Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light Series) (24 page)

"Thank you.  You're a very smart girl yourself."

"Can I go to Charity's house?"

I couldn't keep from smiling.  "You can.  Just make sure you feed Mini first."

"Oh, Sky, it's okay.  She already ate some butterfly eggs when she picked me up from school."

I grimaced.  "Lovely."

I watched Mickey walk out the front door.  I was tempted to walk her to Gabriel's house myself, but I figured smothering her would only irritate her.  She's ten, I told myself, not two.  And Nettlebush is a pretty safe place.  As long as you stay away from the black bears, anyway.

The black bears.  Oh God.  I started to panic.  Stop, I told myself.  She's got her pager.  She's a good girl.  She won't do it again.

I booted up the computer, slightly at a loss.  I confess I still don't know much about modern technology--all those kids running around with their Tweeters and their Hooters and their what-have-you.  After carefully studying the sticky note Carole Svensen had helpfully left on the edge of my keyboard, I managed to get the camera mounted atop the monitor up and running.

I was in for a bit of a wait.  One of my correspondents was on a completely different timezone.  But eventually, the black of the computer screen faded away, and two separate faces took its place.

"Hello?" said the woman on...my left, I suppose.  Her cheeks were thick and full, set high on a heart-shaped face.  What I could make out of her arms looked broad and square.  She sure looked cold, if that parka were to be trusted.  "Can you hear me?"

The guy on my right--her left?  I don't know--was bald and shiny, with thin lips and very round ears.  I guessed he was in his fifties.  I don't mean to be rude, but at a glance, he sort of reminded me of Count Orlok.  His smile was pretty friendly, though.  "Hi," he said.

"Hi!" said the woman.  She rubbed her hands together.  Yep; she was freezing.  The wall behind her looked like it belonged to a log cabin, not unlike my own.  Was that a fishing spear hanging from the rafters?  "Stacy," she introduced.

"Ogden," Count Orlok returned.

"Hey," I said.  I coughed, suddenly aware of how raspy my voice sounded.  "I guess this is all of us?"

"Just for now," Stacy said cheerfully.  "That cute little go-getter's bound to find more people in no time."

"Carole's definitely a self-starter," I said with a grin.

"When's she going to take the bar?" Stacy asked curiously.  But Orlok preempted her, although I don't think he intended to.

"An Article V Convention," he said, rubbing his chin.  "Not every day you get an opportunity to sign up for one of those..."

"That's why I'm hoping we'll have more takers," I said.

"We could be like a supercommittee," Orlok said.  "Just changing whatever part of the law we don't like."

"Within reason," I said, a little alarmed.

"So..." Stacy said.  "What's the first order of business?"

I cleared my throat.  "Well," I said, "I don't know if you know about this--"

"Oh, I know about it," Stacy said.  "Look at me, I'm as Inuit as they get."

I smiled.  "Then I'd like to focus on Oliphant v. Suquamish," I said.

"The 1978 case?" Orlok said.

"Right, the one where they decided Natives can't prosecute non-Natives."

"Easy," Orlok said.  "The 14th Amendment calls for law enforcement to treat all citizens without racial or religious profiling.  Restricting Native American law enforcement by granting them authority over a specific race violates that amendment."

"You're right," I realized, impressed.  "Hold on, I want to write this down."

I reached for my notepad.  So did Stacy, by the looks of it, when she ducked momentarily offscreen.  She grinned sheepishly once she'd returned.

"What about the Major Crimes Act?" Stacy piped up.  "Natives are supposed to defer to the federal government for crimes like murder, but the feds never bother showing up."

"I think," Orlok said, "we want to find a way to repeal that act, rather than revise it."

"I agree," I said.  "I'd rather return rightful jurisdiction to the reservations than stand around trying to convince the FBI to give a damn."

"Weeeeell," Stacy said slowly, and chewed on the eraser at the end of her pencil.  "If we could prove the Major Crimes Act is unconstitutional..."

