The Marsh King's Daughter(77)

Wolverine.

I clutched the blanket tighter. Wolverines are extremely ferocious, my father had often said, and would eat anything: squirrels, beavers, porcupines—sick or injured deer and moose. Perhaps even a small girl.

Gwiingwa’aage stalked into the yard. His hair was long and shaggy and black. I drew back. Gwiingwa’aage raised his head and looked up at my window and screamed.

I yelped and dashed for my bed. My father picked up my blanket and laid it over me, then stretched out beside me on top of the covers and held me in his arms while he told a funny story about Wolverine and his older brother Bear. After that, the wolverine’s scream was no longer scary.

I know now that wolverine sightings in Michigan are extremely rare. Some say the animals never lived in the state at all, never mind that Michigan is nicknamed the Wolverine State. But memories aren’t always about facts. Sometimes they’re about feelings. My father had given a name to my fear, and I was no longer afraid.

I look down at my father. I understand he’s done terrible things. He could spend a hundred lifetimes in prison and the scales of justice would never be balanced. But that night, he was just a dad, and he was mine.

“Okay,” he says. “You won. It’s over. I’ll leave now. I promise I won’t go near you or your family.”

He holds out his hands, palms up, and gets to his feet. I keep the Glock trained on his chest. I could let him go. God knows I don’t want to hurt him. I love him, despite everything he’s done. I thought when I went looking for him this morning that I wanted to return him to prison, and I do. But I also realize now that my connection to my father runs deeper than I ever imagined. Maybe the real reason I went after him was because I wanted to see him one last time before he disappeared. Now that I have, maybe that’s enough. He’s promising he’ll walk away. He says it’s over. Maybe it is.

Except that his promises mean nothing. I think about how a wendigo is never satisfied after killing and searches constantly for new victims. How every time he eats, he grows bigger, so he can never be full. How if the people hadn’t killed him, the whole village would have been destroyed.

I ease back on the trigger.

My father laughs. “You won’t shoot me, Bangii-Agawaateyaa.” He smiles, takes a step toward me.

Bangii-Agawaateyaa. Little Shadow. Reminding me of how I followed him everywhere he went. How, like his shadow, I belonged to him. How without him, I don’t exist.

He turns and walks away. Reaches behind his back and takes the second Glock from his waistband and tucks it in the front of his jeans. His walk becomes a swagger. Like he truly believes I’ll let him go.

I whistle two low notes. Rambo looks up, tenses. Ready to do whatever I command.

I flick my hand.

Rambo dashes baying after my father. My father whirls, grabs the Glock, shoots. The shot goes wild. Rambo leaps and locks his teeth around my father’s wrist. The Glock falls.

My father slams his fist into Rambo’s side. Rambo loosens his grip. My father hits him again and charges toward me. I stand my ground. At the last second, I raise my arms over my head as he slams into me. I slip the handcuffs over his head and down to his waist, trapping his arms by his sides, as we fall to the ground. I twist the Glock around and turn it toward me and shove it in his back, trying to angle the barrel in such a way that the bullet I fire will kill him and not me.

Suddenly his body goes slack, like he knows it’s over, and there is only one way this can end.

“Manajiwin,” he whispers in my ear.

Respect. The second time in my life he’s said this. A feeling of peace washes over me. I am no longer my father’s shadow. I am his equal. I am free.

“You have to do it,” Cousteau says.

“It’s okay,” Calypso says. “We understand.”

I nod. Killing my father is the right thing to do. It’s the only thing I can do. I have to kill him for my family, for my mother. Because I am The Marsh King’s Daughter.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.





28





The bullet that killed my father went through the same shoulder where my father had previously shot me—which, considering the alternatives, is actually a good thing. It would have been a whole lot worse these past months if both of my arms had been affected. Still, my recovery hasn’t been fun. Surgery, therapy, more surgery, more therapy. Apparently the shoulder is a bad place to get shot. The doctors say there’s no reason I won’t eventually regain the full use of my left arm. Meanwhile, Stephen and the girls have gotten used to one-armed hugs.

Together, we are sitting in a circle around my mother’s grave. It’s a fine spring day. Sun shining, clouds scudding, birds singing. A tub of marsh marigolds and blue flag irises sits on top of the modest gravestone at my mother’s head. The granddaughters I named for her two favorite flowers sit at her feet.

The flowers were my idea. Coming here was Stephen’s. He says it’s time the girls learned more about their grandmother, and that sitting beside her grave while I tell them stories about my mother will make more of an impression. I’m not so sure. But the marriage counselor we’re seeing says both parties need to be willing to compromise in order to make a marriage work, so here we are.

Stephen reaches across my mother’s grave and squeezes my hand. “Ready?”