Free My Name Is Not Easy by Debby Dahl Edwardson Page B

and coff ee and nails. Th ere’s
    two ladies in the back of the store, one young and one old, debating about which fabric to buy, and this makes me realize, suddenly, that I missed hearing the sound of Iñupiaq, too.
    And I especially missed the feel of Swede, crushing me up against his fl annel shirt without a word. We don’t need a lot of words, Swede and I, because that’s how we are. We always know what each other is going to say before we say it, so a lot of times we don’t even bother talking. Swede already knew about my fi rst question, for example. I can see it in his eyes when I pull away from his hug and look at his face.
    He looks down, folding his arms across his chest like he’s trying to hug himself.
    “Th
    ey had to put her in a home.”
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    M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
    Th
    e way he says home makes it sound like it’s some new word, a word that has sharp, hissing edges and doesn’t have anything at all to do with family.
    “Why?”
    For a moment that word just sort of hangs there in the air between us like a hook.
    “She needed to be there,” Swede says.
    One of the ladies shopping plops a bolt of fabric on the counter and says, “Th
    ree yards.” Th
    en she turns back to
    the older woman and asks, in Iñupiaq, if that’s going to be enough.
    I stand there watching Swede measure the material,
    thinking about how the English language makes me so mad sometimes. She needed to be there. How can a person use the word needed in a sentence that has nothing whatsoever to do with need?
    LUKE
    —
    Bunna and I are standing by our duffl
    es, all ready to go. It’s not
    like the fi rst time we left, that’s for sure. I’m thinking about all the kids I’m going to see—Amiq and Donna and Junior.
    I miss them all—even the Pete boys. Even Sonny, which surprises me. We are watching the plane land, and I’m already thinking about soaring back up into those summer clouds and landing in the middle of all those trees. I even miss the trees.
    I’m holding Uncle Joe’s gun with Bunna right next to me like a sergeant at arms. Mom is standing off to the side, 72
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    T H E S I Z E O F T H I N G S B A C K H O M E / L u k e , S o n n y & C h i c k i e looking lonely. Jack’s gone now, has been for months. No one’s sure where he went, and none of us miss him much, either, except for Mom. I put my arm around her, looking down at the gun, proud of myself. I want her to be proud, too, but Mom’s not looking at the gun; she’s looking fi rst at Bunna, then at me, then back to Bunna, like she’s trying to memorize our faces, trying to keep herself from crying by looking extra hard. And then Uncle Joe is here, striding cross the tarmac and smiling big as day.
    “Hey!”
    He nods at the gun one last time. “I’m only loaning her to you, remember. Don’t you forget to bring her back.”
    I hold the gun up, smiling as hard as a person can smile.
    “I won’t,” I say.
    “Yeah?” Joe winks, which makes his whole face wrinkle up like tissue and makes me notice, for the fi rst time, all those little wisps of gray hair around his ears.
    All of a sudden I want to say no—no, don’t get gray hairs, no, don’t let us get on this plane, no, don’t let us leave with this gun of yours.
    But before I know it, I’m sitting in the seat by the window, listening to the rising roar of the engine and watching everything get smaller—and smaller—and smaller.
    CHICKIE
    —
    When we land in Fairbanks, all I can think about is the word home, the home where Aaka Mae is at—somewhere here in 73
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    M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y
    Fairbanks. Where exactly is it and what’s it like? Th e home I
    am imagining is a very lonely place. I look around and spot the little knot of Sacred Heart students congregating in the corner of the