The Color of Air

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Koji finally drifted off, only to be awakened in the dusty, dark light of morning filtering in through the curtains. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He heard footsteps on the creaking floorboards, knew they belonged to Nori making her way down the hall and downstairs to the market’s kitchen to begin her day. She kept cane worker hours. Koji wondered if she needed any help, and then thought the better of it—he would only be in her way. He stretched out and closed his eyes for just a little longer.

  33

  Nori

  Nori loved these early morning hours best. She began rolling out the dough for the sweetbread, pausing only to take down a jar of mango jam from the cupboard. Nothing made her think of Mariko more than the sweet floral scent of ripe mango every time she cut up the fruit to make jam. It always felt like Mariko was there in the kitchen with her, young again, urging her to finish up so they could take the boys across the road to the bay. “Let me help, yeah, the boys are anxious to go.” Nori could hear their shrieks and laughter out in the market. Nori urged her not to wait for her, but she refused. “Together, yeah,” she said. “Like always.”

  Mariko had been married to Franklin for seven years, of which he’d been away working for more than half the time, leaving her and Daniel alone. Nori wondered how she had put up with it. “The Hilo Aunties and Hearts, yeah,” Mariko once told her. “You all saved me.”

  In the end they hadn’t been able to save her. Mariko was gone now, leaving them all behind. Nori couldn’t recall how she’d gotten through the first year after Mariko’s death. It was a struggle, like having lost a limb and relearning how to live without it. Mariko was always there, from the time they were young girls in elementary school. She was Nori’s first real friend who didn’t ridicule her about wearing the same old clothes all the time, or going barefoot when she outgrew her shoes, and who didn’t care where she lived and who her parents were. When her parents eventually died, first her mother, and then thirteen months later her father, it was from drinking enough ti root alcohol to leave a big hole in their stomachs. She was fifteen and felt nothing but relief. Mariko and the Natuas were the ones who had always taken care of her. Nori fingered the faint scar on the back of her right hand, the burn mark left there by her mother when she was ten years old and dared to hide a bottle of ti root from her. Nori wanted her lucid for one night. “Just for tonight, Momma,” she begged, thinking she could still help them. Her mother had smiled, pulled on the cigarette she was smoking until it burned a bright orange full moon before walking over to her and snuffing it out on the back of her hand. Nori couldn’t remember if she had screamed, couldn’t remember feeling anything at the time. Only later did she recall the sharp, stinging pain and awful char smell of her burning flesh. The discolored scar would remain a constant reminder; if she couldn’t save them then she had to save herself.

  * * *

  Nori paused when she heard movement from upstairs and glanced at the clock to see it was nearly 6:00 a.m. Samuel would still be in a deep sleep for another hour, catching up for all the years he’d awakened at 3:00 a.m. to fish. It must be Koji. He’d driven down from Puli the day before yesterday, his rucksack slung across his shoulder when he walked into the market smiling and asked, “Is the room still available?” She and Samuel were more than happy to have him finally come down to stay with them after the harvest.

  In the two years since Mariko passed, Koji had kept mostly to himself up at the plantation. Nori wondered if she would have seen him at all if he didn’t run the sugar train down to Hilo every day. Still now, Nori could tell he wasn’t himself. He looked thin, tired, as if something were weighing on him, an air of sadness sitting on his shoulders, in the spray of lines around his eyes. She hadn’t seen him like this since Mariko died. She placed the sweetbread in the oven and hoped Daniel’s return would help to bring the change Koji needed.

  Moments later, she heard his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, stopping at the kitchen doorway.

  “You’re up early,” she said. She scooped some mango jam into a bowl.

  “Never needed much sleep.”

  “Coffee?”

  Koji nodded. “That I need, yeah.”

  Nori poured him a cup of coffee and gestured for him to sit down at the battered kitchen table. She cut some papaya. From the icebox she pulled out a slab of butter and cut a quarter onto a plate, putting it on the table along with the bowl of jam. The warm air of the kitchen quickly filled with the sweet aroma of the baking bread.

