The Truth Commission (11 page)

Research. There was only so much research I could conduct. At least researching Lisette DeVries would be easier than poking any further into my sister's recent past.

The Opposite of a Starfish

The good news about Lisette from a tracking and monitoring perspective was that she was the opposite of unobtrusive. In fact, she was full-blown trusive.

At about the time the Truth Commission started, Lisette had thrown herself body, soul, and fashion sense into the Indigenous Art and Performance Program. In a move that I'm pretty sure violates every protocol there is, she had given herself a spirit name, which she said was given to her in a secret ceremony by a very powerful yet little-known elder from Haida Gwaii.
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The elder was so little known that no one, including our school's First Nations elders, students, and teachers had ever heard of her. The spirit name was “Red Starfish,” and she started using it in everyday conversation.
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She had a temporary tattoo of a red starfish on her neck, where it looked like the worst melanoma dreamt up by an oncologist who ever ate spicy food late at night.

She started wearing Native-inspired clothing with madcap abandon and a complete disregard for coherence or accuracy. Her wardrobe included items significant to the peoples of the about twenty different nations, plus Pendleton Mills, Disney, and all points in between. She wore feathers in her hair, turquoise and jade jewelry, buckskin chaps, and a button blanket she'd made herself.
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She went around telling everyone she was one-tenth Tla A'min and that her great-grandmother was part of the Sliammon First Nation of Powell River.

All of it was, of course, total fiction. Lisette DeVries's grandparents were from Prince George by way of Holland and before she came to Green Pastures she'd gone to the Dutch Reformed Christian School.

At first, Dusk and Neil joined me outside the Shed where the IAP programs are housed.
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The Shed is much nicer than it sounds. It's a big open post-and-beam building attached to the rest of the school by a glass-and-cedar walkway. Huge ceramic pots of ferns line the approach and are good for sitting on while pretending you are an elf or similar. Or maybe that's just me. On this day the double doors to the Shed were thrown wide open and we could see some students painting drums and others making a canoe out of a huge log. Our school is getting a reputation for producing some of the most promising young carvers in BC, aboriginal and nonaboriginal. The distinctive scents of tanned hide and cedar floated out.

Before Dusk could begin issuing orders and taking control of the situation, her cell phone buzzed.

“It's Zinnia,” she said.

“Already time for another Slut Riot?” asked Neil.

“She wants me to meet her by the bike racks. We've been touching base regularly. We're becoming honest but not close friends.”

And just like that, Dusk left, medical bag in hand. Since she started working on her Spring Special Project, she's begun carrying around an old-fashioned black medical bag everywhere. This thrilled her parents, who thought it was a sign of incipient medical-ness. Then they figured out it is stuffed with taxidermy tools like latex gloves, scalpels, a fleshing beam,
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bondo, and fake eyeballs.
It's basically the kit of a serial killer or Damien Hirst. I guess she wants to be ready in case she comes across a recently deceased small creature. She'll be able to preserve it at the side of the road, then build it a tiny trailer to live in.

“Do you think—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Neil's phone buzzed.

“Aimee,” he said. “She wants to talk. Something going on with her parents. Also, there's been a change in Number Two. See you, Norm. Good luck.”

“I'm not talking to Lisette today!” I told his retreating back.

“No rush. We love you,” he said.

“I don't feel the same,” I said. Even though I totally did.

It was odd to sit by myself. Neil and Dusk and I did almost everything together when we weren't making stuff or at our separate houses. We were a unit, and I loved it. I became more and more aware of how lucky I was to have my two friends as I watched Lisette.

She wore her long blonde hair in two braids and had on a rawhide headband. She was carrying a drum and dancing from group to group.

The painters smiled tolerantly and said a few words to her, and the canoe carvers did the same. A boy working on a mask at the end of the hall didn't even look up when she came banging over to him, but another one gave her an indulgent high five.

She was like a butterfly that had no place to alight. In fact, she was basically the opposite of a starfish.

“Hey.”

I looked up to see Mr. Thomas staring at me.

Mr. Thomas, AKA Randy, was G. P.'s visiting artist. We get two artists every year. In the fall, we always have a First Nations artist. In the spring, the artist is international. The visiting artists are always amazing, but Randy Thomas took it to the next level. Maybe because he sometimes worked in television. Or maybe in spite of the fact he worked in television.

