Up Ghost River (23 page)

“Really?” I said. I was falling. I felt sick. “What sort of rumour?”

“Something to do with a girl. A student of yours. And some photos.”

“Did you see them?”

“You mean there
are
photos?”

“Yes. No … I …” Shit, this would ruin everything. I had to stop it before Joan found out.

I had some counselling appointments that afternoon, but I put a notice on my door that said I had to cancel unexpectedly. Then I went to look for Sarah. I needed to destroy the photos and stop her telling anyone. I asked around and heard that she had gone back to her reserve early.

I debated driving there. If I went, would that look like sexual harassment? She was my student. She lived on the reserve with her parents and extended family. But if I didn't go, then surely she'd tell more people and I'd lose my job. Who was I kidding? If Nancy already knew, that meant that Dr. Couture knew, which meant I had already lost my job. Joan would want to know the reason why I had been sacked, which led me back to the photos.

How had this happened? There had been only one person who had truly loved me. One person who had accepted me for who I was, who wasn't afraid to touch my shameful, broken body. Joan had believed in me and trusted me. She had loved and accepted me. She had come to Peterborough to help me get my degree, and we'd started a family. She had supported me in my first job off the reserve. I had let her down. Time and again. So many broken promises. I hung my head in my hands. I was a disgrace. Less than worthless.

I went to the bar.

I got home a few hours later. There was a note on the kitchen table.

Don phoned. He told me everything. Have moved out. Please don't call
.

I read the note a few times. I looked in the closets—she had taken only about one third of her clothes. Somehow I found this comforting.

I waited an hour and had some coffee to sober up. It wasn't perfect, but good enough. I just needed to speak to Joan and make everything better.

Lloyd answered the door. I could tell from his tight lips that she had told him at least some of what was going on.

“Can I speak to her?” I said.

“You have some nerve, coming here.”

“Please.”

“Why should I let you in?”

“I just need to say goodbye.”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“Please. Just for a few minutes.”

He let me in.

In the bedroom, Joan was propped up with some pillows, with Albalina and Shannin on either side. Jassen was sleeping in a fold-out cot.

“What are you doing here?” Joan said.

“I needed to see you.”

“How could you?”

“I made a mistake.”

“That's what you call it?”

“I wasn't thinking.”

“Oh my God, Ed. You don't get it, do you?”

“Joan. Please. I'm sorry. I'll change.”

“Get out,” she said.

“Joan, please.”

“GET OUT!”

Next morning, I drove to the university and walked to Don's office.

“I'm sorry, Don.”

“You have a problem.”

“I know.”

“I'm putting you on leave.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head.

“Are you getting help?”

“I will,” I said.

“I already called around. There's an in-treatment centre that has a good record at treating native people.” He handed me a Post-it with a phone number.

“I've talked to the rest of the staff. They should have some spots free in a few weeks.”

“I don't deserve this,” I said.

“Who knows what we deserve.”

“I'm sorry,” I repeated.

“I wish things had worked out differently,” he said.

“Me too.”

It was one of those January mornings when the sun seems too tired to get up. I took the bus to the airport. Then I stood around and stared at the flashing lights on the departure board for my flight to Calgary. I was finding it difficult to keep down the contents of my stomach, so I went to the water fountain, washed my face and drank deeply.

We flew over the prairies and landed in Calgary, and I took a taxi to the edge of town.

The centre was a bunch of brick buildings that had been converted from a boy's school. A few steps from the entrance I had one final swig of vodka from my water bottle. What would Joan think? She'd given up on me. She'd tried so goddamned hard, and she'd finally quit. I thought about how crushed she'd looked when I'd gone to see her that last time. The memory hurt enough to warrant another swig, but there was none left.

There was a payphone out front and I thought about calling her. She wouldn't want to hear from me. What if I called but didn't say who it was? I could hear her calming voice without having to explain myself. No, that was just creepy.

I slipped the empty bottle into my pocket, pushed through the door and into a large room with a reception desk, where I was directed to what looked like a doctor's waiting room. A woman wearing a green coat sat behind a high circular desk, and facing her was a row of chairs.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm here to check in.”

“What's your name?”

“Edmund Metatawabin.”

“Can you spell the last name?”

I spelled it.

“Have you ever been here before?”

“No.”

She gave me a form. “Just answer what you can. If you can't answer any questions, don't worry, the doctor will go through it with you later.”

I filled in part of the form. I left blank the part about how much I drank per day. It depended on the day. And many days, I wasn't sure.

Then a man in a white coat came in. He looked barely older than me.

“Is he next?” he said to the woman in the green coat, pointing toward me. She nodded.

“Come through,” he said.

I followed him into a big lounge that looked like a student den with lots of chairs and pillows, and a handful of people milling about watching TV. The doctor opened a door to his left that led into a smaller room with an examining table and some cupboards, and beckoned me inside.

“Edmund. How do I say the last name?”

“Meta-TAH-wabin.”

“I see you've filled in most of your questionnaire. That's good.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you mind if we get some vitals?”

“Some what?”

“Blood pressure, heart rate, that sort of thing.”

“No. Go ahead.”

The doctor took out a cuff and fastened it around my arm.

I looked at him. He was focused on the cuff. I remembered back to the examinations with Brother Jutras. Every year, same thing. And all those boys that he'd bought off with a piece of bread. My face felt hot as the anger rose. I looked down at the floor. When the feeling had passed, I looked up.

“Alcohol addiction, is it?” The doctor began to pump a tiny rubber balloon. The cuff tightened.

“Yes, sir.” He let the balloon fall and the cuff loosened around my arm. He made some notes on my questionnaire.

“You can call me Dr. Wozechowski.”

