Page 81 of Uncharted Desires
West gaped at him. He had spent his whole life thinking his mom had just disappeared, but in reality his mother had wanted nothing to do with him. In fact, she had chosen her career over him.
“You just let her walk away!” West said, his anger growing.
“No,” his father said, calmer than he should’ve been. “I pushed her. I pushed her harder than I should have. She had you, and I asked her to stay with us, and she did for a while, but she wasn’t the mothering type. She couldn’t stand it. I drove her away, away from us, away from you, and for that, West, I am forever sorry.”
West sat back on the couch, processing his father’s words. His father had fought for him while his mother had never wanted him. He had been right that his father had chased his mother away, but not in the way he’d thought. West hadn’t been to therapy in a decade, but after this bombshell, he was considering calling up his old doc.
“I don’t tell you this to make you question yourself, West,” his father said, cutting into his thoughts. “But I want you to think about your Miss Brooks.”
West whipped his head up to glare at his father. “She’s not mine.”
His dad chuckled. “I saw the way you two looked at each other—it was practically incendiary. I’ve told you about your mother because she’s a lot like Miss Brooks, except I think Kat’d make a great mother. But she has to have a purpose beyond that, she has to feel like she makes a difference. You can’t solve all her problems, she’s too independent. I tried that with your mother and all it did was drive her away. No other woman has ever come close for me.”
West saw the weariness in his father’s eyes, and for the first time he understood what his dad was feeling. If he felt even a fraction of what West was feeling, he pitied the poor man.
“Have you ever tried to get her back?”
“She’s happily married now.” He drained his glass and stood up, walking the glass back to his kitchen.
West didn’t want to ask, but he did. “Kids?”
“No, I told you, not the motherly type.”
No half-siblings running around.
“Listen, son, I know I was tough on you, but music is not just in your blood; it is you. When you play, that is where I see true love. I won’t tell you what to do; the decision is up to you, but don’t give up on love.”
West knew his dad wasn’t just talking about music.
“Dad.” His father turned and they looked at each other, really looked at each other, and all the years of judgment and anger came to the surface. While they didn’t melt away, West felt a shift in their relationship, the start of something new. “What should I do?”
“You can’t solve all her problems, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be there for her. Think about what she needs that she can only get from you. You know that movie we used to watch when you were a kid?”
West leaned back on his sofa. “Which one?”
His dad smiled. “The baseball one. It’ll come to you.” And with that he walked out the door, leaving West mulling over his words.
Kat sat in her grandmother’s kitchen watching her knead the dough for the fry bread, food that, while not actually traditional to Native culture, had become a survival staple to many tribes due to its simplicity. Now it was just a comfort food in most Native households, and no matter how hard the boarding school had tried to rid her grandma of her memories, she had never forgotten how to make it.
Her grandma worked the dough, turning it into little circles before throwing a couple into the pan of oil. The oil sizzled as the dough hit the pan, a sound Kat had missed throughout her travels. It was absolutely awful food for her to eat health-wise, but if there was ever a time for comfort food this was it. She had gone from eating nothing for days to spending the past few days sitting in this kitchen eating the only food her grandma knew how to cook from scratch. Her heart ached, her head ached, and her entire body ached. She was the definition of a hot mess. How could a woman in her thirties be this broken up over a man?
He’s not just a man, he’s the man.
She pushed that thought out of her head as her grandma brought over her fry bread, not complete without the butter.
“Not that I’m complaining, dear, but to what do I owe your third visit this week?”
She took a bite and sighed as the fried goodness melted in her mouth. “Can’t I just want to see my grandma?” she said, her mouth full of bread.
“Perhaps, if you weren’t using me to avoid something.”
Damn woman, how’d she know? The older she got, the more she had shed the White assimilation forced upon her and grown into her more authentic Indigenous self. More in tune with the world around her, and apparently that included Kat.
“Katrina, it doesn’t take much to tell your heart is troubled. You’re unfocused, you barely say more than five words some days, and your mother is worried about you.”
“Oh, I thought the spirits told you or something,” she laughed.
“No, Katrina, they do not speak to me.” Her grandma’s face fell, the sadness she never spoke about creeping over her features. “But maybe we can pray to the Great Creator to help you.” She walked over to a basket and pulled out a braid of sweetgrass. “Come with me, my dear.”