LITTLE WHITE SQUAW
LITTLE WHITE SQUAW
a white woman’s story of abuse, addiction, and reconciliation
Eve Mills Nash
and Kenneth J. Harvey
Copyright © 2002 by Island Horse Productions Limited
First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), Toronto, Ontario.
This book is published by Beach Holme Publishing, 226–2040 West 12th Avenue, Vancouver, B.C. V6J 2G2. www.beachholme.bc.ca This is a Prospect Book.
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts and of the British Columbia Arts Council. The publisher also acknowledges the financial assistance received from the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for its publishing activities.
Editor: Michael Carroll
Design and Production: Jen Hamilton
Cover Art: The Other Side by Jerry Whitehead Eve Mills Nash Photograph: Sasha Thompson Kenneth J. Harvey Photograph: Janet Power Interior Art: Jody L. M. Claus
Printed and bound in Canada by AGMV Marquis
All the events described in this book are true. However, names and descriptions of people and some places have been changed to protect the identity and privacy of individuals, and in these cases any resemblance to living persons is entirely coincidental.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Nash, Eve Deloris, 1950-
Little white squaw
“A Prospect book.”
ISBN 0-88878-427-9
1. Nash, Eve Deloris, 1950- 2. Adult child sexual abuse victims—Canada—Biography. 3. Alcoholics—Canada—Biography.
I. Harvey, Kenneth J. (Kenneth Joseph), 1962- II. Title.
HV6570.4.C3N37 2002 362.76'4'092 C2002–910165–4
CONTENTS
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my father, Lee Mills, the Bard
of Oromocto, and to the woman who
inspired him, my mother,
Isabel Mary Jane
—Eve Mills Nash
To the family
—Kenneth J. Harvey
1955–1974
PROLOGUE: THE WOODS
I am on my back in the snow gazing up at the small brown hand with fingernails chewed too short from worry. It is my son Jody’s hand, reaching out for me on a bitter cold March morning in 1986. Jody is only sixteen. He had taken care of me from a safe distance all night as I drank steadily and sank deeper into depression. He pretended to be engrossed in one of his video games, but every time I moved to collect another beer or make a trip to the bathroom I glimpsed the concern in his eyes.
“Why don’t you go to bed, Mom?” he suggested. “You must be tired.”
I shrugged and said, “Later.” No matter how much I drank, the alcohol ceased to affect me. It might as well have been water.
When I set off into the woods behind my house, it was still dark. Dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans in the near-zero temperature, I had no idea where I was going. I only knew Jody was following me, afraid for what I might do. When he saw me lie in the snow, he ran up and put his hand out to help, as if I’d simply fallen, but then noticed I was motionless, as if I desired to rest on the soft snow.
I am crying, filled with horrific shame to have him see me this way after all the promises I’ve made. But I am living in a land of immeasurable blackness and defeat, a place of suffocating emotionless weight where the body is the curse that must be extinguished.
I know my kids have had enough, so I decided I’d walk away and die. Eliminate the parent and the kids would be fine. It made perfect sense.
“C’mon, Mom,” Jody now insists, his breath misting greyish-white in the air. “You have to get up.”
The snow feels comforting beneath my back as I stare up at trees that should be beautiful but only provoke my grief. Try as I might, I can’t see their beauty.
“Come home,” Jody urges, his voice quavering. “You need to go to bed.”
“Go back,” I whisper, shutting my eyes. How many times has he covered up for me so I can pretend my life is normal? Calling my boss to tell him I’m sick with the flu when I’m actually hung over Hiding bottles when a relative drops by …
“Mom, please.”
When I open my eyes to regard him, tears are ready to spill from his big brown doe eyes. Gentle. Trusting. What sort of ugliness have those accepting, docile eyes witnessed because of me and my men?
“Your mother’s no good. I just want to go to sleep.”
“Mom, you have to get up. I love you.” His trembling has increased. I watch him shiver, yet can’t feel a thing.
“Jody, please go home.”
“You’re the only mom I got.”
I raise my fingers numbly toward him. Perhaps to touch his face, to smear a black streak across one so dear to me. Jody takes the opportunity to grab my hand with both of his. In a moment I’m sitting up, looking at him. My son. He’s holding my coat open for me to slip my arms into despite the fact he’s only in a T-shirt. I am on my feet. I’ve risen. Jody wraps the coat around my shoulders, and I pull him in under with me. We are like one person, huddled beneath the warmth.
I let him lead me back to the house.
BORN THE WRONG COLOUR
I was only six when I suspected my skin might be the wrong colour. We were living in Haneytown, a small country village about twenty miles from Fredericton, New Brunswick. I was in grade one and in love with Dickie Lee, a shy seven-year-old from somewhere in China. I loved the golden glow of his skin and his blue-black hair, which shone in the morning sunlight as he boarded the bus to the rural school we attended in Geary.
Just before my seventh birthday I decided Dickie was going to be my boyfriend and told him so. He never argued the point but, looking back, I’m not sure he even understood it, either; he spoke very little English. He did enjoy the homemade cakes and cookies