“Where’s all my stuff?”
“Not here yet,” Grandmother said. She looked at me in disapproval. “Your garment will have to suffice. We must leave. Now.”
I didn’t question her. When Grandmother spoke in that tone, I moved.
She led me out of the house through a back door at the end of the hall, one that was seldom used. It opened to an empty space near a storage shed. For a long time, no step had been attached here—the door had sat above the foot-high wooden foundation.
Forgetting that, I stepped out into nothingness and flailed until I landed in the dirt. Grandmother didn’t comment, only waited for me to climb to my feet and help her down.
She beckoned to me. We skirted the house around to the back, where the old sheep pens were. Grandmother took me down the length of the house and around the far corner, then stopped, easing back into the shadows.
My dad’s old truck rattled up the dirt drive and pulled to a halt in front of the house. The sun, barely touching the horizon, lit up the dents in the dusty pickup—I’d bought my dad a new truck when I’d started making money from my photography. Pete Begay slid stiffly out of the driver’s seat, as though ending a long journey, and moved to the passenger side.
I was struck by how young he looked. Dad’s face was smooth and handsome, his black braid holding no trace of gray, his movements, in spite of him apparently driving for hours, lithe.
He opened the passenger door and pulled out a bundle, which cried out.
My heart beat thickly. I started forward and was pulled back by the spindly hand of my grandmother.
The door to the house banged open. A younger version of Grandmother bounded out without her cane, followed by my aunt Natalie, who looked as young as Dad.
“What is that?” Grandmother demanded, pointing to the mound of blankets my father held. The squalling rose to ear-splitting levels.
Aunt Nat put her hands on her ample hips. “Pete, what the hell are you doing with a baby?”
“Whose baby?” Grandmother asked sharply. She sniffed, then drew herself up. “Where did you find it? Why did you bring it here?”
My dad looked exhausted, bewildered, defeated, and grief-stricken as the child in his arms continued to cry. Grandmother reached out her hands. “Give it here.”
“No.” My father backed away. “She is mine.” He squared his shoulders, and for the first time in his life, faced down the women of his household. “This is my daughter. I have brought her home.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
My mouth went dry, and I wanted to start bawling along with the baby. My dad and my grandmother squared off, she a shaman with old magics, my father with determination and love in his eyes. My grandmother came forward, Dad watching her in trepidation, but he stood his ground.
Grandmother reached him and peered into the bundle. She studied the baby the barest instant before she took a sharp breath. “It stinks of evil. Peter, what have you done?”
My father lifted the infant against his chest and gave his mother a belligerent glare over the blanket. “She’s hungry.”
Grandmother fixed him with a hard stare. “You can’t keep her, Pete. She will bring danger and darkness upon us all. She should be taken to a shaman who will drive the evil out of her and raise her where she won’t hurt anyone.”
“Mom’s right,” Aunt Nat said, though she’d hung back, as though fearful of approaching them. “There’s something wrong with her. I feel it.”
“Best thing to make a clean break now,” Grandmother said firmly. “Give it to me. I’ll take it to the shaman right now, and you never have to see it again.”
My father swung away, holding me close. “She’s not an it.” His voice was hard, harsh, a tone I’d never heard in him. “Stay away from her!”
“Peter.” Grandmother tried to gentle her tone. “This is not your fault. She’s demon born, isn’t she? You were duped, I imagine. The babe might not even be yours.”
My father took another two steps back, the rage of angels in his eyes. “She is not a demon. She is mine.” He raised me high, tiny Janet bawling in terror. “This is my daughter,” he announced to the sky.
My younger grandmother’s mouth hung open. I saw clearly the indecision in her, the terrible worry about the evil lurking in this child warring with her love for her son. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she wanted to shield him, and she didn’t know what to do.
Pete brought the baby down and cradled her against his shoulder. “There now,” he said. His voice shook—he had no clue how to take care of a baby. He began crooning a song in Diné, one I remembered him singing to me all my young life.