That radioactive groundwater has, for decades, drained down the hillside into Blue Creek, which then flows into the Spokane River. There is a beach at that place where the radioactive creek merges with the radioactive river.
Over the years, many Spokane Indians collected water and rocks from Blue Creek to use in our sacred sweat lodges. A sweat lodge is made by bending flexible wood branches into a dome shape that is draped with blankets and tarps. That flexible wood was sometimes collected from willows along Blue Creek. Other wood, like ponderosa pine, was sometimes gathered from trees felled near the mine. That wood was used to build campfires. Pots of Blue Creek’s radioactive water were boiled on those campfires. Ladles of that water were poured onto the piles of radioactive rocks placed inside sweat lodges. That steam was meant to purify us. We sang and prayed in the superheated and closed spaces of our radioactive sweat lodges.
During my childhood, Blue Creek Beach was also our family’s favorite place to picnic, play in the sand, and swim. Unlike the rest of our family, my mother and I had always been terribly afraid of water.
She and I had never learned how to swim.
But when I close my eyes, I can see her walking barefoot through that beach sand. I can see her kicking dust into the air. I can see her step into the creek up to her ankles. I can see her wade into the river up to her knees.
I can see her waving hello, hello, hello, and good-bye.
3.
The Call
IN LATE JUNE 2015, my sister called me.
“You better get here,” she said. “The doctor said Mom is near the end.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m on the way.”
My wife, Diane, and I and our teenage sons drove from Seattle to the reservation and made our way to my childhood home.
As we pulled into the driveway, I saw my sister sitting on the front porch steps.
“Oh, God,” I said to my wife. “Mom must have died already. Arlene wants to tell me before I go inside the house.”
I hurried out of the car and ran to embrace my sister.
“When did she die?” I asked.
“Mom’s not dead yet,” my sister said.
I was confused. I couldn’t recall a single time when any Indian in my life had formally greeted me at their front door.
“Then why were you waiting for us outside?” I asked.
“I have to warn you,” my sister said.
“What?” I asked. “Is Mom deformed or something?”
I couldn’t imagine how lung cancer, how any cancer other than skin cancer, might dramatically change a person’s appearance.
“No,” my sister said. “It’s just—well, it’s just—”
She hesitated and covered her face with her hands. I thought she was crying. But then I realized she was laughing.
“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”
“I wanted to warn you,” she said. “I wanted to prepare you. You see, Mom is being affectionate. She’s, like, hugging people and telling us she loves us. It’s weird.”
My sister and I laughed together.
We hugged again.
And then we walked inside to greet my dying mother.
4.
Good Hair
ON HER DEATHBED, my mother reached up and touched my face. She touched my hair.
“Your hair is so curly,” she said. “You have the curliest hair of any Indian ever.”
“My sons have curlier hair than me,” I said. “Look at them.”
My mother looked at her grandsons and laughed.
“Everybody is curly,” she said.
I said, “When Indians have curly hair, I call it the Geronifro.”
My mother laughed.
“Don’t cut your hair when I die,” she said.
When my father died, I sliced off my long hair and buried it in a secret place.
“I don’t have braids anymore,” I said. “My hair is messy but it’s short.”
“Don’t cut your curls,” my mother said. “And don’t let the boys cut their hair.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You should grow back your braids,” she said. “Honor me by wearing your hair long again.”
“Okay,” I said.
I lied.
5.
Soda Can
NINETEEN SEVENTY-SEVEN. I was ten. My mother and I were arguing. I don’t remember how the fight started. We, the bipolar mother and her bipolar son, fought so often that all of the arguments blended into a terrifying yet predictable ride. My mother and I were roller-coaster cars on parallel tracks.
During that argument in 1977, I remember the hatred I felt for my mother. It didn’t feel like a temporary hatred. And it didn’t feel like an adolescent rage. It felt like something more profound and permanent than youthful angst. My hatred felt as ancient as a cave painting. I didn’t want to physically hurt my mother, but I certainly wanted my words to break her soul’s back over my soul’s knee. But, as I screamed at her and she screamed back, she kept working on the damn quilt in her lap.
“I hate your quilts!” I screamed.
On the surface, those four words don’t seem all that bad, but my mother’s quilting wasn’t a hobby. Quilting was her philosophy.
Fabric square ad infinitum.
“I hate your quilts!” I screamed again.
“Shut up!” she screamed.
And then I called her the worst thing possible. I know what word you think I used—the worst epithet an American man can throw at an American woman. But I’ve never used that particular word during any heated moment and can’t recall ever saying it in even the most ironic sense. Instead, I called her something that had become my greatest personal weapon against her.
“Why don’t you shut up!” I screamed. “You old bag!”
Yes, my mother vehemently hated to be called an old bag. It’s an unpleasant thing to say to anybody, let alone your mother, but it’s a slur that could play on Nickelodeon TV. Why did my mother hate that curse more than any other? I suppose it had to do more with the force of the emotion behind the insult than the insult itself.
But I must also note that a friend, after reading an early draft of this chapter, interpreted “old bag” as meaning “used condom.” I was shocked by his observation. Did my mother think that I was calling her a used condom? I doubt it, but I wonder about her definition of “old bag.” I’d always thought that I was just insulting her age and wrinkled skin—and her existential emptiness.
I wish I could ask my mother why she hated that particular insult so much. It makes me want to buy a Ouija board and ask her about the whole damn situation. Maybe her ghost would be honest with me.
So, yes, I’d insulted my mother’s quilting and called her an old bag. She’d had enough of my disrespect. She reached over toward the end table, grabbed a mostly full can of Pepsi, and threw it at me.
I stood by the back door. She sat on the couch. We were at least fifteen feet apart. My mother did not have good hand-eye coordination. She was not athletic. And yet, as that Pepsi can flew toward me, seemingly in slow motion, I found myself thinking, Shit, that thing is going to hit me in the face.