CITY GIRL

I could tell we were getting close to the cottage when the road was swallowed up by forest. For most of the ride, we’d been on a four-lane highway, our surroundings gray and uninspired. We passed old shopping plazas with Burger Kings, Shoppers Drug Marts, and Pay Less shoe stores. Stinking industrial factories belched smoke into the grayish sky. Cars hemmed us in on all sides, their windshield wipers battling the trickle of rain from overhead. Even Mom’s upbeat road trip playlist and Dad’s never-ending flow of trivia couldn’t liven the banality that surrounded us. 

But as we got further north, the shopping plazas started to bleed into mom-and-pop shops. The factories were replaced by lakes and small rivers, their currents slow and lazy. The fields swelled in diameter, the grass grew greener, and forests hugged the road. Even the other cars began to peter out. Small streams of light speckled the road like fairy dust. I started paying more attention to the view out my window than to the Nintendo DS I’d clutched for most of the trip. 

“Nearly there,” Mom said. She was up in the passenger seat, map balanced on her lap, because she never trusted Dad’s GPS to navigate us here correctly.  

 Dad made eye contact with me through the rearview mirror. “You excited, Maxine?” 

“Yeah!” I bounced a little in my seat. “I haven’t seen Poppy in forever. We haven’t even been swimming since last summer. I want to show her how good I’ve gotten at holding my breath.” 

I took a great puff of air, expanding my cheeks, and letting the oxygen slacken in my lungs. I used to hate going underwater. I couldn’t get over the tightness in my chest, like a hand had reached through my ribs and seized my heart. Poppy, who practically lived in the water, made fun of me. So, I’d started purposefully starving myself of oxygen—in the car, at school, in my room long after I was supposed to be sleeping. The resulting discomfort became as familiar to me as my own face. This summer, it would be one less thing Poppy could hold over my head. 

“How about your aunt and uncle? And Tommy?” Mom asked. “You excited to see them, too?” 

I hesitated. Auntie Quinn pinched my cheeks whenever she saw me, even though I was nearly eleven years old. Uncle George was always trying to get me to go fishing with him, but I had a weak stomach and hated watching him pry the scales off his catches. Tommy, Poppy’s four-year-old brother, was cute from a distance, but he had the annoying habit of poking through my belongings. His hair was already thick and dark, and he always said he wanted to grow it into a braid one day. Like his sister. 

“Sure,” I said.  

Mom gave me a look like she didn’t believe me, but Dad only laughed. “You and Poppy better not get into too much trouble this summer.” 

“Shouldn’t you be advising them not to get into trouble at all?” Mom asked. 

Dad winked. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

He guided the car over a rickety bridge. A tremor ran through the vehicle as we moved over rickety slats that certainly weren’t designed to hold our weight. The tacklebox and cooler tucked on the seat beside me wobbled precariously. I nudged them upright and returned my gaze to the window.  

Poppy, Auntie Quinn, Uncle George, and Tommy were all waiting for us on the cottage steps. The cottage was a squat thing. It had a low-hanging roof and a wrap-around porch. Two tire swings hung from the gnarled limbs of an old oak, and birdfeeders speckled the branches of the surrounding trees. At the back, a path of smooth stone led down to the water. To the left and right, the world opened into expansive forest. 

Dad pulled into the gravel driveway behind Auntie Quinn’s battered truck. Before he even threw the car into park, I was unbuckling my seatbelt. I slid out of the car just in time to get an armful of my favourite cousin. 

“Max!” 

Poppy wrapped her strong arms around me and squeezed, hard enough that my ribcage compressed a little. I wriggled a little, trying to free myself from her grip, but she was unyielding. She smelled like sunscreen and coconut shampoo, with just a little whiff of wet dog. I wondered where Tucker, her shaggy old German Shephard, was. Probably roaming around in the woods. 

Eventually I had to choke out, “I need to breathe, Poppy!” That was enough to make her finally back up, and I took her in for the first time in nearly a year. 

Her face and shoulders were red with sunburn, but it was the good kind that would peel into a tan later. A long, dark braid fell over one shoulder—a stark contrast to my own short, spiky pixie cut. Her pale blue T-shirt showed off arms already riddled with bug bites. 