He was at least six four and massive all around, but he had this light, dancer-y way about him. He was a choreographer, a writer, an artist, and a musician. He was the most popular teacher at G. P., maybe because he was the embodiment of what all the administrators and teachers wanted us to become: well-rounded artists and creative people.
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He was also funny, which was my favorite thing about him, and he was deep.

“Can I help?” he asked. He stood near where I perched on the edge of the giant potted fern.

I felt a surge of guilt and wasn't sure why. “I'm just hanging out.”

Randy smiled. His face was round, and when he smiled, he looked very young.

“You planning to start some more riots?” he said, settling down on the huge ceramic pot next to mine. He didn't look like an elf beside the fern. He looked like a giant who would flatten it if he shifted his weight the wrong way.

I gave a small, insincere laugh.

“That was interesting. You and your friends really started something, eh?”

“I guess.”

“I just saw them leave. Where'd they go?”

One thing I've noticed about our visiting artists is that they're all very curious, and they notice everything.

“They went looking for the truth,” I said before I could stop myself.

“So that's what you guys are doing.”

I nodded glumly.

“How's that working out for you?”

I considered the question for a long moment.

“Mixed,” I said. “We asked Mrs. Dekker why she's so . . . you know, grumpy.”

“I hear she has ostriches,” said Mr. Thomas, folding his arms over his broad chest and leaning back. The fern seemed to cringe behind him.

“Yeah.”

“She's a moody one,” he said.

“That hasn't changed. Even if she has taken to wearing sundresses from time to time.”

“Not sure about that yellow color on her,” said Mr. Thomas. “But you have to appreciate the effort.”

After a longish pause, he spoke again. “So the truth has put a yellow sundress on an ostrich farmer and created an underwear riot. Powerful stuff. You got your eye on someone in here?” He nodded in the direction of the Shed.

I looked down at my old Chucks and felt ashamed. Dusk and Neil didn't feel this way about what we were doing. What was wrong with me?

“I'm supposed to ask Lisette something,” I said.

“That right?” said Mr. Thomas. “Says who?”

“My friends.”

“What are you going to ask her?”

“I was supposed to ask if she really thinks she's Native.”

“Ah, the Indian question. That's dangerous territory right there.”

I chanced a look into his face. It was as nonjudgmental as his voice, and full of the same gentle interest and amusement he brought to most things.

“I think I'm supposed to ask why she can't just be who she is.”

Mr. Thomas nodded slowly. “Yeah, lot of trouble comes from not wanting to be who we are.”

“But I'm actually pretty sick of asking the truth. I'm definitely sick of hearing it,” I said. Not that he'd asked.

“You're pretty sick of everything.”

Mr. Thomas and I had locked eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

“Pretty angry, too,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Tears started to push their way up, but I refused to bring my hand to my face to brush them away. “Do you ever feel like you just need a break?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah. All the time.”

“What do you do?”

“Used to be wine, women, and song. Now I act. I teach. I create.” He put a pompous spin on the last word to let me know he didn't take himself too seriously.

“I already know why Lisette lies,” I said.

“Course you do. You're a smart person.” Mr. Thomas straightened his long, jean-clad legs. He wore fancy cowboy boots. There are about four people in the world who would not look ridiculous in those boots, and he was one of them.

“I once heard gossip defined as ‘emotional speculation,'” he said. “I read it in a crime novel by Louise Penny. I can't remember which one. You can learn a lot from crime novels.”

This was where I was supposed to admit that what we were doing was emotional speculation. That what we were doing was gossiping. Only we weren't. There really was more to it than that. We were going right to the source. We weren't even talking much about what we learned.

“We're not gossiping,” I said. “Asking people the truth is a spiritual practice.”

Mr. Thomas's broad face became serious. “I must have got that wrong. I thought that spiritual practice involved asking
yourself
the truth.”

A Candid Q&A with Normandy Pale

I'm not one to sidestep a throwdown, especially a spiritual one. I can look myself in the eye. Ask myself the hard truths.

