She shivered. “What do you mean, where you’re going? Are you leaving Cold Water?” She steeled herself for the answer. Of course, he could go anywhere now. He was finished school. Free.
But he didn’t answer. Tears slid into her hair, wetting the pillow.
She squeezed his hand. “Please, say something, Ré,” she said. She heard him turn his head to look at her again.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. He rocked their clasped hands lightly, reassuring her. “At least, not till after the baby.”
Evie’s eyes went wide, remembering. The distant star, the tiny alien. She pulled her hand from Ré’s and touched her belly. “The baby,” she gasped, feeling only cheap hospital blankets. The heart monitor skipped and raced as she jerked in the bed, trying to sit up. “Oh my god, the baby!”
She tried to breathe around the brick in her chest.
Until this instant, she hadn’t felt anything for it. Not worry, and definitely not love. It was only stardust. It was only Shaun’s. The last bruise to fade. But now it all boomeranged back, knocking the air straight out of her.
“Ev.” He touched her arm. “She’s fine—don’t worry. You lost a lot of blood, but everything’s okay now.”
She stopped struggling and just stared at him, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” she said again. “She?”
She could see him nodding in the dark. Could just make out his grin.
Then he shifted and with a breathless groan eased himself up on one elbow.
He ran his hand down her arm, sliding his fingers through hers over the little bump, still hiding safely away under the covers. A sleeping fox curled against her tail. A baby girl.
A flood of warmth began in Evie’s chest and rippled outward, echoed by the skittish machine, dot, dot, dot…
She held his hand against her belly, against the strange universe growing there, still gathering itself to become. She had to fight her tears again, but these ones were happy, at least.
“Ev,” he said again. This time his voice was very serious. In the dim light, she could see that he’d closed his eyes, too shy to look. “Do you remember that day we were in my room?”
She swallowed, nervous and embarrassed all over again. Of course she did.
She remembered the light along the side of his face. Lashes so long they kissed his cheeks. She remembered the song he’d played, the one about the moon.
She remembered his silver armor fallen away at last, and the tender heart that lay there, bare and sweet.
And the words she’d said. How could she forget?
I could love you, if you asked me to…
He cleared his throat. Opened his eyes, all liquid black, and looked at her again. A shimmering dark lake to go swimming in. A place she could probably drown. And maybe she already had. “Well,” he said, so serious, so shy. “I was wondering, Ev…maybe could I ask you something now?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While writing this book, I reached out to many Indigenous people for their help in writing Réal in a sensitive and respectful way, and to them I am so grateful. It is a very tricky thing to write outside of your own culture—I only hope that I’ve done it with the care and respect it deserves.
I would be remiss in leaving out the influence my First Nations friends have had on me over the years, particularly Nadia McLaren, Ian Town, Jesse Chechock, and Rhea Doolan. Thank you for sharing your stories, and for opening my eyes (whether you knew you were or not).
Many languages thrived in Canada long before English and French. But as complex and ancient as those languages are, like Réal says, most now stand like newborn animals on skinny legs thanks to the residential school system.
In what is now accurately called “cultural genocide,” generations of Indigenous children were stolen from their homes and sent to government-sanctioned schools in an effort to crush their languages, culture and traditions. The effects have been devastating and long-reaching.
The effort to revive these languages is an uphill battle, and I’m very grateful for the translations provided by Mskwaankwad Rice, who is deeply committed to teaching Anishinaabemowin to new generations.
In the storytelling tradition of the Algonquins, the Windigo is a malevolent spirit with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Windigo stories serve many purposes, but most notably as a warning against cannibalism—as abhorrent in Algonquin societies as anywhere—during long, harsh winters.
For more about Windigos, I encourage you to read as much as you can, especially stories by First Nations writers. Nathan D. Carlson’s Reviving Witiko (Windigo): An Ethnohistory of “Cannibal Monsters” in Northern Alberta, published by Duke University Press, has been a great help to me.
To learn more about Anishinaabemowin, email Mskwaankwad Rice at [email protected]. Also, check out his Rez 91 YouTube channel, or tune in to Rez 91 radio at www.rez91.com.
To learn more about the residential school system, look for Nadia McLaren’s documentary, Muffins for Granny, read Monique Gray Smith’s Speaking Our Truth: A Journey of Reconciliation or go to www.wherearethechildren.ca.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my sister Morgan, for telling me how a tiny universe feels. To my beautiful biker babe, Rayne Wildwood, many thanks for filling Alex in with all your sunshine. To Jaimie Dufresne, for lending me your language and your name. And to Waubgeshig and Mskwaankwad Rice, for helping Réal come to life with care.
Sarah Harvey, Andrew Wooldridge, Jen Cameron, Rachel Page, Greg Younging, Vivian Sinclair and the rest of the Orca team: Thank you all so much for making me feel like a real writer! It’s a dream come true.
Many thanks also to Andrew Smith, Matt and Rebecca James, Michael Elcock, Evan Munday, Kate Brauning, Jackie Kaiser and Elizabeth Culotti, for guiding me up this strange mountain, and to Crissy Calhoun, for swooning first.
To Susan Stanton, Maisie Mulder, Nadia Kane, Mishelle Pack and of course Sylvia Knoll, thank you all so much for reading the roughest of drafts! Geneviève Scott—your eyes and encouragement were invaluable. Alaa al-barkawi, thank you for driving me back
