Native Land: Lost in the Mystery of Time

© 2009 Nadine Vaughan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4389-4731-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-4399-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009900136

Cover art by R.L. Lewis, one of the original Highwaymen artists.

http://RLLewisArtist.com/

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is dedicated to James F.T. Bugental, who in September 2008, joined our spirit brothers and sisters and to Stanley Krippner, who many years ago, kept me on my own path. Both are mentors, colleagues, and friends forever.

My sincerest thanks go to my loving life partner; to my children from whom I have learned so much; my incredible parents (living and beyond), and to all the Pearls in the world.

FOREWORD

Long ago, in a land far away, I first learned that my family had been keeping one hell of a secret. Already married, with children of my own, I thought I knew everything there was to know about my family’s indiscretions. What a shock it was to discover that not only had I been kept in the dark for my entire life, so had my parents and most other relatives I knew.

It wasn’t until my child began kindergarten that I first discovered that Mother, the name my grandmother preferred to be called, had an early life like none I could have imagined. The stories started soon after she broke her hip. Back then, families were expected to take care of their own. So each morning after I dropped off my small child, I drove the few blocks to Mother’s house and helped her in whatever ways she wanted. Little did I know that what she most wanted was a listener; someone who would allow her to get some things off her chest that she’d been carrying around for a long, long time.

It’s ironic that I ended up listening for a living. You see, besides being a writer, I’m a licensed psychologist. For my day job I go into nursing homes and listen to the inner most secrets of some amazing folks. It’s like being in the presence of living history books. Not only do I cherish what these elders know, I’m occasionally taken aback by the perspective from which they speak. Some self-world views enter my consciousness like sacred stones, piercing the darkness of my mind. Other perspectives, while every bit as important, are not always those of lightness and love.

Back in those early days of the 1970s, I arrived at my grandmother’s house each morning, eager to receive the precious gift of her early, secret life. Along with Mother, I experienced a rollercoaster of emotion. Yet, I felt blessed, because during those last two years of Mother’s life I learned about my past through hers; her youth; her loves; her pain. Today, I recognize her stories as the final healing of her post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I suppose I probably developed some secondary PTSD just in the listening. But that’s the subject of another book. At the time, not knowing what to do with the information, I simply did nothing; realizing in retrospect what my silence gave us. Because her secrets were still with me, both Mother and I experienced a reprieve from the judgments of those who might have had reason to let lying dogs lie. Nevertheless, her stories became so important to me that when she died and the stories stopped, it was like time itself stopped. I became clinically depressed. And although, before her passing, Mother tried to give me everything such was her appreciation for listening, I turned it all over to my mom and sisters—except for her wedding ring. I put that in a safe place and kept it for another 30 years before I took it out again.

After Mother’s death, I was shocked when I began to have dreams in which she would tell me even more; like the story of her 13 year old son. Everyone in my family, who knew anything about him, knew that he died a tragic death. The family story said he had died from an accidental shooting. Yet, during Mother’s nightly visits, she revealed to me that he actually killed himself following the untimely death of his father (my grandfather) during the 1919 flu epidemic. I kept quiet again; even more afraid that I wouldn’t be believed now that she spoke to me from beyond the grave.

Finally, I worked up the courage to tell my father. Amazingly, he really listened to me. He told me that even though he had never heard that his older brother’s death was a suicide, he did not doubt the truth of what I had heard in my dreams. Everywhere else I turned however, I was given different answers; that is, until I spoke with my elderly uncle and my elderly aunt, both of whom had moved out west early on in their adult lives. Their stories coincided with those of my grandmother in every way. Even if their words had not confirmed my grandmother’s words, my uncle’s ruddy complexion and my aunt’s ebony hair did.

I too moved out west for almost 30 years and when I finally returned to Florida, to my own native land, I realized that I needed to write about what I held inside for so long. Because so many of my family members are still living, I chose not to write what my grandmother actually lived, but instead to create a fictionalized story that held some elements of truth. Therefore, this story is not autobiographical. Native Land: Lost in the Mystery of Time is about a fictionalized character, Catherine, who suspecting that she is of Native American heritage sets out in search of her past.

Grandmother:

Speak to us of the fires that made you strong, of

the love that made you whole.

Grandmother:

Bless us that we too

may see many days, and follow the path of wisdom and love.

Grandmother:

Accept our praise and thanks for we grew strong by you

that we, in turn, may serve.

(Minisa Crumb b.1942)

Creek/Potawatomi

CHAPTER 1

We don’t see things as they are,

We see things as we are…

(Anais Nin)

Flashes of Catherine’s fit body, from beneath her hotel robe, call for her husband to notice. She peeks at him hoping for a positive response. Nothing. She audibly sighs and throws her clothes into a suitcase. Her short wet hair appears black in contrast to her pale, pale skin. Feeling frazzled, Catherine exhales and mumbles to herself I don’t know, ever since Rosie died, I haven’t been able to function.

She looks around at the elegantly appointed room, stylish but cookie-cutter dull. Like her life, everything feels like it is the same navajo white color: walls, blinds, furnishings, the expensive tiles on the floors. She stares down at them. Even the base of the glass coffee table is tinted to match. Richard Berg glances across the room at his wife, then back at his newspaper.

Catherine’s eyes fall on the solid form of her husband, noting how each advancing year seems to make him even more handsome. He looks distinguished with his graying temples and Sean Connery laugh lines. Even his casual attire is top shelf.

