Chapter 11: November 15, 1975: Part I

“It’s date night again,” I sigh as I buckle myself into the booster seat in the 1970 Buick Estate.

Rich smiles and leans back to squeeze my shoulder. “It’s important for couples to have date nights. Don’t take it personally.”

“Do you and Simone have date nights?”

He carefully backs out of the driveway. “We do.”

“Who babysits Eva and Naomi?”

“Simone’s parents live a few miles away. Actually, the girls are staying with them tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed.

“You’ll see them next Saturday. They love you, too.”

I half-smile as I look out the window and watch the trees zip past.

“Besides,” he says, an unusual nervousness coating his words, “it’s going to be a tough night, and I wanted to make sure you felt safe and supported.”

I turn away from the window. “What do you mean? What’s going to be tough? Why do you sound like that?”

He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “I hope my girls are as smart and observant when they grow up as you are now.”

“You’ve never lied to me, right?”

“Right.”

“So, tell me the truth now. What’s going on?”

He stops talking as he turns on his blinker to change lanes. He glances in his side mirrors and transitions smoothly. “There’s someone I want you to meet. His name is Marc, and he’s a newspaper reporter. He grew up in Pitt Meadows.”

My brain buzzes with the implications. “That’s close to my tribe.”

Rich checks his rearview mirror. “I know. One of his friends is friends with Nya Fox. Do you know her?”

“She’s a member of our nation. She’s going to have a baby in a few months.”

He’s quiet as he makes two left turns and slows as we enter his street.

“You are the most cautious driver I’ve ever met,” I say. “Just so you know.”

He chortles but doesn’t look at me. “Just trying to keep my family safe.” He uses both hands to turn into his driveway.

It’s the second time he’s referred to me as his family.

He parks the car, kills the engine, and turns his whole body toward me. “I’d like for you to talk to him, but I won’t pressure you. None of us will. Tell him what you want, don’t tell him anything you want to keep secret.”

He places his hands on both sides of my head. “No one will judge anything you say.” He searches my eyes for a moment, and then he says, “We’ll love you no matter what, okay?”

It’s nice that someone loves me down here.

“Okay.”

“Good.” He brushes the bangs away from my forehead and opens the squeaky car door. “Don’t forget your bag.”

I sling the backpack of pajamas over my shoulder and follow him into the house.

“We’re home,” he announces as he drops his keys in the dish next to the door. It’s true; his house always feels more like “home” than the Russells’ house–although neither are as good as my real home.

“We’re in here,” Simone calls from the kitchen.

The entire house smells of perfectly cooked fish and cornbread.

Rich waits for me to drop my bag in the twins’ room, then leads me into the kitchen. A man, probably five years older than Rich, places a mixing bowl in the dish drainer, then dries his hands. The sleeves of his multicolored, striped sweater are rolled to his elbows. The sweater doesn’t really match his white bell bottoms or Adidas sneakers, but Rich says you can tell a lot about how safe someone feels by the clothes they wear, and I feel good thinking that this guy feels comfortable enough that he doesn’t need to wear formal clothes to Rich’s house.

Rich places his hands on my shoulders, just as he does to his girls. “Deere, this is Marc Hansen. Marc, this is Deere.”

Marc sets down the dishtowel and extends his right hand. I shake it, and he genuinely smiles at me. “I’m glad to meet you, Deere.”

I’m used to “it’s nice,” but “glad” is new to me. How can you be glad to meet someone you don’t know?

“Thank you,” I say, unable to think of another response.

“I hear that we’re almost neighbors.”

I smile, and Rich rubs my sleeves; maybe he’s more nervous than I feel. “My family lives a few miles outside of Pitt Meadows.”

“I heard. I’ve visited your community a couple of times actually. I didn’t meet many people, just Nya and her family. It was a few years ago though.”

Simone shoos us from the kitchen. “I’m going to pull the cast iron skillet from the oven. Everyone clear out.” Although she acts like she’s annoyed at so many people being in the kitchen, the truth is that she’s terrified that Eva, Naomi, or I will burn ourselves.

The three of us walk into the dining room and sit at the round, mahogany table. Rich sits close to me, Marc farther away. Marc leans forward, reminding me of the first time Rich sat next to me not quite two months ago. “There are two things I want to tell you, okay?”

I nod.

“First, I’d like you to tell me a bit about your story. Did Rich tell you that I work at a local newspaper?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I grew up in Pitt Meadows, but my mother is American, and I attended college here. I’ve worked in the U.S. for nearly ten years, and I really like it, but Pitt Meadows will always be home.”

“I understand.”

He smiles, but I see a flash of sadness in his eyes. “I’m sure you do… I was a teenager when I first heard about kids being removed from their families, and, I’ll be honest, Deere, I had trouble believing that families really weren’t caring for kids.”