“I missed you!” she cried. She was wearing a pair of long purple earrings, I noticed—probably beaded by her mom. When she wasn’t teaching third-graders, Auntie Quinn sold her beadwork at bi-annual craft shows. For my ninth birthday, she’d sent me a beautiful pair of moccasins with blue and red flowers. 

I’d never worn them. It didn’t feel right, somehow. 

I squeezed Poppy’s hand. “I missed you, too!” 

“I have so much to tell you.” Her eyes sparked like lit fireworks. “I went to my first powwow last month. It was amazing. And Mom told me she might sign me up for jigging classes in September.” 

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I’d never been a powwow. The closest I’d ever gotten was when we had a jingle dancer at our school for Orange Shirt Day. When he’d performed for us, his feet moving along to the pulse of Mother Earth herself, I’d felt my own heart skip a beat. I’d gone home that night and tried to replicate his steps, but I could never quite manage it. 

I was suddenly desperate to prove I’d done something, too. “I learned how to hold my breath!” I said. “I better I can go for longer than you.” 

Poppy laughed. “I wouldn’t count on it.” 

“Maxine!” Mom called. “A little help here, please!” 

I turned, thankful for the distraction. My parents were unpacking the car, hauling out the cooler and tacklebox and our overstuffed backpacks. The rain had stopped. Sunlight peaked through the leftover cloud clusters, turning Mom’s fine blonde hair into molten gold. She looked out of place here, with her jeans and white button-down, polished sneakers digging into the tiny stones of the driveway. Dad, with his thick glasses and sock tan, wasn’t much better. 

“Okay!” I said. As I brought my backpack to the room I’d be sharing with Poppy for the next week, I tried to ignore how skeptical she’d sounded. Like she couldn’t imagine that a girl like me, who’d grown up in the cigarette-stink bustle of Toronto, could ever be a better swimmer. 

* 

For dinner, we roasted hot dogs over the campfire. Uncle George started the fire, gathering bits of shredded paper and heavier, thicker logs into a dusty pit. I half-expected him to use a char cloth and flint and steel to coax out the flame, but he pulled a silver lighter from his pocket instead.  

My first hot dog was cooked perfectly. I was so hungry I ate it in two bites. Auntie Quinn cut up pieces for Tommy, who smothered them in so much ketchup that it dripped off his fingers. She had to take him to go wash his hands off in the lake. 

By now, the sun was setting, and the mosquitoes that had remained relatively docile during the day emerged in swarms. Mom sprayed Poppy and I with enough bug spray that we were choking on it, but I could still feel bugs dipping under the collar of my shirt and beneath the seam of my socks. Not even the smoke from the fire could quell their hunger. 

The night settled over me like a thick blanket. Crickets and frogs came together in a sweet, chirping cacophony, accompanied by the occasional call of a loon. The clouds dispersed just in time to reveal the stars. Without the light pollution of the big city, they sparkled like diamonds. I couldn’t stop staring. 

My hot dogs tasted like the wilderness—like lake water and ash and the crack of branches breaking in the woods. Tomorrow Poppy and I would go out into the forest, and it wouldn’t matter that I’d never learn to jig. It wouldn’t matter that I didn’t want my ears pierced so I could wear long earrings like hers. It didn’t matter that I’d probably never grow my hair past the curve of my ears. We could just be two little girls pretending to be fairies fluttering through the overgrowth, or weary princess escaping from isolated towers. 

It was only when Dad burned his third hot dog that any of us realized what was wrong. 

“Damn it.” When the hot dog began to crackle and sputter, he jerked his stick out of the flames. But the damage had already been done. His hot dog was charred and blackened with ash. “That’s no good.” 

“Feed it to the dog,” Uncle George suggested. “He’s our very own garbage disposal.” 

“Wait,” Poppy said suddenly. “Where is Tucker?” 

I hadn’t seen him either. Usually by this time, he’d be curled up by the fire, tail wagging lazily, occasionally begging for scraps. Sometimes he’d splash in the lake and come back with a small fish or frog in his mouth. But the little patches of grass he usually rolled around in were empty, and the water was silent. 

“He was in the woods earlier,” said Auntie Quinn. “He looked like he needed a good run. I sent him off. I guess he hasn’t come back yet.”  

Poppy got to her feet, her hot dog forgotten, eyes wide under the glow of the fire. “Do you think he’s lost?” 

“Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,” Mom said. “Can you try to call him back?” 

