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always come around to the question of when I was going back, and having to say the words I can’t go back was like plunging a knife into my own heart. Every time I said them out loud, the pain would bring me precariously close to the edge. I didn’t want to believe it, but in reality I had to face the fact that I would probably never be going back. So I just sat in that living room, trying my best to disappear into the plaid sofa.
    At some point during the weekend Aunt Joan said she was expecting her nephew and his son to be stopping by on their way back from a fishing trip. As if on cue, two dark, lumbering men came through the door smelling like fish and lugging a large ice chest. The younger one headed to the kitchen as the older one greeted Joan with a hug and a kiss. As I sat there wondering who let the Native Americans into this totally white-bread family, he sat himself down at Joan’s side and took her hand gently into his own. His voice flowed softly and sweetly with news of life on the reservation, his fishing trip, his son in the other room. He finally stood to make way for more visitors who had arrived, and made his way to the chair next to me.
    “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Larry.” He cocked his head and squinted at me, no doubt wondering right back at me who let the crazy redhead into this group.
    “I’m Debbie.” We shook hands. “I came with Mike. Really just along for the ride. I’ve never been to Oregon, so I thought I’d check it out.”
    “And?” he asked.
    “Nice. But wow, so remote!”
    “I love it up here, especially when the salmon are running. It’s a great excuse to see Aunt Joan.” His warm smile drew me in.
    “So you don’t live around here?” Small talk! I was actually carrying on a normal conversation, something I hadn’t managed to do in a long, long time. I listened as he spoke about fish and redwood trees with the same gentle tone he used with his Aunt Joan. An aura of quietstrength seemed to surround him, and in his peaceful presence I felt a welcome calm wash over me.
    “You really live on an Indian reservation? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who lived on a reservation.” Suddenly I felt like an idiot.
    But Larry just smiled. “Yep, but in a house, not a tepee.”
    Larry made me laugh. He continued with some goofy Indian jokes and some silly stories about his childhood with Aunt Joan, and for the first time since I had arrived in the States I began to feel a little normal. I began to feel a glimmer of hope, all from a little small talk with Indian Larry.
    Through the kitchen door we could see Larry’s son trying to lift a huge fish out of the ice chest. He stood and tenderly grabbed my arm. “C’mon. Let’s go gut us some fish.” I stood and followed like a little girl, hanging on his every word.
    Obviously at home in this kitchen, he quickly pulled what he needed from the cupboards and drawers. I sat on a stool and watched as he nimbly slid the knife down the salmon’s shiny belly. Away from the prying eyes in the other room, I pulled a bottle of Merlot out of my oversized purse. Larry reached for a coffee cup.
    “Join me?” I asked, as I poured.
    Larry shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
    “Oh, sorry.”
    “No need to be sorry. I gave up the stuff ten years ago.”
    “Wow, good for you.”
    “Yeah, it took me almost losing everything . . .” Larry glanced over at his son. “Then I finally took control of my life.”
    “That’s impressive,” I said, quietly placing my cup on the counter. “So it has worked out for you?”
    Larry shrugged. “Pretty much. I felt like it was time to do something important, something that would make a difference in my community. And I couldn’t do that being a drunk.”
    I nodded silently. “And?”
    “So, I went back to school. Imagine, a fifty-year-old Indian, back in school. Got my B.A., then went for my master’s in psych.”
    “Really?” This guy was something.
    “Uh-huh, did