  Nori poured herself a cup of coffee and took the chair across from him. They sat quietly for a moment before she asked, “You look tired. Everything all right?”

  Koji took a sip of coffee. “Daniel knows about Franklin,” he said.

  It took Nori a moment to understand what he was talking about, before the clouds in her head cleared. Daniel had found out about Franklin’s return.

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Mama thought Daniel was Franklin when he gave her the exam, told him to go home where he belonged.”

  Nori shook her head. It sounded just like Mama. “How’s he holding up?”

  “He wasn’t happy to hear some of the truth. Ran out, yeah, before I could tell him everything.”

  “Part of growing up, eh.”

  “Not sure who needs to grow up,” he said. “Should have told him long ago.”

  “It was a decision you made with Mariko,” she reminded.

  “It feels like a part of her has returned with him.”

  “A blessing, yeah.” They sat in the quiet. “You know life doesn’t stop moving forward,” Nori added. “Time for you, too. Mariko would want you to.”

  Nori watched him in thought. She’d known him for thirty-five years and still couldn’t judge what he was thinking. With Samuel and her boys, everything was always out in the open in every movement they made.

  “I don’t know how,” he finally said.

  “You do,” Nori said, and smiled. “Talking to Daniel and being here, back down in Hilo, you’ve already taken the first steps.”

  They sat in silence again. Daylight began to seep in. Nori pushed her chair back and stood to check on the sweetbread. “Just about ready,” she said, pulling the two loaves out. “What you planning to do next?” she asked.

  “Tell him the rest of the story. Part of the reason I came down, yeah,” Koji said. “The other part to hold your hand during the flow.” She heard the smile in his voice as he lifted the cup to his lips and drank the rest of his coffee.

  “Like I need you to hold my hand,” she countered.

  They both laughed, only to pause when they heard creaks and footsteps coming from the apartment above.

  Samuel was up early, and the day was about to begin.

  34

  Naupaka

  By the time Maile and Daniel arrived at Mama Natua’s house, the rain had stopped. Maile stepped out of Uncle Samuel’s truck into the sticky, warm air that smelled of the sharp, wet earth. Mama’s house looked nothing like she remembered. It was smaller, more disheveled, though she hardly paid much attention back then. She came by with Daniel once or twice to pick up Auntie Mariko years ago when they were still in high school. At the time, she knew and admired the Hilo Aunties, while Mama already seemed old.

  “Ready?” Daniel asked.

  Maile watched him approach and nodded.

  Daniel had asked if she would stay with Mama for a short time this morning while he took Auntie Leia to the hospital to sign some papers. Auntie Nori and Auntie Noelani were both working, and Mama would most likely be dozing in her chair after breakfast, he’d said. Ever since their afternoon on the Scenic Express, they were slowly getting reacquainted, finding hints of their old selves again along with all the changes. What Maile hadn’t expected was that she wasn’t the only one returning to Hilo with scrapes and scars from their time away. She knew it was wrong, but it somehow made her feel better to know she wasn’t alone.

  A few nights earlier, she and Daniel ha
d been walking back from Mano and Kailani’s place. A moonless darkness blanketed them, along with the distant sounds of the cicadas and the wind gusting through the trees. She felt comforted, shielded by the shadows. All night they had talked and laughed together, like when they were young and Maile dared to hope. Daniel’s voice suddenly filled the quiet again, telling her about studying and working in Chicago, including some of the patients he encountered at the hospital, and how it was Auntie Nori who asked him to check on Mama Natua when he returned.

  “Mama’s lucky to have such a good doctor,” she’d said, still impressed that he had fulfilled his dreams.

  Daniel remained quiet, and it seemed that her words had simply floated away. Maile was mystified by his sudden silence when he finally said, “Sometimes good isn’t enough.”

  “Try telling that to the aunties after all you’ve done for Mama,” she’d said, hoping to lighten his mood, which had shifted so quickly. “Auntie Nori can’t stop talking about—”

  “Mama’s suffering from senility,” Daniel interrupted. “It doesn’t take a genius to treat her.”

