There was a knock at the door.
This was always a startling sound living in a cabin in a small rural community. When I swung it open, there stood Mary with a smoke hanging from her lips. She was well known for walking the narrow roads of our neighborhood in a ball gown and heels pushing an old wheelbarrow with another neighbors Jack Russell Terrier inside.
“Lois died,” she mumbled.
“Lois? Like Lois down the street in the cottage by the water?” I wasn’t sure if I could trust this information.
“She didn’t tell anyone she had terminal cancer.” Mary took a drag form her cigarette and tilted her head up to exhale the smoke. “They’re having a memorial for her at Sea Bird Island on September 9 at six. Just thought you should know.” She shrugged her shoulders and headed off my porch.
I stood there shocked and confused by Lois’s death. I barely knew her, but she had the prettiest yard and always looked healthy and happy. Stunned, I shut the door and the memorial’s date and place vanished from my mind.
Weeks later my wife (now my ex) and I were having a heated argument. I was so furious that I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I needed time to cool off. I headed east on Lougheed Highway with the September sun shining through my side mirror. My stomach growled. I hadn’t had dinner. I decided I would drive to Hope, forty-minutes away, and get French fries – my eternal cure for upset.
I drove over the bridge spanning the icy blue waters of Harrison River and climbed the steep hill of Mt. Woodside, with the spectacular views of the Fraser and the mountains beyond. As I descended, I could clearly see an SUV on fire. The flames jumped out of the hood as the owner stood back on the side of the road. I pulled in behind the one car ahead of me and could hear the fire trucks honking their horns in the distance. There was no way in hell I was going back home. I had a plan. A mission. I put on my turn single as though I were an obedient driver and pulled my Yaris across the dotted line and into the oncoming lane. I drove by the waiting car, then gunned it past the burning SUV. When I got beside the vehicle and took a quick look, a wall of heat hit my car, came through my glass window, and smacked me in the face. Past the inferno, I swerved back into the lane. The fire trucks wailed at me wildly. My heart nearly galloped out of my chest. One part of me was chastising myself for being a reckless idiot, while the other part was cheering me on for my successful maneuver.
I continued through the beautiful summer landscape of large farms with red barns full of milking cows and fields of waving corn or rows of blueberries. I turned towards Agassiz, driving past hazelnut orchards with Mt. Cheam looming over, its glaciers still prominent on its sharp peaks. Over the train tracks I went continuing towards my destination.
Suddenly, two white horses, tall and muscly, jumped in front of my car and cantered down the street. I slammed on my brakes, pulled to the side of the road and got out. They slowed down and trotted off into the grassy ditch to eat. I checked behind me. No one. I scanned the farms on either side. Nothing. I looked for a hole in the wire fence. None. Growing up my Baba would always say to me – Lucky lucky white horse, lucky lucky me. Lucky lucky white horse, bring some luck to me.
Back in the car, I turned on CBC Radio One to see what was playing for the last twenty-five minutes of my road trip. I passed a sign on the side of the road for Sea Bird Island Band. The name sounded familiar. The radio host spoke, “It’s six o’clock on your Friday evening.” I pulled to the side of the road once again, clutching my heart. “Isn’t today Lois’s memorial? Holy shit. It is.”
I made a U-turn and drove into the First Nations community. I passed by houses and carved totem poles and saw a large building with parked cars. I assumed I was in the right place. I got out and looked at myself in the window reflection. I had on my gardening clothes – a baggy pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap. My running shoes had grass stains. This was not memorial attire. I did my best by tucking in my shirt and braiding my long straggly hair.
Inside, the gymnasium was set up with rows of chairs. There was a long banquet table in the back with a feast of food. At the front was a podium and a table with blankets and hand-made gifts. People from Sea Bird Island community talked in small circles, consoling each other. From the front row, Mary waved her hands over her head. I walked the aisle and took the seat beside her.
A man with a woven cedar hat walked to the podium and spoke into the microphone. He introduced himself as the chief. The memorial began with an elder drumming and singing prayerful songs. The Sea Bird community gave a Pendleton blanket and handmade gifts to Lois’s family. Then the storytelling began. Lois was honored again and again for her dedication to indigenous people’s healing from trauma. She was described as kind, patient and consistent. She’d driven her Mini Cooper into some of the most remote villages offering counseling. She was an Earth angel.
The last women to speak mentioned that Lois’s cat had gone missing. She’d looked through Lois’s house and yard and walked around our neighborhood but could not find him. She gave everyone a description and asked us to keep an eye out for her cat.
At home, my wife (now ex) and I made up, and I told her all about my incredible experience. In the dark of the early morning, I woke to meowing outside my bedroom window. I thought of Lois’s cat. I jumped from my bed, turned on the porch light, and pulled the sliding glass door open, but nothing was there. For the next week, I was woken in the dark morning hours by meowing, but I never found Lois’s cat.