Poppy stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Tucker!” she cried. “Here, boy!” 

We all fell silent as we waited, straining to hear the patter of animal footsteps over the crackle of the campfire. Nothing.  

Tommy’s eyes welled up with remarkable speed. He’d been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten he was there, but now he made his presence known. “He’s gone! Tucker’s gone!” 

Auntie Quinn put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He’s not gone. He probably just didn’t hear us. We might have to go out and look for him.” 

 I got to my feet. “I’ll help.”  

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Mom said. “Maybe you and Poppy should go back to the cottage—” 

“No!” Poppy and I both spoke at the same time. We exchanged a look, and I reached out to squeeze her hand. Her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes weren’t tearing up, not quite yet, but they would soon.  

“We know these woods,” I said. “We play in them all the time. We can help you.” 

The adults exchanged a meaningful look. I’m sure they didn’t love the idea of their ten-year-olds wandering around dark wilderness with nothing but flashlights, but there was no way I was going to climb passively into bed with Tucker missing. It didn’t matter if Dad or Auntie Quinn stayed behind to keep an eye on me—I’d sneak out the window if I had to. Judging by the force Poppy was exerting on our clasped hands, she would do the same. 

“All right,” Auntie Quinn said eventually. “But you’re to stay with your parents, okay? I’ll take Tommy back to the cottage. You all should come with us to stock up. You’re going to need flashlights, water, walkie-talkies, and bear spray. We’re not taking any chances here.” 

“Good idea,” said Mom. “Maxine, you’re with me.” 

“I want to stay with Poppy,” I said. Beside me, my cousin nodded fervently. 

“All right, then you and Poppy go with your mom,” said Uncle George. “I’ll go out with your dad. I’m sure we’ll find Tucker in no time.” 

All the way to the cottage, Poppy didn’t let go of my hand. Her palm was slippery with sweat, but I didn’t mind. Her presence was a rock, a concrete beam. No matter what, we would face the world together. 

* 

My dad and Auntie Quinn were twins, but you couldn’t tell just by looking at them. They had the same roundness to their faces and thick dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Auntie Quinn looked like she was born for the woods, with her long ribbon skirts, healthy summer tan, and fingers stained with berry juice. Dad tended to wear cozy sweaters and tattered jeans, and preferred the comfort of an air-conditioned kitchen to a hot, muggy forest.  

The two of them had been born to my Métis grandparents in Manitoba, though the entire family moved to Ontario when the twins were thirteen. Better opportunities in the bigger cities, or so they claimed. But I guess Auntie Quinn was a rural girl at heart, because she moved up north at the first opportunity. She found a community of other Métis people and slid into their ranks with such seamlessness that it was as if she’d been there all along. There, she learned to bead, make Bannock and Saskatoon jam, and speak halting words of Michif. My grandparents had tried to pass down their teachings first, of course, but they were riddled with holes from a legacy of colonialism and residential schools. It was really in this Ontarian Métis community that Auntie Quinn really learned how to embrace her culture again. It was also where she met Uncle George, a half-Scottish, half-Métis guy who could gut a fish and skin a deer with the same gentle hands that made love to her. They got married right away. A few years later, Poppy was born, and she grew up in the woods right alongside them. 

My dad stayed with his parents in Toronto. When he was eighteen, he started his undergraduate degree at U of T. He majored in History, but it was a kind of history that focused on distant empires, old kings, the rise and fall of ancient civilizations. His classes barely touched on Canada, and never examined the history of his own people. He got his Masters and his PhD right after, and met Mom, blonde and bubbly, at a local café. They got married. When she got pregnant with me, I guess he didn’t think to teach me the culture he barely knew himself. Poppy got jigging lessons and beaded earrings. I got lectures about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. 

Poppy liked to call me a city girl, and I guess she wasn’t wrong. I’d grown up to a background of honking horns and wailing ambulances, not serene bird calls echoing over an open lake. But as I headed out into the woods with a flashlight and a can of bear spray, my feet navigated expertly over gnarled roots and uneven patches of ground. In the dark, the trees loomed out like horror-movie monsters, their branches like clawed hands and their wrinkled trunks brimming with snarling faces. Every snap of a twig in the distance was like a gunshot. We stuck to the path, but even then, we could be just metres away from snakes or raccoons.  

