Chapter 12
TWELVE
KAYA
Friday family dinner is always a grand affair in the main house.
My grandmother, Ahnah, and her mother, Liuna, spend most of the day in the kitchen. Whether it’s chopping fresh vegetables from our family garden, preparing fish or meat, or kneading dough for fresh bannock, their hands are busy post-breakfast until it’s time to serve dinner.
Most Fridays, thirteen to fifteen of us gather. On rare occasions, twice as many join. Either way, I soak up every moment with each of them. Listen to their stories. Let them teach me nearly forgotten skills no longer necessary in everyday life. Discover more invaluable parts of our ancestry.
Our history and traditions were lost over generations, but we’re slowly navigating our way back. Learning who we were, our ancestors’ way of life, and finding ways to incorporate those pieces into our modern-day lives.
At twenty-five, my life isn’t vastly different than other young women my age. I work forty-plus hours a week, go out with friends, have an unhealthy obsession with fashion, eat too much ice cream while watching sappy movies, and live for rainy days on the couch with a good book.
But there will always be a piece of me, unlike women my age, and I accept this. Although it’s been a rough road, I have learned to love this part of myself more with time.
Years ago, my grandmother decided to do an online DNA ancestry test. When I asked what provoked the idea, she said, “I love Stone Bay. It will always be my home. My heart. But sometimes it feels like a piece of our family is missing.”
She wasn’t wrong.
A significant amount of saliva in a tube shipped off to a lab for evaluation changed everything. Within days of the results, she tracked down family we didn’t know existed in northern Canada. After a few jittery weeks of mulling over what to do with the information, she sent a message to someone listed as kin. It’s been a whirlwind since.
Same as my grandmother, Stone Bay is my heart and home. Stone Bay is all I’ve ever known.
But it soothes a piece of the soul to know where the Imala family originates. That more of us live outside our small town’s borders. Grandmother has worked diligently to organize a reunion party. The largest gathering of multiple generations in more than a century.
The scent of smoked meat wafts up my nose as I enter the kitchen. A smell so comforting and familiar. Home. I inhale deeply and sigh. My stomach grumbles, and I rub my midsection with the silent promise to eat soon.
“ Unukut, Anaanatsiaq . Anaanatsialirqiuti. ” Good evening, Grandmother. Great-grandmother.
Both their heads pop up, their tasks forgotten. Deep wrinkles line their eyes and lips as smiles brighten both of their expressions.
“ Unukut , my darling irngutaq .” Grandchild. “How was your first week of cooking classes?”
I walk around the large kitchen island and hug my great-grandmother, then grandmother. “Good. More tedious than anything.”
Curious eyes so similar to mine but a hint darker stare back. “Tedious?”
Without being asked, I slice the red onion on the counter. “This week focused on teaching basic techniques and kitchen safety.” My eyes sting and I blink a few times as I continue to cut. “Was dull because I already know most of those things thanks to you.” I set the knife down and lean into her side. “You and Great-Grandmother have been my favorite teachers.”
She kisses my hair. “As sweet as your anaana . Although, I wish we would’ve been able to pass on more.”
Another side effect of my grandmother taking the DNA ancestry test… guilt. It isn’t her fault, nor her mother’s fault we lost so much of our culture. Yet, as the eldest living Imala generations, they still shoulder the burden.
It was Great-Grandmother Liuna’s great-grandparents who decided to trek south for months in search of a better life. When the Europeans invaded what is now Canada, they stole so much from the Indigenous. From stories Great-Grandmother has shared, my Imala ancestors tried to cohabitate with the qallunaat . White people. But as time progressed and the qallunaat took over more Native lands, it became harder and harder to coexist.
Tekkeitsertok, my four times great-grandfather, said there had to be a place for his family to live without worrying about what the white man would do next. So, he packed up his family and they crossed the country south until they happened upon the Stonewater tribe in what is now Stone Bay. This was not long after Washington became a state.