  Maile stopped walking. The darkness suddenly felt suffocating; his sharp words hung heavily in the air. She felt the blood rush to her head. “Maybe not,” she said, “but it still takes a doctor whom Mama trusts enough to treat her, and that says a lot.”

  Daniel stopped, too, and turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so arrogant.”

  Maile saw him clearer as the clouds shifted and moonlight seeped through, saw the anguish and apology in his gaze. She never would have spoken up in Honolulu, held back by fear, but she was home now, and with Daniel. She’d forgotten how good it was to simply say what she felt. She looked at him and saw that there was something she’d missed, too wrapped up in her own anxieties. Whatever was upsetting him lay just beneath the surface.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Daniel answered, and smiled. “I should get you home.”

  She stepped closer and inhaled the sweet, dark air, changing the subject as they began to walk again. “Uncle Koji must be happy you’re back,” she said.

  “Right now, I don’t think he’s too happy with me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “We had a disagreement last week,” Daniel said quietly. “I left before hearing his side of it.”

  Maile couldn’t remember a time when they’d ever fought over anything in all the years she’d known them. “About what?” she asked.

  Again Daniel paused. She watched him weigh whether to tell her or not.

  “He lied to me . . . kept the fact from me that my father returned when I was a boy. He and my mom both did.”

  Maile heard the young Daniel again in his voice. She’d heard scant bits and pieces about his father when they were in high school, but he was long gone by then.

  “Would Uncle Koji forgive you if it were the other way around?” she asked.

  She couldn’t imagine that Uncle Koji would deliberately hurt him. He loved Daniel like a son.

  “Probably,” Daniel finally said. “But it isn’t the other way around.” His words were laced with a quiet disappointment.

  Maile wondered if he was upset with just Uncle Koji, or also with himself. She leaned closer and reached for his hand.

  * * *

  When they stepped into the kitchen, Mama sat in her wheelchair, her eyes closed, her head resting to the side. “Barely finished eating, yeah, before she nodded off again,” Auntie Leia whispered to Maile. “Can’t thank you enough for watching her; best thing if she sleeps until we’re back, yeah. If she does wake, there’s papaya for her in the icebox, for you too,” Auntie Leia added. In the next hurried moments, Daniel and Auntie Leia were in the truck and driving off, leaving Maile with Mama.

  While Mama slept, Maile looked around the porch. The wind had picked up, rattling through the screen door as the clouds veiled the sun and the porch darkened. She wondered if it was going to rain again as she looked at all the flowers and leaves collected on the wooden table where Mama and now Auntie Leia strung their leis. Maile picked up an orchid, soft as skin to the touch, when she heard Mama talking aloud in the kitchen and quickly let go of the flower.

  Maile stood in the kitchen doorway, anxious, as she listened to Mama mumbling something she couldn’t understand. What if Mama caused a fuss that she couldn’t handle? What would Daniel and Auntie Leia think of her? Mama hardly knew her, having met her only once or twice, years ago; she most likely had no memory of who Maile was.

  When Maile looked over at her again, Mama was staring calmly back.

  “You come to pick up the leis?” Mama asked.

  Maile moved slowly toward Mama, not wanting to upset her. She knelt in front of her at eye level. “Mama,” she said, “I’m Maile, Daniel’s friend. I’m here to spend some time with you.”

  Mama looked at her. “You come home, yeah.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Mama smiled. “Naupaka bloom whole again, eh,” she said.

  Maile wasn’t sure what Mama was talking about, but was relieved she seemed comfortable and in good spirits, whether she knew her or not. She recalled Daniel saying it was important to keep Mama engaged.

  “Tell me about the naupaka blossom,” Maile said.

