Page 104 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“And you shouldn’t have needed to be examined. I don’t—I don’t know what those young men did to you. I don’t know the details. But they nearly killed you, and they were never punished for it. You were the one who was punished for their actions. You keep on being punished, and that isn’t fair. If you can’t have this child, it’s their fault, and that isn’t fair.”
I want to hug her. I know I can’t. I can never force her to accept hugs or get used to them for my sake.
Kenny has been helping April navigate the neurotypical world, but he’s also been helping me understand what I can and cannot ask of my sister. We need to meet in the middle where we can negotiate a healthy sibling relationship, one where I don’t feel constantly berated and judged, but also one where she can be herself, without the need to mask for other people’s comfort.
So I can’t hug her unless she clearly wants it—and not just because she knows it’ll make me feel better.
Instead, I say, “You’re right. It’s not fair. And yes, it seems careless of me not to get answers, but it’s avoidance. I was afraid of those answers. If I didn’t get them, I could pretend everything might be okay.”
“That’s what Kenny said.”
“We were discussing it,” Kenny says. “I’m sorry if you weren’t ready for me to know. April was really upset and needed to talk.”
“That’s fine. I’m sorry you’re upset, April. I feel better today, if that helps, and I will get that appointment as soon as I can.”
“Next week,” she says, straightening. “It’s already been arranged.”
“Okay…”
“You’ll be seeing someone in Vancouver. She is an expert in conception and pregnancy following trauma. Émilie has made all the arrangements.”
I try not to wince.
Dalton says carefully, “Émilie?”
“It was Yolanda’s idea. She came to me this morning and said she had heard the news and had the sense there could be complications. I did not divulge your history, of course, but I expressed concern and suggested you had experienced trauma that could affect a pregnancy. Yolanda insisted on speaking to Émilie.”
April’s chin rises. “Which is correct. Émilie has even better contacts in the medical field than I do, and she can arrange for your complete privacy. You might not like accepting favors from her, but you will in this.”
“I will?”
She meets my gaze. “You will.”
“April’s right,” Dalton says. “This isn’t a time to ignore what Émilie can do for us.”
“I have a feeling we’ll be saying that a lot,” I mutter. But then I sigh. “Okay, yes. Obviously, I can’t turn down superior—and private—care. Give us the details later, and we’ll arrange a few days off. For now, I’d like to speak to you in the clinic, April. I want you to look at those photos I mentioned yesterday.”
“Of the murdered miner whose body you would not secure for a proper autopsy.”
“Could not, April. The word you want is could not. Now come on.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I haven’t seen my sister in nearly three days. That means I wasn’t the one to tell her about Sandy. Dalton had updated her—mostly so she wouldn’t hear about it secondhand. Dalton gave her the basics, and then I had expected to meet with her later and go over the photos I’d taken.
My sister is understandably furious over not having access to the body. I found it, therefore it should be ours. I could say that “finders, keepers” doesn’t apply to corpses, but I understand what she’s saying. We have a doctor capable of performing the autopsy and a detective capable of investigating the murder. Therefore, Sandy’s body should temporarily be ours.
It isn’t, and I’m not sure she understands our explanation—that we don’t want to give Rogers an excuse for popping by with medical issues—but she accepts it. At least I took photos, though she doesn’t expect them to be as thorough as they would have been if she were there.
She also, naturally, has to tease me about stumbling over bodies. Is it really teasing? For the sake of my stress level, I’ve chosen to pretend it is. Sometimes I think that, deep down, she can’t help but wonder whether I’ve developed some inner divining rod for corpses.
We’re in the clinic now, and I’ve transferred my photos to her tablet and also to mine, so she has two screens to examine them on. I know my sister. Being able to view only one photo at a time is unacceptable. She may even requisition my phone if she needs a third for multiple comparison points.
As we go through the photos, she praises me for my thoroughness … while still pointing out angles I missed. There are a few shots I leave out intentionally for now, but those aren’t the ones she cares about. For my sister, it’s all about the wounds.
“These could have been fatal,” she says, circling three. “To be sure, I would need to know how deep they were. That is why I required the body.”
“Does it matter which of them was the killing blow?”
