Star People

R

ocks and stones pop beneath the tires, as the girls and I drive down the long gravel lane. The bows of Eastern Hemlock block the view of our cottage below, but soon its thatched mossy roof comes into view. I ease down the hill as we drive into dusk, on both sides of me, a strewn lace carpet of ruddy maple leafs. I scan between the red pines. A rafter of wild turkeys scurries away. In the distance, a pearl of sunset nestles itself down into the dark hills whose umbra shadows cast and imprint their symmetry onto the lake below. The bead of light slips away into darkness as we descend, the sky lit up in pinky peaches, lavender purples and heavenly blues.

I fight back daymares, the intruding gruesome scenes that populate my psyche in waking hours of every way my children and husband could abandon me, lost to this plane: the slip, cranium against rock brain matter spilling out onto the pavement. Murderous men with carving knives filling doorways. The car crash, heart attack, stroke of misfortune—wrong place, wrong time—a child’s dislocated elbow, the crease of bone through skin; the irrecoverable fall that shatters the body, iris blooms of purple, pinks, and blue bruises from the inside, the seeds of death blossoming.

Here at the cottage, I just want to keep them all safe.

Mark’s away for work—Vancouver, team meeting—and I am brave enough, this one time, to bring the three girls to the cottage on my own in the heart of Algonquin. I have Buddy, our 3-year-old Labrador retriever, with us for security and because he’s family.

“Mom—we’ll be back in time for my soccer practice on Sunday night, right?” Maggie asks.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Maggie’s 14 now, and I marvel at this girl who’s grown in my image—full nose, dark features, long curly hair, brilliant smile—with her own unique personality that leans more into her dad’s rational characteristics. I can’t remember the last time I saw Maggie cry. I’ve talked to her about it, not wanting her to hold in her emotions, but she only shrugs: “Why would I be sad?”

Rose, the youngest, speaks up, “I don’t want to go to Maggie’s practice.”

“We’ll talk about it when we get home.” These two are constantly at each other; the regular phenomenon of sibling rivalry but intensified due to the unique scenario of having an intellectually disabled sibling in the middle. Rose, as the third child, has grown up faster than most eight-year-olds. When Lily wanders to the park, Rose follows behind her to “make sure she’s okay.” Mark and I don’t expect her to do this, but we’re pleased she cares for someone besides herself.

The push and pull inside me—to protect Lily, to set her free, to keep her safe, to watch her move in the world on her own—is like a fast-flowing current; delightful when I’m navigating the swell, and terrifying when we get pulled under.

Billy Joel’s song plays on the car radio, “Only the Good Die Young.”

The calm of this place soaks into my marrow, and I hope the feeling imprints onto the girls. I want them to be closer to nature; to immerse themselves and understand we are nature. And also, for them to see we don’t need dad with us to have a great weekend. “Girls’ weekend!” I say.

The other two don’t budge from looking at their devices, and neither does Rose who pipes in, “Yay! Can we have a fire and roast marshmallows?” Thank god for the eight-year-old enthusiasm, the other two are growing up too quickly.

“I don’t see why not?”

I avoid going to the cottage on my own because I worry about Lily drowning in the lake. At 12 years old, Lily can’t swim without a lifejacket, and it would only take my back being turned for her to quietly slip away. She’s older, theoretically, wiser now. At a point, parents need to hand over trust and let go. She knows not to go past the rock without me. The dock has a long ramp, and for the first few sections the lake remains shallow and clear beneath the boards—until reaching the rock. Past the boulder, the water deepens and darkens to a murky green and by dock’s end is well over Lily’s head. She has Down syndrome. She knows she’s not supposed to go on the dock, but her executive functioning skills and ability to articulate risk aren’t well formed, and so I remain vigilant.

The push and pull inside me—to protect Lily, to set her free, to keep her safe, to watch her move in the world on her own—is like a fast-flowing current; delightful when I’m navigating the swell, and terrifying when we get pulled under. Swimming lessons this winter have paid off, Lily’s getting more comfortable in the water. Next summer is going to be the summer she learns to float and lives up to her name—I can feel it.

The maple leaves strewn on the ground remind me of fallen stars.