Catherine sighs again and forges ahead in her packing. Faking a light heartedness she does not feel, she murmurs: All those years I was in California, how many times did I come back to visit? Twenty? Fifty? Yet, I never knew this little village even existed. She retrieves her shoes from the closet, gathers her blouses, stuffs them in a suitcase, and attempts to close it.

Richard glances at his Rolex. He and his luggage sit at the ready, next to the open door. Purposefully, he clears his throat and shakes the paper as if straightening it out. He reads aloud: Says here, a local Indian tribe is trying to get the government to give them a piece of land so they can use it for tribal rituals.

Clearly Richard has hit a sore point. Catherine’s words barely disguise her sarcasm.

Right. The only way that’s likely to happen is if it’s on a toxic waste site or a former bombing range. Even our ground water is being polluted with the discarded wastes of people’s medicines. No wonder we’ve had an increase in childhood behavior problems.

Richard grimaces. Sorry Honey, didn’t mean to get you more upset …

Catherine struggles with her suitcase and continues to kvetch: …and did you know that the government still lists native children on reservations in the same way they list items of property? Richard buries his head in his newspaper.

Frustrated that she is unable to close her luggage, Catherine climbs atop the overloaded case and plops down on it. She pulls the bedspread up around her neck and loudly laments: Aaugh.

Finally she has her husband’s attention. He guffaws in spite of himself. You look like a damn squaw sitting there like that. Catherine gives him the evil eye then sighs heavily. Richard responds. All right, enough with the sighing. What do you want me to do?

Nothing. There is nothing you can ‘do’. I just feel agitated, like something’s missing all the time. After all, it’s only been a few months since Rosie … Catherine’s voice trails off.

Richard pauses, wondering how to best cheer up his distraught wife. Suddenly, he grins and pulls the pillow from behind his back announcing You’re a mess all right! and throws it at Catherine. Instinctively, Catherine leans out to catch the pillow and lets go of the blanket. From beneath her open robe, Catherine’s graceful curves catch her husband’s eye.

With a flourish, he crouches, ready to pounce, his voice gravelly with desire. Watch it. Then, with a lascivious grin and arms outstretched, Richard stealthily approaches his wife.

Catherine attempts a coy smile but instead, her eyes fill with tears and her lips begin to quiver. Something is terribly wrong. Richard stops. Catherine brings the pillow close to her chest and rolls over onto the bed, her dark eyes haunted next to her ivory skin. She pulls her robe tight around her and escapes to the dressing area.

Richard silently backs away, jaws flexing in frustration. Catherine turns the water on high and announces in a loud voice. Sorry Darling, I just need to finish dressing, okay?

Richard continues to stand motionless. After a moment, he inhales mightily then exhales as he sinks down into his chair. The sound of the water drowns out his words. When the hell is the maid going to bring that damn hair dryer so we can get out of here?

Catherine hollers in response, Sorry Honey, I can’t hear you when the water’s running. She turns off the water. What?

Richard is peeved. Is it me? Maybe I’m just not the kind of man you…

Now Catherine is annoyed. Stop it, Richard. Not everything is about you!

Richard vigorously shakes his paper. Well I’ve just about had it with the moods.

Catherine glimpses her husband’s frustrated form in the dressing room mirror. Conflicted, she moves toward him in measured steps, fighting back her tears. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I think it’s Rosie’s death. I have no idea why it’s affecting me this way but I promise, I won’t bring it up again.

Richard stares at his recalcitrant wife. Finally, he softens and allows a smile to escape as he holds up his little finger. Pinkie swear?

Catherine, too, smiles slightly as she sticks out her finger. Pinkie swear.

Catherine returns to the sink, fills it with hot water and blots her face with a warm cloth. The sound and steam form an invisible wall between her and her husband. Richard returns his attention to his newspaper.

A light knock on the open door signals the arrival of the maid, hair dryer in hand. Aurelia, is a young and pretty iconoclast. Pomegranate red streaks run through her blond hair while the area around her eyes is painted dark, a bit like a character from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Her contact lenses are a shocking green and to top it off, the combat boots she wears with her skimpy maid’s uniform, barely cover her snakey tattoos. Richard’s eyebrows raise and he grins appreciatively. Motioning for Aurelia to put the dryer on the bed, he opens his wallet to search for a tip.

With the water still running and unaware of the maid’s presence, Catherine resumes speaking in an overly loud voice: It’s just that, maybe I shouldn’t have… Catherine breaks down in sobs, blotting her face even more vigorously. Embarrassed, the maid moves into the shadows, out of Catherine’s view. Abruptly, Catherine turns off the water and wails How could I kill my own baby!? Aurelia freezes in her tracks.

With a flash of anger, Richard starts to retort. Instead, he stops, smiles wryly and says: Honey, she was 18 years old, she was not a baby.

Aurelia slowly surveys the room as if looking for evidence of a crime. She presses her back against the wall behind Richard, staying out of the couple’s line of sight.

Catherine continues. That’s right, she was not a baby and she was blind, couldn’t hold her bowels, and was almost deaf. So how long could she have gone on like that? Right? So I did the right thing, right? Aurelia edges toward the door.

Richard commiserates with his wife. "Right, you gave her more life than she would’ve ever had if you hadn’t adopted her all those years ago.

Still totally unaware of what her husband is up to, Catherine responds, I know, but…

But nothing! Look at all you did. You loved her; you fed her when she couldn’t feed herself; you cared for her in every way… Aurelia covers her mouth with her hand as if she might otherwise scream and using her other hand as a guide, she inches around the side of the door, ready to sprint for safety.

Amused, Richard turns and watches the maid as he speaks. "But for Pete’s sake, Catherine, Rosie