He swallows, I assume searching for his next words. “Do you know what ‘propaganda’ is?”

I turn my eyes toward the ceiling, genuinely considering his question. “It’s when a country gives information to mislead its citizens, right?”

Marc raises his eyebrows and moves his head back and forth. “I mean, yeah, that’s a good way of explaining it.”

“We learned a little about it with the Nazis doing it with the Germans in World War II,” I tell him. “And I’ve heard about the Cold War and propaganda by the Soviets more in the last two months than I did the entire time I lived in Canada. Last month, we hid during a ‘duck and cover’ drill. I don’t remember ever having one of those at my old school.”

Marc and Rich exchange a look, and I sigh. “We have a lot to fear in our countries, don’t we?”

Rich’s heavy wooden chair scrapes against the linoleum, and he wraps his arms around my shoulders. “There are good people too, Deere. People who love each other, who define family by love, not blood or paperwork.” He’s subtly insulting the Russells’ parenting, and I agree with him.

Rich lets go of my shoulders, and I lean forward, mimicking Marc, who subtly smiles at my gesture.

“I trust Rich and Simone,” I say. “They want good things for me.”

I look him directly in the eye. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, “as much as you trust them. I promise.”

I lean back and look up at Rich, who is still standing behind me. I smile at him, and he pushes the bangs away from my forehead. Finally, he sits back down, and I return my attention to Marc. “Why did you ask me about propaganda?”

Marc takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “The Canadian government used propaganda to convince people that First Nations and Indigenous people didn’t know how to raise their kids,” he shakes his head, “among other things.

“A lot of people believed that, so taking kids away from their families seemed like the right thing to do, and we hoped that loving parents would adopt them and give them good homes.”

I nod. “I think I understand.”

“Rich and I met on August 29, 1970 at an anti-war protest in an effort to support Chicano activists… It was quite a memorable day, and apparently Rich remembered I was a reporter. He reached out to me last week about your story, and that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know what it means if something is ‘on the record’ or ‘off the record’?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“When reporters say something is ‘on the record,’ that means that they can write about it in the paper. They can quote what you say. When they say a conversation is ‘off the record,’ they can’t repeat what you say in the paper. Does that make sense?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tonight, anything you tell me is off the record, okay? If we decide,” he looks at Rich, “when we decide to print this, I’ll come back and talk to you, and you can tell me which parts you want me to share. Okay?”

I don't know what to say to that.

“It’s just the four of us tonight,” he says. “No one will judge you for anything you say, and I won’t print any of it, so you can tell us anything you want, okay?”

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Okay, so that was the first thing I wanted to tell you.”

I smile, just a little. “That was a long thing.”

He laughs. “I know… Here’s the second thing. I’ll be back in Pitt Meadows next month to visit my family for Christmas and Boxing Day. Through my friend and Nya, I can deliver a letter to your parents. You can write anything you want, and even include pictures and drawings. I promise you that I won’t read it or look in the envelope.”

I didn’t expect this at all, and a storm of emotions completely overwhelms me.

I try to hold it in, but I can’t, and I burst into tears. I cover my face, but I feel Rich pick me up and hold me on his lap as if I’m no older or heavier than his daughters. He whispers soothing words and brushes the bangs away from my face.

When I start to compose myself, I look up at Rich. “Will they write me back?”

Rich nods. “We’re going to try to bring you a letter from them too. I can’t guarantee that, but we’re going to try.”

I start to cry again, thrilled that I’ll be able to hear from them, devastated that I won’t be able to see them or talk to them directly. I try to focus on the positive, but the emotions are as inseparable as superglued Tinkertoys.

“What about my sister?” I sniffle.

Marc and Rich exchange a look. “I’m not sure,” Rich answers honestly.

“Why not?” I ask, trying not to whine.

“We’re not sure where she is,” Rich says.

“Wasn’t she adopted at the same time as me?”

Rich bites his bottom lip. “I’m honestly not sure, Deere.”

Marc cuts in. “I’ll try to find her, Deere, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

I nod. It’s not the answer I want, but in a world that constantly lies to me, I appreciate that there are at least three people who won’t mislead me. I pull myself together and climb off Rich’s lap and return to my own chair.

“You should probably write the letter here,” Rich tells me. “You can write it by hand or use our typewriter, but it’s probably better that the letter be here instead of with Will and Edna.”

“I know.”

Marc leans back. “I’m leaving December 20, so as long as I have the letter by then, you can work on it as long and as much as you want.”

I nod, trying not to cry again.

Simone calls that dinner is ready, and Marc and Rich help her prepare plates, set the table, pour drinks, and serve the food. Within a few minutes, I’m looking at baked, crusted halibut; a triangle of thick, buttered cornbread; and a pile of steamed green peas.

And I brace myself for what’s to come.