Chapter 15

After dumping a year’s worth of old bank statements into the garbage pile, I pulled the next box closer to me. Gritty with dirt, the flap sent a puff of dust in the air when I opened it.

I stared in surprise at what lay on top. A pair of moccasins, small enough for a child. The nubuck coloured hide was still bright and soft, the bottoms unworn. They still smelled warm and earthy. A fringe circled each ankle and an intricate design of flowers and leaves decorated the tops. “Jess?”

He emerged from the garage. Shirtless. I’d stopped making comments, tired of feeling prudish. He dropped a stack of boxes at my feet.

“Look.” I held the moccasins up, like a prize, and the beads sparkled.

“What else is in there?” he asked, prompting me to turn back to the box. I pulled out a few books and a paper folded onto itself so many times that it was a tidy package.

The ink had faded into the thick paper, and it crackled with age as I opened it. I moved into the light to read it:

Dear Mother,

I am looking after my brother, like you asked. Sometimes he cries at night, but real quiet, so the nuns can’t hear him. I miss your cooking and the smell of your stew. Now that I am in my fourth year, I get to play hockey when the river freezes. I know you can’t read this letter because it is in English, but maybe the priest can read it to you.

From, your son

I wrinkled my brows and read the letter again, wondering why it never got to the boy’s mother. “Why does Grandpa have these things?” I muttered.

Jess pinched his mouth tight. “He probably took ’em from some kid at the school.”

“You don’t know that,” I said defensively.

But, after reading about residential schools online, I wasn’t so sure. Survivors’ first-hand accounts had been shocking: beaten for speaking their language, tied up in the boiler room for stealing food from the kitchen, forced to eat the same gruel night after night – even if they’d vomited it up.

How could anyone be so cruel to a child? I was convinced Grandpa had left after a year because he couldn’t tolerate the mistreatment of the children. But why had he kept these things? The photos and the attendance ledger. They must have meant something to him.

Jess, his mouth tight, held his hand out for the moccasins. “Kokum makes moccasins like these,” he said as he examined them. His eyes turned dark as he ran his fingers over the small stitches that held them together, and a frown furrowed his brow. “Everything from home got taken away from the kids.”

“What should we do with them?” I asked when he handed them back to me.

“Put ’em in the garbage pile.” A deerfly settled on his shoulder. He jerked his arm when it bit and slapped it away.

“We can’t just toss them!” I looked at the intricate beading and soft suede. They were so beautiful. “You should show them to your grandmother. Maybe she knows who made them,” I suggested.

Jess shook his head, snorting in disgust. “No one on Deep River wants to be reminded of that school.”

Questions froze on the tip of my tongue as he turned away. We’d opened Pandora’s box and now there was no going back. Grandpa had saved the moccasins for a reason. I wanted to know what it was.