“You like that?”
“Where did you …?”
“I taught you how to surf, didn’t I?” he says. “Give your old man some credit.”
“I just did!” I say, pocketing my phone. “The vid’s on my feed now.”
We head for the car, cradling Dad’s board. It feels so natural under my arm. Soon I’ll graduate to this kind of board.
On the way back into Honolulu, we listen to the radio. Now the French president is missing. Dad and I hunt around the dial for clues, but he finally turns off the radio. “We’ll catch some real news back at the room.”
The surfing really mellowed him out.
Relax: this ain’t the mainland, I remind myself. Whatever’s going on out there won’t have much to do with us anyway.
We stop for dinner at Costco. We’re in one of the world’s top tourist destinations, and Dad wants a ten-dollar pepperoni pizza from a warehouse food court.
“Pizza two days in a row? Are you having a midlife crisis or something?” I tease.
But this greasy meal feels just right. First we top off our Civic with gas, and then we pile a mountain of snacks into a shopping cart—goodies we can’t find in Hilo.
Dad stands in line to fetch our pizza while I grab a table. Tami and I text:
That was ur DAD out there? Some vid.
I know right?
“Moment of silence?” Dad asks as we sit down to our giant pie.
I slip my phone into my pocket. “Dad, you don’t thank God for Costco pizza. That dilutes the whole gratitude thing.”
Dad gasps. “Don’t let Costco the Great hear you say that!” He squeezes my hand. I glance around, then close my eyes.
Every night, I silently recite a traditional Hawaiian chant that Grandpa 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
It’s a chant in honor of the dawning of enlightenment. I love how it sounds, and how Grandpa translated it:
Rise up. Make a hole in the sun and find the
light hidden inside. May the light of the gods
dawn on me like the rising sun. Come to me
through your breath and take me by force.
Come, drift upon me, and spread. Bring me the
means of life. Come to me like the creeping of
lava, and may this sacred ceremony of the
ali`i
bring me meditation and release.
I pull my pillbox out of my pocket and stare at it silently. I take two pills each day: one every morning, one every evening. But the doctor said no meds tonight.
Dad smiles. “You ready to do this?”
A monumental moment at a Costco food court.
“Just remember”—Dad puts his hand over mine—“if something happens, you’ll be safe in the clinic. Totally private.”
I usually just black out, but my mind sometimes fills in the scenes later. I vividly remember the sensation of watching myself on that afternoon in the cafeteria, along with the rest of the school.
“We’re doing this together, okay?” Dad says. “We’re right here with each other all the way through.”
I look at him and nod. I put the pillbox away without opening it.
CHAPTER 4
The drive back to Waikīkī takes ages. Rush-hour traffic. I watch the sunset from the passenger window as we exit the highway and get stuck in gridlock. This cityscape doesn’t feel like my Hawai`i. Each island is very different from the next. O`ahu is all stores and glass and glamour. It’s much friendlier to outsiders and visitors and tourists. Probably because it’s those kind of people who mostly live here. Military people, business types, retirees. The Big Island is more my style. Jungle. Lava. Volcanoes. Nothing over three stories high. Nobody honks on the Big Island; no one’s rushing off somewhere. Funny how I miss Hilo, even though I could fit right in in Honolulu, disappear. But I don’t want to disappear.
We check in to our fancy hotel on Waikīkī Beach. Dad scores us some free bottles of water and access to the VIP-floor courtesy bar.
Our twelfth-floor suite has an oceanfront lanai and a view of Diamond Head off to the left, visible now only as a dark silhouette against a starry horizon. The bay is dark, but the beach hotels cast a gentle glow onto the water, causing a strange green shimmering. We unpack, piling climbing and camping gear on the floor so we can get to our crumpled clothes.
Dad offers me the first shower, but I want to spend a few minutes in the hot tub before the pool closes.
He eyes me. “Is that safe?”
I look away. “I’ll only go in if there are other people there.”
“Sounds great,” he says to that. “Don’t forget we’re supposed to video chat with Mom before it gets too late.”
“I won’t be long.”
I linger at the pools, though. There’s a family with small kids in the Jacuzzi. They practice dipping their heads underwater, just like Kai did at that age.
Several brilliant falling stars dazzle my eyes as I lean my head against the lip of the spa. It’s sinking in that I won’t have much time to myself for the rest of the week. I’ll be on a hospital bed, enjoying the flavor of a bite stick—a wooden tongue depressor that keeps the airway clear during a seizure.
When I return to the room, I find Dad kicking back on his bed, a tall drink in one hand and the remote control in the other.
“President’s about to address the nation,” he announces, as if he’s personally arranged it. He must be in heaven. We don’t have cable at home, or even broadcast TV.
There’s a hum in the room I can’t quite place. I see a plastic wrapper discarded beside the microwave. “Are you making popcorn?”
“Yeah. Should be a good show. Don’t forget to buzz your mom. She called. Tami too.”
“Cool. But … wait, isn’t the president recovering from surgery? Isn’t it, like, four a.m. on the East Coast? Who addresses the nation at four a.m. in a hospital gown?”
“Someone who’s woken up from surgery to discover half the country gnawing at his carcass, that’s who.”
“Dad. How much have you had to drink since I left”—I look at my phone—“thirty minutes ago?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Tragedy of the commons,” I say.
Dad grins. It’s an ecology phrase that describes how people stockpile goods when they’re afraid someone else will hoard them if they don’t. It happens with timber in unprotected forests, fish in international waters, and, apparently, liquor in hotel VIP courtesy bars.
The microwave hums along, but the popcorn bag inside never inflates. Dad looks through the little window. “Ring your mom before the speech begins,” he says. He pulls out the bag. “Not even hot.” He tosses the popcorn back in and resets the timer for five minutes.
I open the laptop and see Mom’s avatar active on the sidebar. I click on her and a window pops open on the computer. I can hear the insufferable pleas of the coqui frogs even before she and Kai appear, sitting by the desk at home. He’s in pajamas, sleepy. Mom is smiling firmly.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Hi.”
“You’re off your meds already, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You feeling okay?”
I roll my eyes, forgetting that I’m on a video chat, not a phone. I smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“You’re so strong, Lei. I’m very proud of you.”