“A prayer?” Keane said. His features formed a “no.” He did not trust religion, but wanted to believe in this girl. Megan got to her feet and pulled Keane after her. He did not resist.
“Hold out your arms,” she said, beginning to chant, the words in Navajo gliding through the vibrations of her low hum. Her voice sounded incredible to Keane, rich in its depth, like young boys and girls singing together in a church choir.
“Sage,” she whispered, producing a tightly bound spindle of the herb, a bitter but soothing smoke pouring from its tip. He wasn’t sure when she’d lit it. Megan waved the sage around his arms and down his body, her hands spreading the smoke further like a bird’s wings. “You can keep your eyes open.”
“Okay.” Keane opened his eyes but found he couldn’t keep them open.
“Tell me about your grandmother. Tell me the way you knew her.”
“Gans had thick silver hair. Not the thin hair you usually see on old ladies. She had style.” He could see her in his mind so clearly it was as though she stood before him. “She loved Dewar’s and Virginia Slims. She was a singer and a dancer when she was young. She wore lots of white and sat with her legs crossed and her back straight. She liked everything nice and neat. I can still remember the dirty limericks she taught us:
There once was a man named Crocket
Whose balls got stuck in a socket
His wife was a bitch
And turned on the switch
And his balls went up like a rocket.”
Megan laughed.
“We had so much fun when we visited Gans and Pops in Kansas City. She was so beautiful. Perfect.” Suddenly, Keane’s mind closed for a moment—then burst open—full of light and sound.
“I died, from my cancer, just hours ago. I will always love you. Don’t be afraid.” As Gans spoke the last sentence with Keane’s tongue, her words moving purposefully through his mouth, Keane, in shock, understood it could only be her spirit communicating through him. His own spirit marveled. Keane fell to his knees as tears sprung from his eyes. He was bawling, experiencing a mixture of pain, fear, and excitement. What had just happened wasn’t possible. Suddenly, more words streamed from Gan’s spirit, only this time they resonated in Keane’s subconscious so that only he could hear.
When it was over, he asked, “Did you hear that?” He grabbed Megan’s arms, searching her face for understanding. “What was that voice? It was so beautiful. I must be fucking crazy.” His body shook. “I think my grandmother is dead. I think she talked to me.”
Megan looked surprised, concerned and relieved all at the same time: surprised to hear Shima’s voice again, concerned that a spirit was present, and relieved she’d not had to tell Keane herself that Gans was dead – Megan had discovered her body only minutes before Keane’s arrival, securing the sage from her car so she could purify the residence before she called the authorities.
She knelt without thinking, putting her hands on his shoulders to comfort him. She definitely hadn’t expected this from Keane, Shima’s grandson or not. The ability to channel a spirit, something she’d not even seen a Navajo do, something her father had spoken of with reverence, regret and fear, was a rare ability indeed.
“Gans said she couldn’t wait any longer, and wished us well, and I am to call you Doli,” Keane said as he wiped at his nose, which ran annoyingly.
“I am so sorry,” Doli said, crying, her mind reeling. When she heard her Navajo name, a name Keane could not have known, she shivered before the power she now recognized. This smelly mess of a boy was an old spirit from their lands. Could such a thing be possible? Shima had said Keane was “meant to live amongst the Navajo with a girl like you.” Megan hadn’t had the heart to tell Shima that her grandson wouldn’t like the harsh life they led on the reservation. All the same, she decided it was cute that Shima would try to make such a big set-up, and she was flattered Shima thought so highly of her. Now she understood Shima’s matchmaking in an entirely different way: Shima knew her grandson had a connection to the sacred lands of the Navajo, but did that mean a connection to her? As if by way of confirmation, the shadow and swish of a hunting hawk broke the lighted landscape in all its hues. It was an omen for the birth of a powerful family.
CHAPTER 7
After summoning up all of her courage to reenter the house, Doli had unexpectedly excused herself. She’d said that the Navajo feared the dead and that seeing Shima again would have negative consequences. She didn’t hug him or offer any contact information, exiting the front door before the back door had even set itself in its frame. From the front lawn, he’d watched her drive away in her old blue sedan. The haunted look she’d given him when she climbed into her car still bothered him.
For an hour Keane sat by his grandmother’s bed. When he’d first entered her bedroom the sight of her lying so still, dead, made him shake uncontrollably. Her white pants and silky white shirt tied into a bow at the collar, and her peaceful expression, caused Keane to think she might float up to heaven like a feather if he exhaled too near her tiny frame.
The part of Keane that wasn’t still in shock wondered if he would hear her voice again. He had no doubt Gans had spoken from the dead, telling him she was sorry for not living long enough to see him again, and to be strong because his life was to begin anew and there were many people who needed him. It all felt so strange and unreal. It made him miss his perpetual high, his brain’s receptors still waiting for the bucolic fuel. His bong always had the answer—relax, the world can wait. But all the pot in the world wouldn’t change the memory of that moment. He guessed Doli’s chanting and the curling smoke from the burning sage had opened the connection with Gans. It made sense even to a non-believer. Keane felt an unexpected willingness to accept, without question, the spiritual event that had just occurred.
Gently he rubbed Nascha’s ears; she was curled at his feet. “I suppose you’re going to talk to me next, girl.” As he ran his hands through her fur, his eyes traced the outline of an Indian necklace around his grandmother’s neck. It was an uncomplicated piece, leather threaded through a round, black stone. Keane felt the necklace would have looked out of place on such an elegant woman, but found instead it lent to the peaceful aura that surrounded her.
Keane sat in his car at the airport, watching his father enter the terminal. Painful memories from the last four days of dealing with the funeral had begun to overflow, threatening to put out the fires of a new and growing resolve.
Keane had never been to a funeral.
He was surprised to find the sorrow he felt was diminished by the comfort of a formal goodbye. His great aunt Merce had spoken in such a rich way about Gans—she even sang at the service—and though he’d been unable to contribute words himself, Keane gained the understanding that it was his right, his duty, to express himself. His father had cried uncontrollably and could not make the drive to the cemetery after the service. Keane had returned to the hotel to find his father sitting alone at a small table, reading a very fat book. He was glad his father was returning home. Dad seemed to be suffering more and more as the hours of mourning dragged on. Keane, for his part, beamed when he thought of Gans. Even as his whole body hurt from the loss, he still felt the love she’d shown him and carried the words she placed in his heart.
Putting his car into gear, Keane made his way to the freeway on-ramp and headed north. There was only one
