He couldn't face you after what Mom did. Dad feels the same way."

Naomi said she understood, was somewhat mollified to know the entire family wasn't in agreement with Edna's tactics. But she knew 'having a right to know' had nothing to do with why Edna told her. Let Charlotte keep whatever illusions about her mother she had. None of this was her fault. It was good of her to come.

Alone now, the silence of the house crowding in on her, she wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, where just a short time ago, she and Frank had sat. Where he had told her the rest of it.

Looking up at her mother's portrait above the fireplace, a heaviness the size of a truck settled in her heart. I didn't know you at all, she thought. She sat for a time. Then she wearily climbed the stairs to her room.

Standing before the vanity mirror, she gazed at her reflection in the glass. She examined the shape and colour of her eyes, the fine arch of her brows, her near black hair, her cheekbones high in an oval-shaped face. A face she had convinced herself bore a likeness to her father's, whom Mom had told her had Hawaiian ancestry in his background. 'A great-great-grandmother, if I remember correctly', she had said. Naomi smiled faintly now at the lie. You couldn't say she wasn't creative. She had chosen her surrogate father well.

Frank told her she was terrified someone from around here would make the connection between that tragic young woman and Naomi, so she couldn't take the chance of telling her she had Native blood in her veins. 'She had to keep that from you, Naomi, and I know how much that bothered her. She didn't think she had a choice,' Frank had told her.

She looked around at the room she had occupied for all of her life, the room that bore witness to girlhood secrets, hurts and triumphs, hopes and dreams. Her eye fell upon the books in the bookcase: a biography of Emily Carr,
Jane Eyre
, her favourite book ever. She'd reread it not that long ago, and found new layers to be appreciated as an adult.

On the lower shelf, more treasured books from her childhood by authors Judy Blume, E.B. White, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol and others that had informed and entertained her, helped to shape her view of the world and of herself.

She'd updated the decor over the years from the little girl pink and white to the earth tones she'd come to prefer as she grew older. She painstakingly stripped and sanded each piece of the white-painted furniture in her bedroom: a vanity, a vanity stool she'd found at a yard sale, and the two night tables, and stained them a rich warm oak, almost the exact shade of the floor. Forest green scatter mats lent colour to the room. The dresser itself was a heavy old antique treasure, hand-crafted with decorative carving that she loved. She remembered what a hard time the moving men had had getting it up the stairs.

Her room. All the things in it were hers. The pictures, the books, the teak monkey totem 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil' that she kept on the dresser, another yard sale treasure. A small print of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks hung on the antique white wall. Yes, despite all this, she felt now as if she were occupying the room by default. She felt like a fraud.

* * *

Over the next few days, other than to drag herself to the bathroom to feed Molly, who had settled herself on the bed in mournful sympathy, Naomi did not leave the house. She ate little, ignored the doorbell and the persistently ringing phone downstairs. She was glad there was no phone in her bedroom. She tried to bully herself out of her self-pity party, but that wasn't working either. It just made her cry more. Then, one night the old childhood dream returned, this time more vivid than ever before, the voice insistent, commanding, refusing to be ignored.

The beating of wings came softly at first, from somewhere far off, gradually growing in volume, and the pounding of her heart thundered in chorus. She felt the familiar rise of panic and tried to wake, but the dream held her captive. It both drew her in and at the same time terrified her. In it, she was always trying to outrun the great beating wings, and each time, barely escaping to wakefulness before it could descend on her.

Whap … whap … whap came the creature in pursuit of her. Only this time a voice was urging Naomi not to run away. A gentle yet commanding voice. Despite the fear, she obeyed, stopped running, and slowly turned. Then, as the great shadow-winged creature settled on a nearby tree, the closing of its wings as soft and warm as a velvet shroud, she finally understood that the creature was an eagle, and that it meant her no harm.

"Find the evil ones," it told her.

Just a dream, she told herself the following morning. It means nothing. You're stressed out, not yourself, whoever the hell that is. You can't put too much stock in dreams. But the next night, the dream came again, and all her arguments fell away.