“Yes, Dr. Wozechowski.”

“When did you last have a drink?”

“This morning.”

“What was it?”

“Cree Helper.”

“Sorry?”

“That's just what I call it. Vodka.”

He took out a stethoscope. “How much?”

“Just a few shots.”

“How many?”

“Five.” He wrote it down.

“How much do you normally drink?”

“A bottle during the day. More when I get home.”

“How much more?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On how much money I have.”

“Do you know the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal?”

“No.”

“Mood swings, sweats, nausea, depression, fatigue, the shakes. Some people hallucinate. If you get in trouble, go and see the nurse. She can provide medication to calm things down.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wozechowski.”

He picked up the phone and dialed. “He's done,” he said. A lady in a white coat came into the room. She led me through the lounge and down a lobby to my bedroom. It had two narrow beds and two bedside tables with lights and some shelves. Someone else had already checked in. A man, from the look of the clothes.

“You can unpack here. Most people like to hang out in the lounge. We went through it on the way here. There's also a pool room but we've temporarily misplaced the key. Should find it soon. Dinner is at seven.”

I unpacked and walked into the lounge. There were a wemistikoshiw and a black guy watching hockey, and another native guy sitting by himself on a plaid couch, smoking. “I'm Maurice,” said the smoker, and put out a hand. I walked over and shook it. “Wanna smoke?” He offered me the packet. I took one.

“I'm from Wahta Mohawk First Nation. You?” I told him. “What are you here for?”

“Alcohol.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“How long you been here?”

“Oh, just a few days. You?”

“Just got here.”

“You're in for a treat.”

“Anything I should look out for?”

“Stay away from the heroin and crack users. They are something else. When they arrive, man are they crazy. They get mad. Throw things. Shout. Shit like that.”

“Huh.” I couldn't believe anyone had it worse than me.

After dinner, I really wanted to hear Joan's voice. I looked at my watch. Eight p.m. She usually went out on Monday evenings to Svetlana's place. If I called and she wasn't home, I could hear her on the answering machine without disturbing or hurting her. I went back to the waiting room.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked the woman in the green coat.

“No phone privileges until after the first week.”

“I just want to call my wife,” I said.

“Was it the phone or privilege part that you didn't understand?”

“Can you just tell me why?”

“It's about figuring out your own identity before you bring in other people.”

I looked at her. I didn't understand the wemistikoshiw concept of identity. It was like the world was full of lonely people, living in their tiny bubbles, and only reaching out when they had a need. My Cree identity began with Joan, Albalina, Shannin and Jassen and then widened to Ma and Pa, my brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. It stretched back to my
gookums
and my
moshoms
through to the ancestors, who guided us in times of trouble. And beyond them it encompassed the Four-Leggeds and the Standing Ones and the Earth itself and the River of Life. All my relations.
Ni chi shannock
.

“My identity is other people,” I said.

“Listen, mister. I don't make the rules.”

“Please,” I said.

“You'll learn more about boundaries and identity as you go along. For now, just go and make friends. I'm sure your wife is fine.”

By the time I returned to my room, my roommate was there. He introduced himself as an alcoholic opera singer and then told me he was very famous and made me promise I would never reveal his name. (It's Daniel, in case you are interested.) Then he got into bed and immediately fell asleep. He began to snore loudly like a leopard frog, a slow clicking sound that opened into a
reeaahhh-uh-uh-uh
. I tried to sleep through his snoring. His barrel chest eased the air out very slowly, and I wondered if I'd have to listen to this every night.

After an hour or two, I went to the bathroom and got some toilet paper and stuffed it into my ears. I lay down on the bed. I had a bad headache. I was sweating and shaking. I thought about the other withdrawal symptoms that had been explained to me. There was a thin bar of light under the window that faded and then later there were lots of shadows but I couldn't tell if the lights were from some cars outside the centre or if my eyes were playing tricks on me. I felt locked in, just like at St. Anne's. I got up and walked around the room. I lay back down. I got up and rinsed my face. I lay back down. I lay on the floor, just like I had done with my parents in the bush. I got up, and got into bed. When the first sun seeped into the room, I started to count all the pieces of dust floating above my head. At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

By morning, I was a wreck. I vomited up bits of mushroom and steak from dinner the night before and then I retched and retched but nothing came up. I cleaned the toilet, then went to the dining hall.

At breakfast, all I wanted was coffee. I looked around the hall, and Maurice waved. I slid in next to him. Steve, who was sitting next to him, reached over and put out his hand. I shook it. He told me that his drug dealer was an Indian.

“Not to be racist or anything,” he said.

“Didn't take it like that.”

“Good. You ever smoked?” he asked.

“Once or twice,” I said. “Not really my thing.”

“You're a good man,” he said. “Best not to start. Started on the weed, went to coke, went to crack, lost my house and wife and came here. You?”

“I had a drinking problem. Have,” I corrected myself.

He nodded and waited for me to go on.

“I thought I was doing well. But everyone wanted too much. I couldn't deliver. I kept fucking up.” I stared into the distance. In my mind's eye I saw Joan. She was sitting on Albalina's bed, reading to her. “I let everyone down,” I muttered. “Cheated on my wife.”

“She stick around?”

“No,” I said, in a voice near a whisper. “She's smarter than that.”

In the afternoon we had a presentation. A counsellor named Bill stood at the front of the lounge. He looked like he was in his late thirties. He said we were lucky because this was one of the best drug and alcohol programs in the country. It emphasized a healthy body and mind so there were daily aerobics classes before breakfast. It offered behaviour therapy, group work, and Alcoholics Anonymous. For the natives, there would be some traditional healers delivering presentations in a few days.