clothing—one of them being a leather shift that was reminiscent of Native American dress, specifically from the Chinook Indian tribe. The note pinned to her outer jacket said simply, I am Gemma. Take care of me. It was scrawled in a spidery hand, and the law enforcement officials believed she’d been raised by an elderly person from one of the tribes living on the Olympic Peninsula. These tribes were modern-day Native Americans, yet the chemise was very traditional. The authorities believed that Gemma had been deliberately placed on the ferry and abandoned, and though they questioned various groups of people—and also the people on the ferry—all they learned was that a very stooped woman with iron-gray hair in braids, was seen with a girl, maybe Gemma, when they were boarding the ferry. Some felt the elderly woman got off the boat before it sailed. No one was sure. All that was for certain was that Gemma was sitting quietly on a bench when it docked and complaining of a headache.
And in truth she’d had crippling headaches as long as she could remember. The LaPortes, her adoptive parents, had taken her to doctors who prescribed pain medication, and Gemma had taken this medication most of her life.
Now, she lifted a hand to the injured side of her face. Yes, there was pain, but it was the pain from physical force. It was not from something inside her head.
“What?” Will asked, throwing her a look as he turned onto Beverly Way.
“I just remembered something I’d forgotten.”
“About the accident?”
“No.”
Her adoption had been messy. She had no papers. No record of birth. The process went on for years before she was given proper credentials and therefore a social security number, the one she’d recalled at the hospital. She knew that sometimes she felt like she could almost remember the old woman who’d left her on the ferry. She could smell charred firewood and taste a cornmeal patty of some kind. There were words, too, but they were singsong, like a chant, for her young ears. A nursery tale. Indian lore.
But where did she fit into all that? There was nothing about her that said Native American. Her eyes were greenish/hazel. Her hair was medium brown. Her skin was white and burned like a son of a gun when she spent too much time in the sun. Will Tanninger’s was far darker than hers. If any part of her was Native American, then its percentage was small for she sported no latent features.
And why had she been left on the ferry? Why had she been rejected? Was there something about her parentage that had spurned her from their group? Some reason she was tossed out?
Maybe because she possessed extra unwanted abilities?
She shivered, then tried to reach back into her consciousness as far as she could. The effort made her head hurt like hell and all she recalled was a plastic hospital mask descending on her face and a sickly, chemical scent. She gagged at the memory.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said flatly, thinking now—as she had many other times, she realized—that she was extremely lucky Peter and Jean LaPorte had adopted her. They’d taken care of her, loved her the best way they knew how. Peter had been a tad removed, but it was more because he didn’t know how to show affection rather than any aversion to Gemma in particular. Jean had loved her fiercely. Had wanted Gemma to be just like her. Had fashioned her in a way that spoke more of what Jean was made of than anything to do with Gemma herself. Jean bullied, pushed and fought her way through life.
And she’d lied…about…something…
“This turn,” Gemma said, surfacing with difficulty. Will eased onto the rutted lane and they drove down an oak-lined drive and then across an open grassy area. Ahead, the two-story, white house with the wraparound porch looked like a prototype for “Early Twentieth Century American Farmhouse.” Gemma recalled her father working constantly on the house’s upkeep. Now, several years
And in truth she’d had crippling headaches as long as she could remember. The LaPortes, her adoptive parents, had taken her to doctors who prescribed pain medication, and Gemma had taken this medication most of her life.
Now, she lifted a hand to the injured side of her face. Yes, there was pain, but it was the pain from physical force. It was not from something inside her head.
“What?” Will asked, throwing her a look as he turned onto Beverly Way.
“I just remembered something I’d forgotten.”
“About the accident?”
“No.”
Her adoption had been messy. She had no papers. No record of birth. The process went on for years before she was given proper credentials and therefore a social security number, the one she’d recalled at the hospital. She knew that sometimes she felt like she could almost remember the old woman who’d left her on the ferry. She could smell charred firewood and taste a cornmeal patty of some kind. There were words, too, but they were singsong, like a chant, for her young ears. A nursery tale. Indian lore.
But where did she fit into all that? There was nothing about her that said Native American. Her eyes were greenish/hazel. Her hair was medium brown. Her skin was white and burned like a son of a gun when she spent too much time in the sun. Will Tanninger’s was far darker than hers. If any part of her was Native American, then its percentage was small for she sported no latent features.
And why had she been left on the ferry? Why had she been rejected? Was there something about her parentage that had spurned her from their group? Some reason she was tossed out?
Maybe because she possessed extra unwanted abilities?
She shivered, then tried to reach back into her consciousness as far as she could. The effort made her head hurt like hell and all she recalled was a plastic hospital mask descending on her face and a sickly, chemical scent. She gagged at the memory.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said flatly, thinking now—as she had many other times, she realized—that she was extremely lucky Peter and Jean LaPorte had adopted her. They’d taken care of her, loved her the best way they knew how. Peter had been a tad removed, but it was more because he didn’t know how to show affection rather than any aversion to Gemma in particular. Jean had loved her fiercely. Had wanted Gemma to be just like her. Had fashioned her in a way that spoke more of what Jean was made of than anything to do with Gemma herself. Jean bullied, pushed and fought her way through life.
And she’d lied…about…something…
“This turn,” Gemma said, surfacing with difficulty. Will eased onto the rutted lane and they drove down an oak-lined drive and then across an open grassy area. Ahead, the two-story, white house with the wraparound porch looked like a prototype for “Early Twentieth Century American Farmhouse.” Gemma recalled her father working constantly on the house’s upkeep. Now, several years
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