Sisters in the Wind

“‘I see it now, Lucy,’ Nancy says, taking odd, shallow breaths between words. ‘You look just like your mother.’”

Delivered in fragmented speech as Nancy is dying after a pipe bomb explosion, this line foreshadows the novel’s later revelations about Nancy’s mother and maternal family. As Nancy’s statement directly contradicts the lie maintained by Lucy’s father, this sets up one of the novel’s mysteries and the central theme of Reclaiming Identity and Family. Nancy’s calm revelation, juxtaposed with the chaos of the bombing, transforms a moment of destruction into one of personal discovery.

“‘Was my birth mother Indian? I mean Native American?’ ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Why would you ask?’ […] ‘She was Italian too,’ he said. I instantly felt clearheaded relief, though I didn’t know why.”

After being racially profiled by a security guard, nine-year-old Lucy questions her father, and this dialogue reveals the foundational secret of her childhood. The adverb “quickly” highlights her father’s determination to maintain the deception, a key element in the theme of Navigating a World of Secrets and Lies. Lucy’s subsequent feeling of “clearheaded relief” poignantly illustrates the internalized shame associated with her true identity, a direct result of her father’s deception and the racism she has just experienced.

“We take our memories of your dad. We leave behind his earthly body and our thanks for the time we had with him. See, it balances.”

At Luke’s gravesite, an Indigenous elder named Abe Charlevoix teaches Lucy how to give thanks with semaa (tobacco). Through Abe’s dialogue, the text introduces the Anishinaabe concept of reciprocity, a worldview that directly contrasts with the exploitative relationships Lucy has known. This moment represents Lucy’s first voluntary step toward her heritage and a different understanding of community. Framing memory as part of a balanced exchange and fostering gratitude is presented in the novel as a strategy for dealing with past trauma.

“‘Go ahead,’ Bridget challenged. ‘End up on the streets just like your mother. The gutter or her Indian reservation, that no-good woman. Your dad tried to save you. He wasted his time.’”

During a confrontation after Lucy discovers her college fund has been drained, Bridget’s verbal assault confirms Lucy’s Indigenous identity. Bridget’s diction—“gutter,” “no-good woman”—exposes her deep-seated prejudice and shatters the benevolent facade she once maintained. This moment acts as the final catalyst for Lucy’s explosive rage, directly leading her to set fire to Bridget’s storage unit and establishing the novel’s connection between emotional cruelty and the recurring motif of fire.

“I turn away from her emotions. It’s a crisp winter night on the other side of the window. I focus on the stars. Each one is the memory of an explosion. The galaxy is a map of pent-up anger that had to be set free.”

Upon learning of her deceased sister and living birth mother, Lucy deflects from Daunis’s overwhelming emotions by creating this internal metaphor. The comparison of stars to explosions and the galaxy to a “map of pent-up anger” connects the external violence of the diner bombing to Lucy’s internal, repressed rage from years of trauma. Lucy’s deliberate focus on external objects and sensations reflects real coping behaviors used by people living with PTSD or anxiety. This imagery establishes the novel’s recurring motif of fire, framing destructive acts as a necessary, if chaotic, release of contained energy.

“The ultimate survival game is for girls to survive into adulthood. For the prey to avoid the predators. It’s a wry thought that turns somber when I remember my sister. Some girls don’t survive.”

After seeing her own injuries in a mirror, Lucy articulates a central thematic statement of the novel. The passage uses the metaphor of a “survival game” and the stark diction of “prey” and “predators” to define the perilous environment young women navigate. The novel uses the backstory of Lily and her death to contextualize the dangers that Lucy faces, creating a sense of life-or-death jeopardy that helps to drive the thriller plotting.

“‘Normal was life with my dad. Nothing’s been normal since then,’ I say, maybe a bit harsher than I mean to. ‘I can’t do normal; the best I can do is familiar. You and Jamie are my newest new familiar.’”

In response to Daunis’s attempt to define their situation as a “newest new normal,” Lucy makes a critical distinction that reveals her traumatic past. She defines “normal” as an idyllic state lost with her father’s death, demonstrating how that singular event fractured her sense of safety and stability. By coining the phrase “newest new familiar,” Lucy acknowledges the formation of a new caregiving unit while simultaneously resisting the deeper emotional connection implied by “normal,” which aligns with the theme of Reclaiming Identity and Family. Her words indicate her sense of isolation and alienation, the result of her past experiences.

“Then white middle-class social workers came around and said, ‘Oh, you don’t have running water. That’s neglect. You’re poor. That’s neglect.’ He gestures dramatically. ‘But the families were enduring the conditions imposed upon them. Endemic means happening regularly, so prevalent that it’s commonplace.’”

While explaining the history of the Indian Child Welfare Act, Jamie uses mimicked dialogue to illustrate the cultural and class biases that led to the removal of Indigenous children. His impassioned tone and dramatic gesture underscore the injustice of judging families for enduring conditions “imposed upon them” by the government. This direct exposition functions to educate both Lucy and the reader about the systemic failures that the theme of The System’s Betrayal of Vulnerable Children critiques, reframing poverty as a consequence of oppression rather than a sign of parental neglect.

