by Austin Aslan
Dad stiffens. “Two thousand! Why?” he asks the tech. The guy shrugs. “Serious heebie-jeebies out there. Now the vice president isn’t around.”
“What?”
“Prime minister of Japan is missing, too.”
The nurse stops clipping wires and escorts the tech out of the room. I hear him mumble, “Hey, these folks are supposed to be relaxed. Talk story later.”
Dad looks like he was just rear-ended in a car accident. “You should go,” I tell him. “Find out what’s going on. I’m fine. I’ll want you here more tomorrow, but this is no big deal.”
He shakes his head. “I’m here for one reason: we do this together.”
The tests end, and we bolt from the clinic. We stop for lunch—I inhale a mahi-mahi plate—and head north toward the Banzai Pipeline. On the radio, talk-show hosts freak out about the stock market.
“A twenty percent drop in one day? The Canadians halted trading after dropping a tenth. And where’s the Fed? Nobody’s doing anything.”
I look at Dad. He continues turning the dial, shaking his head, and then hits the seek button.
An ad urging listeners to buy gold.
Click.
“What if that wasn’t a meteor strike off Alaska? What if it was a North Korean nuclear attack? There’s a whole series of—”
Click.
A trembling and worn voice. “Then another angel came out of the temple and called in a loud voice to he who was sitting on the cloud, ‘Take your sickle and reap, because the time to reap has come.…’ ”
Click.
“… the Capitol was emptied. All congressional offices closed. Three British banks have already failed. The Euro’s in a tailspin—”
Dad smacks the radio off. “Pure speculation, at best. Don’t pay attention.”
“Dad, come on.”
“You know what?” He suddenly turns into the parking lot of a small strip mall. “You’re going to kill me, but … would you mind if I rented a board?”
“Wait. You want to … surf?”
He grins. “Chuns Reef. Whaddya say? You want to watch me?”
“Dad. What?” Chuns has a more forgiving wave than nearby Banzai Pipeline, but it’s fierce.
“Come on, why not? I may have lost my 401(k). The sky is falling, Lei. Brought to you by an asinine twenty-four-seven news culture that’s finally jumped the shark.”
My breathing is a little heavy. I don’t know much about the stock market. 401(k). That’s for retirement, I think. But what does some banking problem six time zones away have to do with us?
People are pouring in and out of the shops here. This stuff on the radio doesn’t match up with what I’m seeing. Perfectly normal. Except for Dad. He’s upset and trying to hide it.
He needs to surf.
“Fine. