Disposition of Remains Page 25

  I couldn’t speak. I just looked at her in disbelief. I searched her face and couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed the similarities. The round, dimpled cheeks, the wide-set, probing eyes.

  “And the old man,” Irma continued, “the spirit who speaks to us; he is my father, your grandfather.”

  “Say what?”

  My head was swimming. I was still digesting the first part. My mother had had a sister who she’d never mentioned.

  “She told me—my mother told me—that all of my family was dead. She didn’t want me to come here. She never wanted me to know you, or to know the truth. I don’t understand it.”

  “She was ashamed of her love for him. I had a feeling she was with child when she left. Although the sprits let my father know that she was still alive somewhere, I have never broken my promise to Nova. She was very persuasive.”

  “Trust me, I know how persuasive she could be,” I replied.

  I had done every asinine thing she had ever wanted me to do.

  “What was his name, Irma? Will you tell me?”

  The long-guarded secret flew out of Irma’s mouth without hesitation.

  “His name was Alexander Misalov.”

  And there it was. For the first time in my life, even if it were near the end of it, I had a father. I had Alexander Misalov.

  CHAPTER 37

  I was glued to her side for days. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had an aunt—a real, genuine, live relative. Irma wasn’t the sort of annoying relative who borrows money, shows up uninvited, or gets drunk and ruins special occasions. She was far from a black sheep. Instead, she was incredibly insightful, honest, and loyal to a fault. She was the greatest kind of relative I could imagine.

  Like many of the Havasupai, Irma had never left the Canyon. She had never browsed the Internet, watched television, or driven a car. She had avoided all the complications of the outside world and had only experienced what was brought to her area in the form of tourism.

  We spoke for hours about my mother and my grandfather. While it was all so fascinating, it didn’t give me any more insight into my mother’s deception. What little I actually knew about my mother and could share with Irma was infinitely more than Irma could share with me. She hadn’t seen or heard from my mother since Nova was a young woman, or, in fact, a large girl. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any more, anyhow. I was already questioning whether I had enough time left in my life to come to terms with the kind of person my mother truly was.

  My grandfather’s name was Inyaga Uqualla. Before his birth, his mother had had a vision that he would become a great leader. She named him Inyaga, meaning “black” because of his obsidian eyes. My great-grandmother’s prediction was correct and Inyaga became a well-respected spiritual leader in the tribe. He lived by every legend. He memorized verbatim every story our ancestors ever told. He was known for often speaking to his followers in riddles in order to cause them to think abstractly, see the bigger picture. He was also known for being somewhat intimidating. No shock to me.

  I spent the nights in Havasupai on Irma’s couch, receiving intermittent visits from the alleged spirit of my grandfather. I would have thought I was going insane except that Irma described having similar visions. While she found them very amusing, I did not. Grandpa just provided me with cryptic spiritual messages that, apparently, I was not ready to decipher—usually along the lines of his “For what you have, there is no cure” comment. I had yet to grow fond of our little chats.

  Irma enthusiastically taught me some of the many customs of our people. We picked cottonwood, willow, and Arizona cat claw, then sat for hours with a circle of women from the village while they skillfully weaved black-and-white baskets into all shapes, sizes, and geometric patterns. Irma laughed at my tangled blob of a basket, but I treasured it and what it represented: my being a part of something—part of a family, a tribe, a culture. And yet I still had so many unanswered questions that I had trouble fully enjoying myself.

  One day I watched some of the other villagers create intricate beadwork and carve wooden sculptures while Irma spent hours constructing an ornate cradleboard. The Havasupai still use them to carry and protect their babies until they take their first steps. She weaved arrow weed into a small cradle with a sort of hood. Babies are essentially laced into the papoose where they remain snug and safe on their mother’s back or front, with the sensation that they are still in the womb.

  “The baby’s father will usually make the cradleboard for a newborn. It is significant of the relationship between man and woman, and it is representative of the connection of Father Sky who is in constant exchange with Mother Earth,” Irma explained.

  I didn’t entirely get it. I had heard the myth of the Sky Father and Earth Mother before, but I wasn’t sure what it had to do with a cradleboard or why she would make one, since she clearly wasn’t a father.

  “Who are you making it for?” I asked.

  “It’s for the general store. Tourists love them,” she grinned. “Almost everyone in Havasupai does something for the tourists, whether it be guiding them through the Canyon, working at the inn, or making crafts for them to buy.”

  The majority of their income is derived from tourism. Even though they remain tucked away on the secluded Canyon floor, the Natives are visited annually by about twenty thousand visitors a year who have made the trek down to share in their magnificent little paradise.

  Each day, we walked to the cave near Havasu Falls. Along the way, Irma taught me how every animal and plant has a purpose. She showed me the century plant, named such because it is said to only bloom once every one hundred years.

  “Carefully pull off one of the leaves from the base,” Irma instructed.

  I worked a bit to pry one of the large, spiny succulent leaves from the bush that resembled a giant aloe vera plant.

  “If it is difficult to remove, it means you are having some difficulty in your life.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Hand it to me.”