“‘I wouldn’t mention it, Lucy,’ she said, not looking up from her paperwork. ‘It complicates everything. Just say you’re Mexican.’ […] It wasn’t until later that I thought, Who does it complicate things for?”

This flashback to Lucy’s entry into the foster care system depicts a pivotal moment of institutional betrayal. The social worker’s dismissive body language and casual advice to erase Lucy’s Indigenous identity for bureaucratic convenience represent a direct violation of ICWA’s principles. Lucy’s retrospective, italicized question marks her nascent understanding that the system prioritizes its own ease over the well-being and identity of the children it is meant to protect. This passage helps to illustrate Lucy’s growing realization of her identity and its meanings in the wider world.

“When you hear the words ‘historical trauma’ or ‘generational trauma,’ it’s because of places like this. […] Maggie was raised by a woman who experienced things you cannot imagine.”

After taking Lucy to see the grounds of a former Indian boarding school, Daunis explains its legacy. This dialogue directly defines a central concept for both Lucy and the reader, framing personal struggles within a larger context of systemic, historical violence. The author uses this moment to pivot Lucy’s understanding of her mother, re-contextualizing her abandonment as the consequence of generational trauma. Daunis’s statement explicitly links the physical place to the abstract concept, making the theme of The System’s Betrayal of Vulnerable Children tangible. This passage is also the beginning of Lucy’s emotional journey towards reconciliation with her mother.

“Closing my eyes, I’d listen for clues to determine who was present. My ears became as finely tuned as antennae. I learned how each member of the Sterling family breathed and moved. […] My sense of smell also improved when I closed my eyes.”

In a flashback to her foster placement with the Sterlings, Lucy details the survival tactics she developed. The use of the simile “finely tuned as antennae” and the focus on precise sensory details—breathing patterns, specific scents—illustrates the hypervigilance born from her trauma. This heightened awareness is characterized as an active, acquired skill set for navigating danger. This passage establishes a key aspect of Lucy’s character, explaining how her experiences in the foster system forced her to become an expert in reading people and environments to ensure her self-preservation, and helping to contextualize her reactions in the present-day narrative timeline.

“Above her head, a poster of a sailboat on choppy waters read A SHIP IN A HARBOR IS SAFE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHIPS ARE BUILT FOR.”

While observing her foster sister Stacy in the library, Lucy reflects on a motivational poster. The poster’s text serves as a direct metaphor for the plights of both Stacy and Lucy, who were sheltered in different ways before being thrust into dangerous circumstances for which they were unprepared. Lucy’s following internal reflection, “tossed into a hurricane in a tiny sailboat” (123) extends this metaphor, highlighting her feeling of powerlessness within a failed system. The image symbolizes the novel’s argument that safety is often an illusion and that survival requires navigating a world beyond the supposed protection of family or the state.

“Native families are like onions—rough-looking on the outside. […] But each layer is protecting the next, down to its innermost core. That green center, where the onion is sweetest, that’s the Native child. Surrounded by layers of family and community.”

When Lucy asks about the differences in family structures, Jamie introduces this extended simile. The onion is established as a central symbol representing the strength and complexity of Indigenous kinship, directly contrasting with the fragile “peas in a pod” model of the nuclear family. This didactic moment serves to educate Lucy on a key cultural value and articulates the theme of Reclaiming Identity and Family. The symbol provides a new framework for Lucy, offering a vision of belonging that is layered, protective, and rooted in community.

“It’s complicated. Loving imperfect people.”

Daunis offers this reflection after Lucy expresses anger at her father for having lied about her Indigenous heritage. This aphoristic statement introduces a significant level of emotional complexity to the narrative, challenging Lucy’s idealized memory of her father and her binary view of loyalty and betrayal. The line forces Lucy to confront the reality that love and personal flaws can coexist, a concept that applies to her father, Daunis’s grandparents, and other key relationships. This moment marks a step in Lucy’s maturation, pushing her beyond simplistic judgments toward a more nuanced understanding of human nature. This is also a step in Lucy’s emotional arc towards self-forgiveness and acceptance.

“I was terrified by how religion had been used in the Sterling home. Complicit women training little girls to be obedient while making excuses for the bad acts of boys and men. Their religion pushed God so far away from me. I had stopped praying.”

Arriving at Hoppy Farm, Lucy’s internal monologue reveals the lasting trauma from her previous foster placement. The second sentence creates a rapid, damning account of how institutionalized religion has been weaponized, linking its use to systemic abuse and the enabling of predators. This passage shows that Lucy has resisted the acceptance and internalization of misogyny, instinctually refusing to adhere to a doctrine that identifies her as a second-class citizen, demonstrating her personal strength and independence.

“He revealed a dripping vase of orange blooms. Butterfly weed from the one garden that had to be fenced to keep the dogs out. I reached for the jelly jar, careful not to spill water the way Boyd had. Each fragrant flower resembled a campfire with a tiny center ring of fire surrounded by longer flames blazing outward.”

