We drive by Tami’s. I see candles in their windows! The house is fine. In the van, I blink back tears. I’ll find her tomorrow. But we can’t stop.
Home first.
We retrieve the Civic as we retrace our path. Dad is so relieved to have his car back, as if that’s the thing that has been pressing on his mind most. I stifle a laugh.
I glance out the window to admire the two Star Flowers. They are fully separate now; everyone will know there are two. They blossom much larger and nearer than they ever have. I may be able to hear the mother’s guileless mind even now. A switch has been flipped in my brain; some door, once seamless in the walls of my mind, remains propped open. Yes, I do believe I can hear … something.
Can she still hear me?
I think she can. We are Leilani, after all. We are somehow one.
I did it. I brought them back. And I can feel the mother, somehow. It’s like beginning to wiggle a foot that has fallen asleep. She’s a part of me now. So odd. So marvelous. I can sense her drawing up radiation from the Earth’s surface, neutralizing it. The sensation reminds me of a bone-dry sponge in my hand, growing soft and moist as I press it against a countertop spill.
We were right to do this. We saved the world. Everyone. Everyone. Our race may still have a future.
My eyes study the silhouetted slopes of Mauna Loa. Pele’s home, where she stopped running and took a stand. Her throne does not rise as high toward the sky as Mauna Kea, but she exerts a greater force upon the world. She simmers within, biding her time, shaping her paths with infinite confidence and patience.
The bearer of the future, she rises, and at the pace of her choosing.
An old Jeep is in the driveway as we pull up.
A freshly skinned pig hangs from a hook in the carport, and Grandpa’s hunting knife lies on the cement below it.
My heart soars.
And now, in the headlights, I spot Kai jumping up and down on the porch. He turns and yells into the house. I am melting. I am finally coming undone.
“Oh, my God,” Dad manages.
I jump out of the car before it comes to a complete halt. My rubbery legs carry me up the steps, and Kai and I slam into each other with formless cries of joy. Mom is at the window beside the porch door. Grandpa stands behind her. Her eyes are frantic and ravenous and wild with hope.
And then she sees me.
The door whips open, and all five of us seize each other. We are finally together. Once more, underneath the watchful, starry eyes of majestic and mysterious forces, we are whole.
CHAPTER 33
Kai has fallen asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around me. I’m half sitting, half lying on the couch, my brother draped like a warm blanket over my tucked legs. I run my fingers through his dark hair. My hands tremble. I can’t help it.
We just had a luau’s worth of food. Stuffed ourselves like … it was the end of the world. I’m savoring every silky stroke of his hair, but still I’m nervous that this isn’t real, that I’ll awaken from a dream at any second and all this will be gone.
A row of ten kukui nuts is aligned on the coffee table. Grandpa places a lighter above each one until they’re all consumed in flame. The ancient Hawaiians used these oily nuts as candles. I feel our family entering the past as the darkness softly lifts. For once, we’re going backward in a good way.
Grandpa knows the path between the past and the present better than anyone.
Beyond the kukui light, on the opposite couch, my parents hold each other.
Grandpa breaks off a stem of the naupaka branch I brought home and chews on it. He was delighted that I had it, because it helps to heal cuts and scrapes and rashes. Grandpa transfers the mashed-up stem into a koa-wood bowl and begins to sing the prayer of enlightenment and healing he once taught me:
Ai, Ai, Ai
.
Ho`opuka e-ka-la ma ka hikina e
Kahua ka`i hele no tumutahi
Ha`a mai na`i wa me Hi`iaka
Tapo Laka ika ulu wehiwehi
Nee mai na`i wa ma ku`u alo
Ho`i no`o e te tapu me na`ali`i e
His voice is so beautiful. Tears sting my eyes.
He nears me as he sings, motions for me to sit up. I rest Kai’s head on my lap. Grandpa rubs the naupaka into the scar on my forehead with his thumb. He applies it to the bite marks on my leg, and to the mosquito bites and scrapes along my arms, legs, and neck.
In the flickering orange kukui light, he starts a new chant to treat Dad.
E ola mau ka honua
,
E ola nau ke ao lewa
,
Ho`ola hou ke kanaka
Long life to the earth
Long life to the heavens
Restore life to the person
After a moment of silence following Grandpa’s chant, Mom explains, “We prayed for your safety every morning and every evening. The three of us never missed a prayer. Your brother has developed a beautiful voice over the past month.”
I smile, look down at him. My hands still tremble as I absently stroke his hair.
“I had … moments of doubt,” Mom says. “But I found hope. Always. It was a battle of patience; I knew you’d get here as soon as you could.”
“Did you get any of my letters?”
“Just one. Right before the military left. It did more to upset me than calm me down, to be honest. To know that you were still on O`ahu nearly two weeks after the blackout …”
“I’m sorry for that.” I think of Aukina, who promised the letters would get to Hilo. I wonder how long he’ll linger in my dreams.
“Oh, Lei, you were right to try.”
“Your mother was very strong,” Grandpa says. “One of us went into town at least every other day. We developed a checklist of places to search, where others had been arriving. We also heard plenny horror stories. But we tuned them out.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mom says. I can see the toll those trips into town took on her. “We’re all here now. We’re all safe.”
“Hilo doesn’t look very good,” Dad says. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re ‘safe.’ ”
We all stare at him. “Sorry, but we have to be realistic. Someone was in our house when we got here. He had a gun. He was nothing, but … We need a plan for when that happens again.”
“I’ve been talking story with Hank,” Grandpa says. Mr. Miller from up the road. He and his wife used to keep to themselves. “He’s been saying the same thing. We’ll go see him tomorrow, eh? He’ll be thrilled.”
“Good,” Dad says. “Hank Miller—I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a basement full of heavy artillery.”
We all laugh, but it dies off in a somber note.
“And what about this sheriff, Lani?” Dad asks Grandpa. “He nearly executed me. He knows who we are. He’ll come calling for favors at some point down the road—”
“Mike.” Mom cuts him off.
Grandpa’s features are stern. “You don’t owe him anything. We’re even now.”
“Why?” Dad asks. “What’d you …?”
“We’ll deal with that moke,” Grandpa answers. His eyes broadcast: Not tonight.
We’re silent, waiting on Dad.
“Fine,” he answers. “Meanwhile …” He hesitates and glances at me. “There’s more to our story.”
I look down at Kai, make sure he’s sleeping. I bite my lip, studying Mom and Grandpa closely. Then I dive in. I tell them about the Orchids—the Star Flowers. I tell them everything. Explain why we disappeared up Mauna Kea, why it couldn’t wait. What we did when we got there.