The Stonewaters accepted the Imala family, which had dwindled from seven to five on the journey. For a time, the Stonewaters and Imalas lived harmoniously off the land. Washington was a new state in the Union, but much of the land still belonged to the Indigenous.
As more qallunaat arrived, it proved more difficult to defend their home. It was Lusa Imala, my three times great-grandmother, who bridged the gap between the Stonewater, Imala, and qallunaat . Over time, Lusa learned simple English and interpreted for her family and the white men.
Lusa Imala is the reason an Indigenous name is listed as a founder on the town charter. She fought to include the Stonewater name but was repeatedly denied. To assuage her exasperation, the town was named for the Stonewater people. Stone Bay.
It was not enough, but there was little more she could do.
Rather than fight, when land was gifted to each founder, the Imalas shared with the Stonewaters. The money the Imala family earned as a founding family was split with the Stonewaters. To this day, sharing everything we have with the Stonewaters is still in place. It is not a burden. The Stonewaters are as much our family as the Imalas still in Canada. Sharing the gifts given to us by the town is a moral code we abide by and will continue to honor with each generation.
I lift my head from her shoulder and kiss her cheek. “We will continue to learn.” A soft smile tugs at my lips as I pick up the knife and resume my task. “The past cannot be changed. But the future is what we make it.”
Her loving gaze warms my profile. “My smart girl with the biggest heart.” She brushes fallen hair off my cheek. “The moment you came into the world, I knew you’d be a force of good.”
We finish our individual tasks, load everything on platters, and carry them to the large dining table at the heart of the house. As is routine every Friday evening, the family filters into the room within seconds. Seats are taken, plates are passed and filled, and conversation carries on with ease.
As we dive into caribou burgers on homemade bannock buns, air-fried goose, roasted vegetables, pickled beets and cucumbers, my mom announces she has news. The table quiets and all attention turns to her.
She reaches for and takes Dad’s hand. “Tikaani and I have been in touch with a medical facility in Colorado for some time. We’ve paid close attention to case studies that may be beneficial for some of our clients.”
Animated murmurs sound around the table.
“Dr. Adriel Hatathli, a Navajo neurologist, has been dubbed the best of his generation,” she continues, a glint of admiration in her eyes. “Tikaani and I asked if he would come to Stone Bay and give a seminar.” Mom glances at Dad and he stares at her as though nothing exists but her. “Dr. Hitathli agreed to the conference. As a thank-you, we want to extend a dinner invite.” Mom’s gaze shifts to mine. “Kaya, I’d like you to join us.”
Neurology may not be my area of expertise, but it would be wonderful to ask a specialist how to spot signs of neural issues that may appear as behavioral obstacles. My mind wanders as new ways to help children filter in, but I quickly shove them aside.
Something about Mom’s tone as she suggested I join them doesn’t sit right. Can’t quite place it, but a voice in the back of my head says she has an ulterior motive.
“For the seminar?” I sit straighter in my seat and square my shoulders.
“Of course, the seminar.”
As I exhale, a hint of tension leaves my muscles.
“And for dinner,” she adds.
With three words, every joint in my body stiffens. Because this isn’t just a courtesy dinner with a brilliant doctor visiting Stone Bay. This is my mother’s way of trying to set me up with someone. Not an ounce of malice in her tone, I know her heart is in the right place. She sees this dinner as an opportunity for an extraordinary future.
But I’ve told her time and again why I’m not interested or serious about romantic relationships right now. I’ve worked hard to get where I am with my career. Serious romantic commitments are a distraction. A risk I’m not willing to take.
Then, an image of Ray next to me at the table in class earlier filters in. His proximity. His spicy, sweet scent with a hint of lavender. My agreeing to dinner with him.
Suddenly, the room is too hot, too small. Wildfire dances over my chest, up my neck, and sears my cheeks. My clothes cling to me as perspiration dampens my skin. Wringing the napkin in my lap, I draw in a deep breath. And as I relax my fingers, I remind myself Mom only has my best interest at heart.