When I finished talking to Mr. Thomas, I went to one of my favorite corners and instead of working on my embroidery, I got out my journal. I wrote the following candid Q&A with myself.

Q: What are you doing?

A: I don't know.

Q: Could you be more specific?

A: I'm avoiding the truth about my sister.

Q: What truth is that?

A: The one she tells me when she sneaks into my room at night. About her relationship with the teacher.

Q: Isn't the whole sneaking-into-your-room-at-night thing a little creepy?

A: Uh, yeah. It's a lot creepy. It's about as creepy as working in our closet. The good news is that a person can get used to anything.

Q: So why do you listen?

A: Because she needs to tell someone. She needs to get it out.

Q: Why can't she talk to someone else? A professional.

A: Because she won't.

Q: Are you sure?

A: I'm the only one she trusts. Maybe if she tells me, she'll feel strong enough to tell someone else and if she tells someone else, she'll feel better and go back to school. After someone deals with her teacher, that is. Something will probably have to be done about him.

Q: What about you? Are you sure you can handle her truth?

A: No.

Never Kick Puppies. Or Let Them Buy Knives.

As much as I love my friends, I wasn't ready to involve them. My sister would never forgive me. Plus, my friends were turning into evangelists, ideologues, and full-fledged fanatics when it came to the truth. They had lost sight of the fact that the truth could be extremely complicated. They were the cops. I was the lawyer, but one without a financial incentive.

If I was going to get help, I needed to find it in-house. Literally.

I went home after my meeting with Mr. Thomas and found my dad in the kitchen. He had a couple of days off, and spent his time cooking produce that he got on markdown from Premium Price. We may not have a lot of material things other than vacuum cleaners and knives (and the German chair), but we have a superabundance of frozen vegetable concoctions. The more stressful things get, the more my dad cooks and freezes.

“Potato and cauliflower curry,” he said.

“Smells amazing.”

I did not point out that the six or seven containers of potato and cauliflower curry currently residing in the big freezer in the basement would probably smell equally delicious if defrosted. My dad's like puppies. You don't kick puppies when they make curry.
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“Going to make raita, too. And maybe naan bread if you're really, really good.”

“When have I ever been anything but really, really good?” I asked. Which, sadly, was absolutely true. If you rock the boat in a fragile family, the concern is that everyone will drown.

“Hmmm,” said my dad, his head buried in the cookbook. He is always coming home with cookbooks that didn't sell or that he got for the low, low price of $2.99. I've tried to explain the concept of a Google recipe search, but he insists that second- and third-rate cookbooks are the way to go. It's a mystery why he needs cookbooks at all, because he makes the same thing over and over.

“Your mom will be home in half an hour and I want the house to smell good.”

I reached for the regular mismatched dishes, but my dad wouldn't hear of it. “Norm! Come on! It's a great day. Let's use the custom stuff.”

When he said “custom,” he wasn't kidding. I'm sad to report that the Diana franchise does a brisk business in unsettling kitchen and tableware. There is Diana cutlery (our faces embossed on the backs of spoons, and knives and forks with handles shaped like our bodies) and a Diana tablecloth (one side shows our house as it appears in real life—and in the Chronicles—and the other, the household in Vermeer). Each of us has two place mats with our deformed faces staring up at us. We also own all four sets of Diana salt- and pepper shakers. Seriously. I could not make this up.

“Normy? Why don't you put out the Vermeer place mats?” said my dad, who is always trying to get me to set the whole table with my sister's distorted versions of us in merch form.

I ignored him and put four non-Diana plates on the bare table. The fourth place setting was pointless, because Keira almost never eats with us.

“Did you see her today?” I asked.

“Her car was gone when I got home.”

I felt my fists ball up and forced them to relax. “When did she go out?”

“I don't know. Your sister is a grown-up. Plus, she's working on something new. You know how she gets when she's in the zone. How I ended up in a house with three beautiful, artistic women I do not know,” said my dad. “Who was that fellow married to the gal with the eyebrows? The one who painted a lot of pictures of herself?”

“Diego Rivera,” I said. “He was married to Frida Kahlo.”