"I'd argue the very idea of a 'major' crime is unconstitutional," Orlok said.  "It's implying that there's such a thing as a minor crime."

"The Constitution," I said.  "Article 1, Section 8 establishes reservations as sovereign nations separate from centralized government.  We could argue that the Major Crimes Act violates Section 8 by imposing centralized government."

"Sounds good to me," Stacy said, and scribbled in her notebook.

"Hang on," Orlok said, "my kid's calling me."

Stacy and I took a moment to catch up on our notes.  Orlok disappeared from my computer screen.  He returned presently with a friendly grin.

"And...the ICWA, right?" he said.

I swallowed.

"Yeah..." Stacy said, sounding pensive.  She put her pencil down.  "How do we stop the government from taking Indian children out of stable homes?"

All three of us were momentarily silent.

"The Indian Child Welfare Act," I said.  "There's a clause in that act that grants the federal government the authority to terminate Indian parents' rights.  25 USC.  The problem is, 25 USC doesn't specify
when
the government is allowed to terminate Indian parents' rights."

"Meaning..." Stacy trailed off.  "The government can terminate Indian parents' rights for no reason at all."

The second silence that followed was longer than the first.

"How do we undo something like that?" Stacy said.

I closed my eyes and massaged my temples.  The truth was that we couldn't.  We couldn't do anything about it.  There aren't any laws concerning children in the Constitution.  Did you know that?  Child protection laws are determined by the state.  If Louisiana suddenly decides it's okay to whip your kid, there's nothing the rest of the country can do about it.

"The ICWA doesn't violate any pre-existing law," Orlok said.

"We'll just have to propose an amendment," I said.

"It would be easier if we could prove an amendment is actually in order," Orlok reminded me.

"I know," I agreed.  That didn't mean I had to like it.

"Hey," Stacy said softly.  "Cheer up!  We're an Article V Convention!  We've already got Alaska, Arizona, and New Mexico.  All we need is to find lawyers from thirty-one other states, and then we can pass whatever law we want.  Just think," she said, her voice dreamy.  "We could declare every Sunday a day of nudity..."

"How about we discuss that one next time?" I suggested, a smile on my face, my chin on my hand.

"Next week," Stacy agreed.  "I'll be there bright and early.  And naked."

She cut off her feed before I could figure out whether she was serious.

I met up with Mickey and Rafael at the firepit that night while Autumn Rose and Prairie Rose were handing out dinner.  Grandma Gives Light narrowed her eyes at me and I smiled and waved.  Mickey and Rafael and I sat together at the picnic table; Dad and Racine joined us.

"Dad," I said.  "The Hopi pauwau's next month.  You should come."

Dad faltered.  "I haven't seen the Black Mountain Reservation in years," he admitted.  "Even before prison..."

Racine squeezed his hand.

"What's the Hopi pauwau?" Mickey asked.

Rafael tapped her arm.  "Remember the tribe that wore all those dark colors?"

"Uh-huh."

"They're the Hopi.  We hold the summer pauwau and they hold the autumn pauwau."

"Oh.  What about winter and spring?" Mickey asked.

"The Paiute and the Navajo."

"Sky's cousin is Paiute, isn't she?  She's weird."

"Tsitsaseh kimmayu!" Grandma Gives Light suddenly screamed.

"I defy you to find anybody weirder than her," I said to Mickey.

Mickey waved good night to Nicholas and Charity and we walked home after dinner, Mickey bouncing on her heels.  I pretended not to notice.

"Hey," Rafael said, when he unlocked the front door.  "We should get you a rope swing."

"That's okay," Mickey said.  "The swings behind the school are fun."

Mickey threw a different proposal at us the moment we stepped inside.  "Can we listen to Megadeth again?"

"No," I said.  "Not unless you built a soundproof room within the last few days and didn't tell me."

Mickey groaned.  She dropped to her knees.

At first I thought she was being dramatic.  You know how kids are when they don't get their way.  But when she slumped over suddenly, her cheek hitting the hardwood floor, I realized she couldn't possibly have scripted this.