“I’d love to attend the seminar. It’ll undoubtedly help with how I move forward with my students.” My eyes lose focus for a beat, then sharpen as I meet Mom’s hopeful stare with a sympathetic smile. “But I’m not interested in a dinner date.”
Dad’s expression darkens as he looks from me to Mom, an invisible strain heavy in the air. The muscles in his jaw tic once, twice, three times before he takes a deep breath. Giving Mom’s hand a noticeable squeeze, the shadows in his eyes fade. Another steadying inhale, he meets my gaze.
“Your mother and I fought against being set up, too. She was home between her sophomore and junior years of college. I was preparing to attend the same college in the fall. And our parents thought it’d be a good idea for us to have a friend from home.”
He chuckles as he arches a brow and smirks at his parents a few seats down from him.
“We made excuses most of the summer to avoid an arranged date. Then our parents got sneaky. A few weeks before school resumed session, your grandparents said they wanted to take me out for a special dinner before college. I agreed. Little did I know the meal would be hosted in this exact room.”
A slow sweep of his thumb over Mom’s hand, my parents share a silent conversation for a breath.
“We refused a date for months, but the moment we were in the room together, I never wanted anyone else.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard how my parents got together. It’s far from romantic, but I love how they clicked so easily. Once they set aside their irritation and spoke with each other, everything fell into place.
My grandmother speaks up next, sharing a similar story of how she and my grandfather came to be. Their love story has rougher edges. Grandmother says Grandfather was quite self-centered. A ladies’ man with a pompous demeanor.
We all laugh at this.
Grandmother refused to take him as a husband for years. Made excuses and pushed back at every opportunity. Until Grandfather set aside his haughty behavior, she did not give him the time of day. And then, one day, he came to her home with a gift for her parents and an attractive, mature temperament.
That is when she fell in love with him.
But those were different times. The mid-1970s and 1990s may not be long ago, but so much has changed between each generation. Women no longer need a man to thrive or have access to things former generations were not allowed to have.
Women’s independence is applauded more each day, given a place in the world. Of course, there will always be people who try to stamp out our light—those people will never go away. It’s what we do when they come at us that defines what happens next.
I want to live life on my terms. Yes, I will continue to learn about my culture and where I come from. Yes, I will share those pieces of myself, so my story lives on. But I will not be defined by the past. My future is mine, and I want to write it.
“An arranged relationship can become one of love,” Mom says, interrupting my reverie.
Part of me wants to tell my parents I agreed to a date with Ray Calhoun. That I’m thrilled to spend time with him. Learn more about the man behind the videos and his alter ego as a father. We may not have sorted out the details, but it’s in place. And accepting a date with anyone else feels… wrong.
Another part of me wants to ask why they don’t put as much energy into finding love matches for my brothers. Ask why they aren’t hounding them more to marry by a certain age. Yes, they’re younger, but not by much. And let’s not forget, my parents have sought a suitor for me since my teens but left my brothers to their own devices.
I’d love to tell Mom and Dad how much I like Ray—more than I have anyone in some time—but the sudden, dull pang in my side has me biting my tongue. The faint voice in my head says my family wouldn’t approve of him. Not because he isn’t a good man. And not because he wouldn’t be able to provide for me.
Sakari and Tikaani Imala have a vision for my future. A mental picture of me with a man that looks nothing like Ray. A man with a specific career and ambitious life goals.
Their fantasy isn’t bad. It’s just not what I want.
Maybe I should fight back as Grandmother did. Stand strong, put my foot down, and tell them what I want. Whether it’s independence or a relationship with someone of my choosing, it’s time I use my voice.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and hold Mom’s gaze. “I know, Anaana . But I want more than a relationship that eventually turns into love.”
I want a love I can’t breathe without.
A love I’d die without.
A love I’d kill for.
But I also don’t want that love now. One day.