"Find the evil ones, 'Ntus," the eagle repeated.

Chapter Six

Early next morning, dressed in jeans and a grey baggy sweatshirt, Naomi came downstairs with a rather vague idea of learning more about what happened to her birth mother, and why her attackers were never found and punished. She was quiet inside, thoughtful, as she made herself a mug of coffee and took it with her to the studio, which was just off the living room. Once one room, it was now divided into two closet-sized spaces with a sound-proofed door between them, the first serving as her office, the second as a recording studio. It suited her purposes fine.

This was an old house with gingerbread trim, set above and well back from the road, with a gravel horseshoe driveway and a hilly lawn. There was a lovely spreading chestnut tree in one corner of the lot.

At the back of the house, what was once a grassy field had grown wild with brush, weeds and alders. Her mother had purchased the modest-sized Victorian 'fixer-upper' on 233 Elizabeth Avenue years ago, apparently while awaiting Naomi's birth. Aunt Edna thought the house was too big for just the two of them, but it wasn't. It was exactly right. Naomi grew in this house and had always loved it. And these two little rooms were her corner of the world. Her den. Den—such an apt word. A place for an animal to hide away. For her, a place where she felt safe and content. Not so different. She liked the analogy. Here, she could tuck herself in, away from the world, yet connected to it in a way that suited her temperament.

This room was originally intended as a guestroom, but since they rarely had overnight guests, her mother suggested she take it as her own. When Naomi began to get work narrating audio books, Lillian had a man come and put up a soundproof wall, with a door erected between the computer workspace and the recording studio to isolate the hum of the computer and other noises the powerful mic managed to pick up. One wall in the recording studio had built-in floor to ceiling bookshelves, every space filled to bursting with books.

For the window facing the street she'd bought wooden shutters and hung heavy drapes to further muffle any noise, although the sound of traffic could barely be heard this far back from the road. If she was recording, and a big, noisy truck did happen to rattle by, she would just wait until it passed before continuing, later editing out any offending noise.

Now, seated at the computer, its familiar hum welcoming her, she brought up the Google search engine, typed Mi'kmaq Dictionary into the box and clicked enter. She sipped her coffee and waited. Almost immediately, a couple of promising sites came up, the second one down owned by a professor of Native languages at the local university. She clicked on it and scrolled down the alphabetical list of Native words on the screen. The word 'Ntus jumped out at her. Beside it was the English translation: 'My daughter'. Under the sleeves of her sweatshirt, goosebumps rose on her arms. 'Ntus.

Find the evil ones, 'Ntus.

Find the evil ones, my daughter.

She sat quietly for a time, letting the revelation take its full effect. Her birth mother had spoken to her in a dream. What other explanation could there be? How else would she have known the word 'Ntus? I know no Mi'kmaq.

The first stirrings of curiosity and wonder rippled through her, mixed in with the myriad of emotions she was already dealing with.

She found herself distracted by the amount of information on the 'net about the Mi'kmaq, MicMac, or First Nations people, as they had come to be known. One site linked to the next. And the next. She learned about sculptors like Randy Simon of Big Cove, painters like Leonard Paul, and writers, including the late poet laureate Rita Joe of Nova Scotia. Naomi had read some of her haunting yet joyful poetry. Words that told of her life, and her response to that life. A spiritual, yet down-to-earth woman.

It was the spiritual aspect of the Mi'kmaq culture that most captured her interest, however. For example, the Mi'kmaq did not make a distinction, as the white man did, between what was natural and what was supernatural. They believed, at least those who still held to the old ways did, that not only people, but animals, the sun, river and even rocks could have a spirit. The Mi'kmaq believe that all of the universe is filled with a spirit called mntu or Manitou, with the sun holding special significance. They hold great respect for animals, and all nature. The eagle in particular is highly revered, believed to be a sacred messenger sent from the Spirit Creator, Gisoolg. When she finished reading many stories and poems about eagles, any lingering doubt that Mary Rose had visited her last night, as she had on other nights, left her.