Chapter 32 #2
“I’ve made a mess of everything. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been blaming everyone else for anything that goes wrong in my life, and now I’ve got no one left.
There’s nothing to distract me from the fact that all I want is my dad back.
” I choke up, holding my breath as I try to hold myself together for Nookomis’s sake.
A timer chimes from across the house. The corners of her lips creep into a soft smile as she scoots out of her chair. “Come
on, there’s nothing bannock can’t fix,” she says, making her way into the kitchen.
It smells better than I remember, and tastes even better than it smells. Between bites smeared with homemade jam and sips
of warm tea, I relax into my chair, feeling full in a way I haven’t in years. Over two servings and a cup of tea I tell her
everything—including the part where I punched that guy in the face at the bar on New Year’s Eve, to which she replies, “Damn
right you did.”
“I used to make this for your dad when he was upset. It’s the best cure for a bad hockey game or big loss,” she says proudly.
With a full mouth, I reply, “I’m not sure there’s enough bannock in the world to make me stop missing him.”
She sits next to me, sipping her second cup of steaming tea. “You know, the second greatest thing your father ever did with
his life was have daughters.”
I laugh half-heartedly because I already know the punch line to one of my dad’s favorite jokes, and I deliver it the same
way Dad did. “And the greatest thing he ever did was teach them to play hockey.” We laugh together, until the happy memory
sours into the realization that he’s no longer here to tell it. Even my nostalgia is spoiled with grief.
“Hockey gave this family a lot, but we sacrificed for it. You might never stop being angry at what happened to him, but your dad wouldn’t want that anger to consume your ability to feel anything else.”
“But letting go of the anger feels like I’m letting go of him.”
“Oh, Nimkiikwe. It’s okay to miss him. I miss him too.”
“Tori doesn’t. Mom doesn’t.” I speak candidly, drunk off the comfort of Nookomis’s home-cooked food.
“Yes, they do. We all do. But we all grieve differently.”
“Then I must suck at it.”
She drops her mug. “Follow me,” she says, once again leading me around the house, like she does in Zelda. Always taking me right where I need to be to secure the key and unlock another level. “I want to show you something.”
We stop in front of her bedroom window, the large rectangular one that overlooks the backyard garden and lake. It’s the one
she would open to yell out to us to get off the pond and come inside for dinner.
“If the rez dogs are getting into your garden again, it’s because you always feed them.”
She ignores me, just as she does Nimishoomis’s continuous cautionary tale of feeding stray rez dogs.
“See that?” She points to the hummingbird feeder hanging from the windowsill.
“Nenookaasi.” Speaking my native tongue is like finding a favorite hoodie you thought you lost forever: It still fits just
as I remember and its comfort is instant.
The hummingbird’s wings flap at an unquantifiable pace. They move with such vigor, but its body remains still. It’s like my
restless mind these past few days as it’s been trapped in my stagnant body.
“Yes. He’s been coming here for seven years. Every spring, he arrives to drink from my feeders.” A proud smile engulfs her
face as she watches the bird dance through the air.
I didn’t know she took up bird-watching. Does she want me to ask what she’s feeding her birds or something? “There’s no way that’s the same one,” I tell her.
“Shhh,” she hisses. Instead of calling me out for what she would normally dub elder abuse, she lets my joke go and is careful
not to spook the hummingbird away.
She stares out the window at the hummingbird with such polite attention and warm welcome that I worry she’s going to open
up the screen and invite it in for bannock and tea, and like she’s a Disney princess, it will become her loyal and comedic
sidekick.
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “It’s your father’s way of saying hi to me. It’s my sign that he’s still alive
in my heart and watching over me. I talk to him every day.”
“Hopefully not around the neighbors or they might have you placed in a home.”
This time, she groans loudly and gives me a playful pinch on the fleshy part of my arm. “You got that attitude from your father.”
We both laugh. She wraps her soft arm around me. Her thin skin is delicate like lace around my shoulder. “Open your heart
and he will speak to you too.” In her comforting embrace, we watch the hummingbird buzz off toward the garden and disappear
out of sight.
“I have to run into town. How about you come along for the ride?” she suggests.
Nookomis pulls into the town’s local rink, which I’m surprised to find is still standing after all these years. It’s the type
of rink that makes you realize why arenas are nicknamed barns, and it’s where my dad grew up playing hockey.
“I’m not sure you should be playing hockey with your hip replacement,” I joke, getting more comfortable around Nookomis. We used to joke like this all the time, with my dad and I ganging up on her. We were always the ones to dare try her, and she was quick enough to never let us get away with it.
“And you shouldn’t be playing Zelda with those slow thumbs,” she says. “I’m here to pick up my bingo winnings. Betty thinks she can dodge me at council and not
pay up. Fat chance.” She slams the car door, and with her handbag tucked under her arm, she marches inside.
While Nookomis handles her business, I slink around the rink. The old baby-blue linoleum floors have been redone, but the
original wood beam ceilings remain. As soon as I leave the lobby and step foot in the stands, the rink’s chill hits my bones
like a shiver. I sit in the cold and watch the bare ice, waiting for my sign. In the quiet, I wait for my dad’s voice to bellow
through the crackly old PA system and tell me how to make everything better. A play-by-play announcement of how I can right
all my wrongs would be clutch at a moment like this. Unfortunately, all I hear is the low hum of whatever fifty-year-old cooling
machine is on its last life struggling to keep the ice frozen.
If he’s got nothing to say to me, then there’s no point in sitting around freezing my ass off. I head back into the lobby,
cold and discouraged. All alone, I linger past the relics of our local hockey heroes. Hung in the display cases are old photographs
and tarnished trophies. I easily find my dad’s photos—his personality was as big as he was, even as a kid. I immediately spot
the dusty silver trophies with his name on them because he used to point them out to us, bragging that he was once a “big
deal around here.” For a building that feels haunted with his spirit, it doesn’t have much to say to me.
As I turn to leave and go wait in the car, I see a poster tacked to a corkboard hanging over the water fountain. JOB OPPORTUNITY reads the sign in big bold letters. Below is a description. The local college is looking for an assistant coach for the Ice
Dogs, the women’s hockey team. I burst out into laughter. It’s uncontrollable, like a coughing fit. This might not be some
beautiful metaphor like a bird that defies gravity, but it’s as literal as he could get. My dad really said, You want a sign, well here it is, you dumbass.
I take down the contact info because I can’t think of anything else I want more than to get back into the game. “Miigwech,
Dad,” I whisper to myself.