  Mama’s eyes focused. “Naupaka, a beautiful princess, yeah, fell in love with a poor boy she could never marry, eh, so Naupaka vowed to stay in the mountains, and Kaua’i, he remained near the ocean. Last time together,” Mama said, as her hand rose to her hair, “Naupaka took the flower from her hair and gave half to Kaua’i. All the nearby plants so upset, yeah, the next day they bloom only half flowers in honor of the parted lovers.” Mama paused, then said, “You back now, eh?”

  Maile nodded. “Yes, I’m back.”

  Afterward, Maile pushed her wheelchair back out to the porch for some air and Mama pointed to her work table. She was surprised when Mama leaned over and grabbed a piece of fishing line. “Sit, yeah,” Mama said, her eyes darting back and forth as her face lit up and she began to teach her how to string a lei with the plumeria flowers on the table. The sweet fragrance was calming as Maile pushed the needle and line through the stem and out through the eye of the flower, one after another, while Mama watched, rolling and unrolling a ti leaf between her fingers.

  “Ti leaf brings good luck, yeah,” Mama said, looking down at the green leaf. “Wards off the evil spirits,” she added. She stared at Maile longer than she was comfortable. “Nothing to worry about now, eh, the ti leaf will keep you safe.”

  Maile listened as Mama continued with her conversation. “Good luck, yeah,” she said, while Maile continued to string the plumeria lei. She breathed in and out slowly, the first time she’d felt completely comfortable since returning to Hilo.

  Not long after she finished stringing her lei, Daniel and Auntie Leia returned.

  “She didn’t give you too much trouble, yeah?” Auntie Leia asked.

  “No trouble at all,” Maile answered. “Mama taught me how to string a lei.” She held it up for them to see, thrilled at the accomplishment.

  “You did a fine job, yeah,” Auntie Leia said, inspecting her work. “Could always use an extra pair of hands,” she added.

  Maile felt light-headed at the thought. “Just call any time you need help,” she said.

  * * *

  Later, as Daniel drove her back to the green bungalow, Maile remained quiet, looking out the window with hopes of glimpsing a naupaka flower.

  “Everything okay?” Daniel asked as the truck slowed and bounced over dips in the road.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” Maile said, and smiled. In her hand was the ti leaf Mama had given her for luck.

  Ghost Voices

  MARIKO, 1912

  It’s Saturday morning and Franklin is back home for a few weeks. Tonight he’s taking us out to dinner. This afternoon he and Daniel are going to the Wailuku River, while I go to the market to p
lay Hearts with the aunties. It’s our second anniversary and a welcome tradition I love, being together every Saturday after the lunch rush to play Hearts, a deck of cards waiting on the back table, along with a bowl of rice crackers and plates of sliced papaya or pineapple or mango, our voices tumbling over each other. It makes it easier moving through the week, yeah, knowing I’ll see the aunties at the end of it, like the pot at the end of a rainbow. It’s become my mainstay.

  When I arrive this afternoon, the aunties are excited. We sit at our back table like schoolgirls again because a photographer from the Hilo Registry has come by, wanting to take a photo of us for the newspaper.

  “Why us?” Nori asks.

  “Human interest story,” the photographer says. “Good to have, yeah, when it’s a slow news day and we need fillers.” He holds up the folding pocket camera with red bellows and stands back. “Act natural, yeah, and don’t look at the camera.”

  I hear the camera click followed by a bright flash as we all look down seriously at our cards. We rarely look serious when we’re together. It’s only when we look up and laugh that the flash explodes again. The photographer talks to Nori for a moment, and I’m relieved when he leaves and we get down to the business of playing Hearts.

  I grab the deck and shuffle the cards.

  In the past two years, we’ve each developed our own small habits and superstitions when handling our cards—Nori likes to wait until all the cards are dealt to her before she picks them up, immediately ordering them according to suit: spades, clubs, diamonds, and hearts. Leia stacks hers into a neat pile before fanning them out, one by one, yeah, while Noelani never keeps to one way of doing things, just like the way she lives life. If I wasn’t dealing, I’d immediately pick up my cards as they’re dealt to me. I look down at my growing pile. And there it is again, that small jab, the feeling that there’s no time to waste.