Mom clutched my arm like she was worried I was going to melt into the darkness if she didn’t keep a hold of me, but I wasn’t scared. I had been coming up to the cottage since I was five. Poppy and I had run through these woods a hundred times. We’d made it our own, almost, and certainly staked our claim. We carved our initials into the mud. We picked berries from plump, ripe bushes. We wove crowns out of sticks and leaves and tangled vines. If there was anyone who was going to find Tucker, it would be us. 

“Here, boy!” Poppy’s voice cut through the nighttime ambience. “Come on, Tucker! Time to go home!” 

“Tucker? Where are you?” I called. “We’ve got some treats for you!” 

I had, in fact, tucked a few into my pocket, just in case Tucker would somehow sense them and come running. That dog had the nose of a bloodhound, though his focus was more like a toddler’s. Once he’d been in the middle of gnawing on a bone when he got bored and began chasing his own tail. Hopefully, he’d be hungry enough that his focus would narrow in on my treats. 

“Tucker!” I said again. “Come on, buddy!” 

“Time to go home!” Mom added.  

“What if he’s hurt?” Poppy said. Her voice hitched a little. “What if he fell or got himself scraped up and he can’t get back to us? What if he’s dead?” 

Her eyes glittered in the dark like a deer’s. We were still holding hands, so I gave her another comforting squeeze. 

“He’s not dead,” I said. 

“How do you know?” 

“I just do.” 

Poppy wiped her eyes. “Then where is he?” 

“He’s just lost, Poppy,” said Mom. “Let’s keep looking.” 

We continued through the woods, calling out intermittently for Tucker and scaring off every other animal in a ten-metre radius. I swear I saw an owl lifting off from a tree, wings strong and silent, but I looked down before I caught a glimpse of its wide, yellow eyes. Poppy had told me once that owls were bad omens. This did not seem to bode well for Tucker, so I didn’t mention the sighting. 

After about half an hour of roaming around and calling out for a dog who did not answer, Poppy was barely holding back a meltdown. We stopped near a stream—we couldn’t see it so much as we could hear the slow trickle of the water—and Mom wrapped her arm around Poppy. 

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “We’ll find him.” 

I broke off from them and headed to the side of the stream. I pointed the beam of my flashlight down at the water. It was a shallow stream, water gliding thinly over a stack of smooth, polished rocks. The life blood of Mother Earth, someone had once told me. It took me a minute to remember who. 

My mooshom had passed away when I was three; my kokum left us four years later. As their lives slipped away, so too, it seemed, did any chance of reclaiming my culture. At least not in the same immersive way as Poppy. My memories of my paternal grandparents were a little faded now, like a worn Polaroid in the back of a drawer, but I still remembered this. 

I was five years old. My kokum had me balanced on her lap. I think we were visiting her for Christmas, or maybe Easter. We sat on her overstuffed sofa in the living room, watching a black-and-white movie. I usually complained if my parents put anything on TV that wasn’t animated, but I was weirdly quiet that day, engrossed in the exaggerated expressions and run-on dialogue on her staticky screen. There was something about my kokum that’d always been imposing, and not just because she was an Elder. She was short—I’d be as tall as her when I turned seven—but she held herself with such dignity it was as if she towered over you.  

We’d been watching the movie for twenty minutes, completely silent. I was just reaching up to scratch an itch on my nose, hoping I wasn’t bugging her, when she said, “The Little People stole my favourite spoon this morning.” 

My hand paused halfway to my nose. “What?” 

“They’re mischievous ones, the Little People are,” she said. “They like being near water and wilderness—the life blood of Mother Earth, you know. But sometimes they come to mess with those of us urban folk who still believe in them.” 

“Who are the Little People?” 

Kokum turned to me. She looked impossibly old, with a wrinkled face and white hair in a threadbare braid, but she was probably only around seventy-one or seventy-two at the time. Her hands, clutching mine, were baby-soft and smelled of lavender.  

“Oh, my darling,” she said. “They’re our protectors.” 

“They are?” 

“Of course they are. They’re spirits. They’re meant to be there for us.” 

I could tell by us she meant Métis people, Indigenous people. Even back then, I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to fall into that category. 

The question burned like bile coming up, but I forced myself to ask it anyway. “Will they protect me?” 

Kokum squeezed my hand. “Of course they will. You’ve got Métis in your blood, and in your heart. They’ll be there for you when you need them.” 