On her 16th birthday, Lucy receives a gift from Boyd. The simile comparing the butterfly weed to a “campfire” directly engages the novel’s central motif of fire, linking this moment of potential romance and tenderness to a symbol of destruction and survival. This imagery foreshadows the violent truth about Boyd and the deadly fire that will later consume him, juxtaposing a brief, beautiful moment with the impending horror.

“It’s why I notice the tribal cop leaving the lobby restroom three seconds before the liar does. It’s enough time to fall to my knees, raise both hands, and shout. ‘I bombed the diner! My name is Lucy Dolce Smith. I bombed the Pleasant Diner on January ninth.’”

When her escape is intercepted by her former foster sister, Devery, Lucy makes a deliberate decision to deceive. Her dramatic, false confession is a demonstration of the urgency of her fear, prompting her to make a dangerous miscalculation. By falsely confessing, she temporarily escapes Devery but draws the attention of the justice system that will seek to criminalize her, a choice that illustrates the challenges of Navigating a World of Secrets and Lies.

“Anything you did, Lucy, you did because you didn’t think you had any other choice. You don’t know how to ask for help because you have been let down so completely. You would rather go it alone than have anyone ever disappoint or abandon you again.”

Following Lucy’s release on bail, Daunis offers an analysis of her character that pierces through her defensive walls. This dialogue marks a crucial turning point, as it is the first time an adult has accurately articulated the depth of Lucy’s trauma and the logic behind her solitary survival tactics. Rather than blame Lucy as ungrateful or delinquent, Daunis’s insight validates Lucy’s experience, laying the foundation for the trust necessary to make emotional connections and address the theme of The System’s Betrayal of Vulnerable Children.

“‘Don’t you know what this place is, Lucy?’ He was thrilled to watch my reaction. ‘We’re a baby farm. Girls like Emily and Paige come here already pregnant. Girls like Tonya get knocked up while they’re here. Missus works with an adoption attorney. They find good homes for babies. Especially white babies.’”

Confronted in his loft, Boyd reveals the farm’s secret. His casual and proud tone juxtaposes with the shock of this revelation, showing how routine this exploitation has become. His stark confession serves as the climax of this flashback, exposing the perversion of the foster system at Hoppy Farm that makes it into the novel’s prime example of institutional corruption.

“There’s a teaching,” Daunis says, her mouth still chewing. “That we Anishinaabeg were the first environmentalists. We took only what we needed and left the rest behind for others. I feel that way about religion. Gichimanidoo is our word for God. Creator. Gih-CHEE-man-ih-doe is perfect. We humans are flawed. So I hold the teachings close that speak to me. I leave the rest for others.”

In this moment of mentorship, Daunis provides Lucy with a philosophical framework for navigating conflicting religious or ethical models. The statement posits a flexible, personal approach to faith that directly contrasts with the rigid, punitive dogma of the Sterlings and the hypocritical piety of Lucy’s father. Daunis’s teaching is central to the theme of Reclaiming Identity and Family, as it models how Lucy can synthesize her experiences and beliefs rather than being forced to either wholly accept or reject a flawed system as presented by others.

“A chill ran down my spine. Three trees planted in one year. Three teens died in that year. I spun around, taking in the trees. There were two or three dozen, at least. All different sizes. Planted over multiple years. […] What if the hammock grove, my favorite place at Hoppy Farm, was actually a cemetery?”

This passage marks a turning point, transforming a place of solace into a site of horror through the use of uncanny juxtaposition. The final rhetorical question signifies Lucy’s horrifying realization and solidifies the theme of The System’s Betrayal of Vulnerable Children, revealing that the Hoppys’ idyllic farm is a facade.

“Do you hear yourself? Me. Me. Me. My. My. My. That’s the difference between us, Devery. I’m doing what I have to do to protect my son. You’re doing it for yourself.”

During Devery’s betrayal, Lucy’s dialogue uses pointed repetition—“Me” and “My”—to expose the core of Devery’s selfish motivations. This sharp linguistic contrast clarifies the moral divergence between the two characters: Lucy’s actions are driven by the protection of family, while Devery’s are rooted in self-interest born from systemic desperation. The quote defines their tragic conflict and underscores the theme of Navigating a World of Secrets and Lies, showing how secrecy can be used for both protection and betrayal.

“We pass the hammock grove. I look from the house where Luke and Stacy are, to the silver maple. The tree that was nearly destroyed by forces beyond its control. The tree with the hollow that looked like damage on the surface. But inside, like the layers of an onion, was something worth protecting.”

The silver maple here functions as a complex metaphor for Lucy’s own identity and resilience. The description of the tree as “nearly destroyed by forces beyond its control” mirrors her traumatic past, while the explicit simile comparing its protective hollow to “the layers of an onion” directly invokes Jamie’s symbol for Indigenous family and community. This moment of symbolic identification reinforces Lucy’s resolve to protect the evidence hidden within the tree and, by extension, her son.