“I have a lot of sympathy for that guy. I wonder if he spent half his life making potato curry.” My dad chuckled nonsensically to himself and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that my dad is fairly demented. Example of his dementedness: he and my mom telling us about their marital troubles thanks to his little interlude with the nineteen-year-old checkout girl. I was only six at the time, but the memory is clear. If mine's fresh, my sister's is probably in HD. The only good thing that came out of it was my dad's extreme solicitousness toward us, which persists to this day.

“Luckily, I got this new knife. See? It's Swedish.”

He held up a small, bright blue knife. It certainly looked Swedish.

Instead of giving him hell, I reminded myself that when a puppy buys a new Swedish knife, you don't yell at it.
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I needed to ask my question before my mother came home. “So, Dad,” I said. “Have you asked or at least wondered about why Keira's home from school?”

“Your sister has her reasons.”

“Sure, but shouldn't you know what the reasons are?”

“Have patience. She'll tell us when she's ready.”

“Will she? She doesn't seem a little strange to you? Since she got home.”

“Oh, Normandy. You know your sister. She goes her own way. It's an artistic genius thing. Can't be helped,” he said.

“What about those letters from the school? Did you look at any of them?”

“They were addressed to Keira. How would you like it if your mother and I opened your mail?”

I didn't get much mail so it was a moot point. I wanted to tell him that she'd shared at least some of what happened with me, and I didn't know what to do with the information. But part of me thought he'd be even less able to handle the situation than I was. Some people are good at letting you know they can't cope. My parents had gotten that message across loud and clear. My mom and dad just got smaller and sillier as they waited for . . . what? What were they waiting for? My sister's success to finally pay off for them? For her to turn around and tell everyone she respected them? Cash prizes? New cars? We don't have much in the way of an extended family. My grandparents are all dead. Dad has a few cousins, but they live in the Northwest Territories. My mom has a sister, but they don't really talk. No wise elder was going to swoop in and lay a little reality on our family situation.

“Don't you wonder where she goes for days at a time?” I asked.

“For goodness sake, Normandy. You're a teenager. You should understand your sister's need for privacy.”

“Oh,” I said. Wind? Say good-bye to sails.

“Why so many questions? You have always been a worrier. Your sister is fine. You've always been less intense than Keira. It doesn't mean you're any less talented.”

I felt my mouth fall open in amazement.

“What?”

“Your mother and I know that Keira's intensity makes you question yourself. It shouldn't. You're very talented, but in a different way. A quieter way. You're going to do great things, kiddo.”

“Are you serious?”

My dad stirred the pot of curry and then held the spoon to his lips to taste.

“Ohhh, that's good.”

“This isn't about me,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I think Keira needs help.”

“You want to taste?”

“Are you hearing me? She doesn't leave the house for days. When she goes out, she's gone for days. As soon as she got control of her own business affairs, she came home from college, fired her agent, and never said a word about any of it. All that seems fine to you?”

“Now, Norm. I think that's enough.” My dad was back in chief curry-stirrer mode. I felt myself wanting to have a Jack Nicholson in
A Few Good Men
moment. I wanted to bellow at my dad that he couldn't handle the truth. But that wouldn't be fair, because he wasn't the only one.

“Hello?” My mom's voice sounded from the front door.

My dad and I stopped speaking and turned. “Hi,” we said.

My mother stepped into the kitchen. “Oh, it smells great in here, Pat,” she said. She gave my dad a kiss on his cheek and then came over to sit at the kitchen table.

“Potato and cauliflower curry,” said my dad. “It'll cure what ails a body.”

My mother didn't point out the other containers of curry in the freezer, either. She knows that my dad finds cooking relaxing. Considering that they're so close to the emotional and financial edge most of the time, they're also pretty tender with each other. They got over their difficulties surprisingly well. My sister didn't seem to have the same resilience.

“Well, this body needs a bath before dinner,” she said.

Slowly, like a woman twice her age, my mom got up and walked out. For once, she didn't ask where Keira was or whether she'd come out of her room or done anything remotely normal during the day. Rule Number #1 of the Pale Family: don't ask questions for which you don't want answers.

Maybe that rule is what pushed me to do what I did. Maybe my teenage rebellion finally kicked in. But I went to my room and logged on to Facebook. Then I rethought. I logged out and created a new, fake profile. I looked up Lisette DeVries. And I sent her a private message.