  I did as she said and she examined the leaf thoroughly, front and back.

  “You see how there is this dry area?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That indicates that you will have health problems. But this red area down at the bottom where you pulled the leaf off, this means you have a great amount of life in you.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps it means that the tumor will not beat you. Or that you will have a strong existence in the afterlife. Only time will tell. You will have to abide by the will of the Creator.”

  Before I submitted to the will of the Creator or anyone else, and definitely before I imagined myself coming out of my illness alive, I had to fill in the missing parts of my story. Even though I didn’t want to know any more terrible things about my mother, I needed to find out what became of Alexander Misalov.

  As much as I hated to abandon Irma, after a week in Havasupai it was time to go. I embraced her tightly, bound and determined to see her again before it was all over. But I had one more question to ask. As afraid as I was of the answer, I absolutely had to ask the question.

  “Irma?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I first left Los Angeles I saw a coyote crossing the highway; he almost caused me to crash my car. Then, I dreamed of him while I was in Africa. I saw him again, right before I found you at the cave. He looked right at me as though he were mocking me.”

  “He was,” she shrugged.

  “Let me guess: seeing a coyote means death.”

  “No. The coyote is a trickster. Seeing him means you have been fooled.”

  CHAPTER 38

  My mother had fooled me. She had fooled everyone. I began to wonder if it wasn’t her in there—the spirit inhabiting that smirking coyote, laughing at me in death just as she must have done in life. For the first time I could remember, I didn’t miss her.

  Misty wasn’t home when I arrived back at her place in Las Vegas. I was grat
eful to not have the distraction. I wasted no time in heading over to the computer to search for Alexander Misalov.

  I expected to peruse results page after results page, scrolling through an endless list of men bearing the same name. I’d planted myself in front of Misty’s computer for the long haul, but in less than a minute, the man I sought was right in front of my eyes. In fact, he was right under my nose; Alexander Misalov, MD, was listed as the chief of medicine at Las Vegas Memorial Hospital. It was either a bizarre coincidence or my father was alive and well, living in Las Vegas. The man whom my mother had told me was dead, along with every other family member who might have mattered to me could be only a short distance from where I sat. It took me a moment to wrap my mind around the possibility that he wasn’t dead after all. Maybe he was actually looking for me.

  Suddenly I had perfect clarity—a mission. I created my resumé with relative ease and submitted my online application. Then I rummaged through Misty’s clothes to find a professional looking outfit, but soon found that Misty only owned two styles of apparel: Vegas vixen and hippy beatnik. Neither was appropriate for my mission so I went back to my own sparse selection and pulled out the gross designer business pantsuit in which I had first embarked upon my journey. After a thorough ironing session, I set off to Las Vegas Memorial.

  I wandered around the drab, sterile halls until I located the office labeled “Chief of Medicine.” Stepping hesitantly through the door, I asked his secretary if I could see her boss.

  “May I ask what this is regarding?” she pleasantly inquired.

  “Yes. I’m applying for a nursing position here. Dr Misalov was a friend of my mother and I was hoping he would put in a good word for me.”

  “All right, let me see if he’s available. I think he might have a few minutes before his lunch appointment,” the round, rosy-cheeked woman whispered, smiling as if she were revealing a great secret.

  She poked her head into his office, uttered a few hushed words while tugging down her too-snug blouse, and then turned back to me with a smile.

  “He said he’ll see you.”

  I suddenly wanted to run away. I had no idea what to say beyond my concocted reason for seeing him. The anxiety made me feel as though I might vomit. The only thing distracting me from the nausea was my heart that was practically pounding straight out of my chest. I could be about to meet the father I never knew existed. He could answer all of my life’s questions. He could be the key to everything.

  “He only has a few minutes,” his secretary urged, since I had done nothing but stand there, frozen.

  “Of course,” I answered as I made my way through the door.

  Alexander Misalov was looking down at some papers on his desk as I approached him. He appeared to be in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and an average build—nothing spectacular, nothing that my mother should have ruined my life over. How could this possibly be my father?

  I cleared my throat trying to get his attention.

  “Hello,” I practically squeaked.

  “I’m sorry, just finishing something up,” he said with a hint of a Russian accent.

  With a smile, he tore his attention away from the papers in front of him, but that smile vanished quickly when he saw me. He pierced me with those unmistakable blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?” he queried in a shaky voice.

  “I’m Anastasia Uqualla,” I managed.

  My face felt numb.

  Poker-faced, he sank back into his chair and looked me up and down.

  “You are Havasupai, correct?” he demanded as though it were an accusation. “Why are you here?”

  I was completely caught off guard. There were no warm-and-fuzzies going on. He was clearly horrified by my presence.

  “I am—I’m…the daughter of Nova Uqualla,” I stammered.

  His poker face morphed into a twisted look of dismay as he shook his head.

  “It cannot be.”

  “It can be. It is. I told your secretary that I needed help getting a job here, but I think we both know I’m here for another reason.”

  I was shocked by how hostile I sounded. My fight-or-flight defense mechanism had suddenly kicked into overdrive. Then there was a knock, and another female voice called to him from outside the office.