“Girls, do you know where Lily’s name comes from? The indigenous people of this area, the Anishinaabe, have a story about yellow water lilies as Star People.”

The story goes that a star, or Star Person, fell in love with the Anishinaabe and wanted to live with them. When the Star People descended to Earth, they shapeshifted for a while, having difficulty settling on one physical form to take.

“We don’t want to hear it.” I’ve lost Rose.

“Just listen. The story goes that a star, or Star Person, fell in love with the Anishinaabe and wanted to live with them. When the Star People descended to Earth, they shapeshifted for a while, having difficulty settling on one physical form to take. Ultimately, although they loved the natural world, and being close to the Anishinaabe, the Star People missed their celestial home. In the end, they chose to become the water lily that only flowers in the summer, where they could be close to the Anishinaabe and winter in the star world.”

“I said no story!” Rose holds her iPad, but I can tell she’s been listening.

Lily is a child whose unique gifts present themselves in many forms. After she was born, I called her "Lily the Star," and her presence lights up the sky of my world.

At the bottom of the hill, where the drive curves, I put the car into park.

“Girls, we’re here!” They finally look up from the screens in their laps and stretch their crumpled limbs out straight.

“Mom, I have to go to the bathroom,” Rose says.

“Me, first!” says Lily, as she scrambles out the van door.

I exit the van and breathe in fresh pines. A quick look shows the neighbours aren’t around. I detect a faint musky scent in the air but push this detail aside as I rush to unlock the cottage.

Buddy sniffs everywhere, the fur on his neck stands at attention. He marks our bushes, then ignores my calls to come, follow me inside, and I eventually have to drag him by the collar.

Inside the cottage is dark. I’ll pull the boards off in the screened-in porch later to let light in, but first, I open the panel behind the mirror to flick the electricity on. Lily is banging on the bathroom door, irate that Rose has slipped in ahead of her.

“Come on! Come on, Rose.”

“Okay! I’m coming!”

“Girls—don’t forget to come carry your bags inside once you’re finished in there! Thank you.”

The air is warm enough that I don’t need to worry about getting the fire going in the wood stove right away. I head back outside to unload the van.

The trunk is packed full of boxes of food for the weekend: sugary cereal, tomatoes, avocados, chips, ground beef, chocolate chip muffins, bananas, whole wheat bread, milk, and oranges. The apple juice boxes spill out—their plastic sleeves that carry paper straws reflect the dying light. Buddy is barking from somewhere inside the cottage; I choose to ignore him.

I’m holding a box in my arms when a huff comes from up the hill that causes me to look up acutely to locate the sound. At the same moment, the cottage door slams, and I turn to see Rose, the rule follower, who’s presumably come to retrieve her bag.

“Go back inside!” My tone causes her to start and then freeze, fingers splayed, but it’s too late, the door is opening behind her and I hear Buddy burst out with Maggie behind him, and the moment I turn back is pure terror as the bear, a brown mass, is charging down the hill in my direction.

My instinct’s instructions are clear: run. Only 20 metres to the door, I can make it. I drop the box to the ground. The girls’ screams are frantic as they push their way back inside the cottage. Buddy barks and barks as daggers crunch down on my shoulder, the full force of a staggering weight slamming me against the deck. Buddy’s growls enter my ears that ring as I smash my jaw hard and the lights fade out.

A pressure sears my side, hot red angry pain that flashes to white, almost causes me to pass out again, but not before the stinging sensation of stones scraping my knees and legs and arms comes into relief. I’m in motion, I realize; I’m being dragged up the hill, away from the cottage, into darkness. I hear distant sobbing, wailing. The girls. Where’s Buddy? The barking has stopped. I struggle to twist my body away, then go limp as I’m shaken. He’s biting me—stop—I think, and the world is tilt-a-whirl, blurry, blurry and then dark.

How much time has passed? The last dim dregs of light illuminate my surroundings. I see Buddy, one front paw missing, his bloodied body beside mine, half buried in the leaves. The bear has placed us here together, side-by-side, in his meat cache. I don’t know how I know this; I don’t know what I am—floating consciousness? Particles of light coalesced? I’m part of this scene, a witness, but no longer on the same plane. Where’s the bear?