* 

I crouched by the stream and dipped my hand into the water. Behind me, Mom continued to quietly comfort Poppy. The air was a little humid, but the water was cold. I took in a deep breath. 

“Are you there?”  

My voice was quiet, but I could hear its uncertainty. I didn’t know much about the Little People—just like I didn’t know much about anything, it seemed. Kokum had told me that they frequented riverbanks and the dark, moist interiors of caves, but sometimes they would sneak their way into bustling cities. She used to leave candies out for them—strawberry lollipops wrapped in plastic, pieces of sticky black licorice, Tootsie Rolls and Hershey’s bars and Coffee Crisps. Offerings, I guess.  

I didn’t have much of anything with me, but I fished through my linty pockets anyway. After a quick search, all I came up with was a stick of gum encased in foil. That would have to do. 

I placed the gum carefully on a rock. “If you’re there, please help me,” I said. “I know I’m not like Poppy. I know I’m not like Auntie Quinn. I wish I was, sometimes.” 

If there was anything listening, it didn’t make itself known. But I could swear the crickets around me got a little bit quieter. 

“I’m still here,” I said. I don’t know why I said that. Only that I knew it had to be said. 

I was. I was still here.  

  “I just want to help my cousin,” I said. “So if there’s anything you can do to help me find her dog, I would be really grateful.” 

Still nothing.  

“Thank you for your time,” I finished. No matter if I was talking to an old lady at the store or a tiny Métis spirit, Mom would tell me to be polite. I stood up, brushed the mud off my knees, and turned to walk away.  

Just as I did, though— 

A familiar bark broke through the forest’s silence. I’d heard that cadence a million times—whenever I arrived at the cottage after a long time away, when someone knocked at the door, when a squirrel or chipmunk darted through the underbrush.  

“Tucker!” 

Poppy crashed through the woods, making a beeline for the source of the noise. I scrambled to follow. On my way, I passed Mom, who was still in the clearing, looking bewildered. I don’t think she’d even realized I’d slipped off.  

“Maxine, wait—” she began, but she was too late. I was already racing through the trees. 

“Tucker! Here, boy!” Poppy shouted, so loud she might have scared the bears off. “Where are you?” 

Tucker barked again, closer this time. My flashlight waved erratically, trying to hold the small figure ahead of me within its shallow beam of light. I followed Poppy, and Mom followed me. All the while, Tucker continued to bark. 

I ended up finding Tucker and Poppy in a small clearing we must have just missed in our search. Tucker lay on the ground, tangled in briars. His fur was covered in what might have been mud or blood—it was hard to tell in the darkness. 

Poppy was crouched beside him, trying to unravel the sharp thorns. When she noticed me approach, she took in a breath. “I need help! He’s stuck!” 

I knelt beside her and helped pull the thorny stems away from Tucker. They pricked my fingers, probably drawing blood, but I could barely pay attention to the dull pain. All that mattered at that moment was setting Tucker free.  

When we’d finally unravelled the last briar from Tucker’s leg, he sprang to his feet and practically tackled Poppy to the ground. She fell with a delighted shriek, giggling as his wet tongue explored her cheek. “Hi, buddy! Good to see you! I’m so glad you’re okay!” 

Mom pulled up to the clearing, clutching a stitch in her side. “Girls!” she said. “Don’t go running off like that—oh! You found him!” 

“He barked,” Poppy said, running her hand through his fur. “I think he was scared.” 

“Is he hurt?” 

“I think he got scratched.”  

“We can patch him up back at the cottage. Come on. Let’s bring him home.” 

When Poppy stood up, Tucker went bounding up to me. He jumped onto his hindlegs, placing his forepaws on my chest, and gave a little whimper of affection. I ran my hand through his matted fur. Then I fed him the treats from my pocket. He deserved them. 

Eventually I had to guide him back down to all four legs, but before I did, a strange scent filled my nostrils. Not bug spray, or the stink of unwashed dog. It was something a little sweeter than that. Sugary. Like candy. 

It was gone so quick I might have imagined it. But as I walked with Mom and Poppy back to the cottage, Tucker nestled close to my side, I imagined tiny spirits watching me. Following me. Sensing something within me, that—regardless of where I’d grown up or what pieces of my culture I held inside of my chest—they judged to be kin.