It was instantaneous; Rafael and I raced for her at the same time.  The both of us took her into our arms.  Ultimately I let go so Rafael could pick her up.

Mickey closed her eyes and shuddered, her chest heaving with effort.  I reached for her pulse on her wrist.  Her skin was ice cold.

"Michaela?" I said.  She stirred, but didn't answer me.  "What is this?" I asked Rafael shakily.

"I don't--I don't know."  Sometimes I forget that Rafael's a speech therapist, not a doctor.

"It got cold," Mickey mumbled, her voice muffled by Rafael's shoulder.

Rafael and I didn't need to confer with each other.  I thought:  We're taking her to the hospital.  And Rafael thought it, too.  He carried her out the door while I ran up the stairs.  Willow leaves for fever, burdock for blood circulation.  I didn't know what was wrong with her and I was terrified.  I dug underneath my bed, dug through the plastic bags filled with home remedies.  I was tempted to call Dad for help.  I think we all revert to childhood, at least a little bit, when we're afraid.  We all look for that one figure who made us feel the safest.

I ran out the door after Rafael and Mickey.  I caught up with them on the forest path, seal bags in my hand.  Mickey never had the chance to take her fleece jacket off.  I was grateful for that.  This night was a really cold one.

We practically sprinted to the hospital.  We bust through the sliding doors.

Mrs. Bright, the receptionist, peered flatly at me from the top of her desk.

"Been a while since I've seen
you
," she said.

Mrs. Bright and I go way back.

Rafael carried Mickey to the waiting room while I signed her in at the front desk.  My hands shook ridiculously, my signature near illegible.

"Skylar?"

I looked up and found Jessica staring back at me.  I hadn't realized she was on call tonight.

"Are you busy right now?" I asked, laughing.  I don't know why I was laughing.  I think that's a thing I do when I start to freak out.

She shook her head.  She followed me calmly into the waiting room.  Mickey sat curled up on Rafael's lap, her head on his shoulder; her eyes closed.

"What happened?" Jessica asked.  And then--probably because she didn't have any other patients at the moment--  "Let's just get her into a room."

So we moved again, my hands shaking, Rafael's eyes lightless and unreadable.  We moved into an empty children's room, rainbows and peppermint candies painted on the walls.

Poor Mickey must have hated the exorbitant attention she received.  We laid her on the bed and Jessica took her blood pressure and counted her pulse.  I pressed the willow leaves and the burdock pods into her tiny hands.  "You have to eat this," I said, surprised to find my voice sounded so steady.  "It'll help you feel better."

Mickey squinted.  "I don't wanna eat leaves..."

"You have to."

"Does she have a history of health complications?" Jessica asked Rafael.  Mickey bit into a soft, spongy burdock pod and winced.

"No," Rafael said.  "I mean," he said.  "She's got beta-thalassemia--"

"Oh!  I bet I know what's going on."

"What?"

"Hang on," Jessica said, "let me see if I can find Aisling."

Rafael looked furious when Jessica left the room.  I eased my hand over his arm and held it.  She's just doing her job, I thought.  She has to fetch the doctor.

It wasn't long, luckily, before Aisling Stout dashed into the room, her gray hair flying behind her.

"I'm here!" she announced, like a torch-bearing superhero.  She's always been that way.

"Great," Rafael said, his impatience barely contained.  "Then maybe you can tell us what the hell's wrong with our kid."

Aisling read quickly over the chart Jessica had left behind.

"Oh," she said.  She paused; she read it again.  "She's got thalassemia minor?"

"Didn't I just say that?  What the f--"

I grabbed Rafael's arm again.  "What's wrong?" I asked Aisling.

"Nothing's 'wrong,' per se.  It's just a very tricky disorder.  Normally," she went on, "it doesn't cause any problems.  It's just that her blood cells are smaller than ordinary.  And sometimes this causes a deficiency--"