He was hungry, I gather, and now his hunger is satiated. He’s tired and pleased with a good day’s catch.

Whatever liminal space I am in, I have not been spared my emotions. Though I’m no longer afraid of the bear—he can’t hurt me now—I sob, a sharp cry, as he comes back into view first carrying Maggie and then a second trip for Rose; her unblemished face, untouched, eyes closed so that she looks as though she were only sleeping. I howl in shock, bereft, then a spark of hope. I know they are no longer alive, I can sense it, and I wait—suddenly desperate—for them to join me here, won’t they join me here? But that isn’t the way things go. The bear kicks dirt over our bodies—he’s hiding us, oh my god, he’s hiding my babies, burying them, their delicate skin, long limbs. I can’t stop this from happening, and night’s darkness has settled in.

How long do I stare at them, at us, before I turn and look out toward the midnight lake.

Time is a place, indiscernible. Here, beside the bodies, night intrudes in its darkest shade. In our proximity, I can hear the bear’s thoughts now in a universal language of sensory impressions. He was hungry, I gather, and now his hunger is satiated. He’s tired and pleased with a good day’s catch. Our meat will supplement his diet of wild berries nicely and help his muscles grow strong. He will survive. The bear sleeps. I don’t understand why, but I’m not angry with the bear. I’m not angry with myself, either; no one is to blame. I don’t begrudge his needs, which I now experience as the same my own once were. I wish I could tell someone what I’m now understanding through the bear’s eyes, but we rarely understand things as they are until we experience them for ourselves. It’s hard to look beyond our own narrow view.

The girls’ presence twinkles over my left shoulder, not from their discarded bodies, but from high above among the stars. Now I know where to find them. After. After what? My consciousness is loosening, like I’m being pulled apart, but forcing myself to stay together, to think, think. Think. Where’s Lily?

I follow the gory trail back down the hill and drift inside the cottage. No sign of Lily. I can’t hear her thoughts. I can’t feel her. I check under the bunk beds anyway, inhabit the bathroom space and peak under the couch. Nothing. She’s gone. Where would Lily go? I try to place myself inside her head. I check the van, the trunk still open, a box of food strewn onto its side. A wayward orange has rolled down the hill. Not here. I check the outhouse further up the hill, but it’s empty. Would she have run to the neighbour’s cottage? The neighbour on the left is closest, and I walk to their property and check their cottage and shed, but the doors are locked tight, no Lily inside or anywhere. The same with the cottage on the right. Lily is gone. I wander the forest nearby, passing through trees, searching.

The edges of my consciousness lighten and erode. I have to find Lily. As her mom, I need to know she’s okay. I can’t leave, don’t you see, I can’t leave her and I won’t. I’m being summoned back, the sensation is a tingling of deep knowing, deep belonging. Lily. I don’t want to leave her behind.

The sun begins to rise. Near my cottage gentle waves lap the shore. I hover on the hill and notice how the light shines on each leaf, is captured by each wave, tiny fractal photographs of life. The birds awaken in their nests, chirp to greet the morning.

I approach the shore. Nothing—nobody on the dock visible in the day’s wakening light. I thought she may have drowned. I waited through darkness to feel Lily’s twinkling light above me in the sky, but her warmth did not arrive. She’s alive, I know she’s alive. But what if she’s not? What if she’s lost or hurt, and I can’t go to her?

I move to the dock, beside the rock, and that’s when I feel her energy. Underneath the dock I find her; she’s folded her tiny body in half, and she’s fast asleep. She sits up then and yawns, a patch of muddy sand imprinted on her cheek, her ponytail askew. She peeks out from under the dock, and I watch her with wonder. She can’t see me; doesn’t know I’m there. This moment is what remains. I can’t hold on for much longer; the pull is overpowering.

Before I fade back into light, I watch my girl crawl on her hands and knees up the hill; she keeps low to the ground in case the bear returns. How she palms the orange, sits on the grass, picks and peels the globe, and presses juicy tangerine slices between her lips. Her hunger satisfied, she goes inside the cottage, where she left her iPad, and she FaceTimes her dad.