  “Dad, are you ready to go to lunch?”

  “Yes,” he replied, hastily arising from his giant leather chair. “I’m sorry; I must go.”

  A little boy grabbed onto his legs as he exited his office.

  “Grandpa!”

  I only caught a glimpse of the woman’s profile as they left together, the happy family. My father with his daughter—with her blonde hair and her nose that looked just like mine—strode away, leaving me alone with his secretary. And they took with them the little boy, the son I could never have. I shuffled out of his office, completely defeated.

  “I’m sure he’ll put in a good word,” his secretary chirped with a smile as I left.

  I was quite sure that he wouldn’t.

  It didn’t make any sense. Or did it? After I returned to Misty’s I searched the Internet again, looking for anything linking Alexander Misalov to my mother. I found nothing—nothing about my mother at all. What I did find was another article dated three years prior.

  Irina Misalova, wife of Dr. Alexander Misalov, died after a

  long battle with Parkinson’s disease. She is survived by her

  husband, one daughter, and a grandson. The couple has been

  married for forty-one years.

  My mother had fallen in love with a married man. He was a man who had deceived her people, and yet, she was clearly willing to do anything for him. Sacrifice anything. Sacrifice me.

  I stripped off my stupid clothes, threw them violently to the floor, and climbed into bed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want anyone to know that my mother had betrayed her own people and lied to me my whole life. She had deceived me about everything that was important to my existence. She had hidden my father from me, and he, it turned out, was embarrassed of me.

  I pulled the covers over my head and cried. I was going to die, and part of me wanted to do it right then, just get it over with. Somehow I couldn’t bear to go on. There was no joke or glib comment I could use to brush it off or make it all right.

  I was going to die and my entire existence had been a lie. For God’s sake, it even rhymed!

  I’m not sure how many hours I lay there bawling before I fell asleep.

  I awakened to the opening of the front door. Misty was home.

  “Stacia?” she called.

  I ignored her.

  She peeked inside the room, and I pretended to be asleep. She shut the door quietly, leaving me to spend the rest of that night in a fetal position, drenched in my own quiet tears.

  Misty had plans to drive to Arizona to see Paul the following morning and she would be gone for a few days. I would have a reprieve from any human contact, which I welcomed. I wanted to be left to my solitary misery, because ultimately, no one could possibly understand.

  At some point I heard the phone ring.

  “Hello,” Misty answered in an audible whisper. “Hey, Wilbur. … Yeah, she’s here, but she’s asleep. You want to me to wake her up? … Yeah, I know she’s been asleep for a long time. Maybe she’s having an off day. … Yes, I mean the cancer. She’s dying, Wilbur; she’s bound to get tired, depressed even. … I know it’s hard. That’s why I was surprised to see you two together. … I’ll check in on her before I go. … Okay, I’ll let her know you called.”

  What was I doing to Wilbur? He was perfectly fine with being friends. I was the one who had turned it into something more. How selfish could I have been? And how delusional was I to think that if I acted like a good person and took better care of my body that the cancer would just miraculously disappear?

  I tried to meditate. I wanted to vanquish all the thoughts swimming around in my head. Once again, the more I tried to evic
t the painful truth from my brain, the faster it came rushing back in. I still sucked at meditating. The only way I could turn off my mind was to go to sleep and hope that when I woke up, something would be different. Anything. I began to pray—to whom, I’m not entirely sure—that it was all some horrible nightmare that would end at dawn’s early light. But the morning came and everything was status quo. My life was still ten gallons of shit in a five-gallon bag.

  I pulled myself together long enough to convince Misty that I was fine. No need to drag her down with me. After all, she was alive and well, and frankly she had suffered enough loss for one lifetime. She would be talking to Wilbur as well; she needed to believe that everything was peachy.

  As soon as we completed our farewells, I walked to the corner market and cleared the shelves of cookies, chips, and candy. After I gorged myself, back to bed I went. And I stayed. Three days, I think, maybe four. I slept, getting up occasionally to drink something or grab a cookie or some other evil, carbohydrate-ridden baked good. I hoped, at times, that I wouldn’t wake up so that I could avoid the suffering that lay ahead of me. Even on my worst days with Evan, I’d never been so tired. Misty’s landline would ring at least four times a day—two or three calls from Wilbur, at least one from Misty—but I couldn’t answer. I had nothing to say. Nothing anyone would want to hear, anyway.

  When I worked as a nurse I had a coworker named Christie. She had a special talent for sucking the joy out of any situation. The glass was always half empty. Ed McMahon could have come to her door with one of those ridiculously enormous checks for a million dollars, and Christie would have complained about the taxes she was going to have to pay, or how her monster-in-law would want a piece, or how her worthless husband would just use it to buy more beer.

  My coworkers and I used to dare each other to come up with a scenario that Christie couldn’t find a way to ruin. Christie always won.

  She worked with newborn babies, for God’s sake! But, of course, they cried and pooped too much, and their mothers were princesses that she had to wait on, hand and foot.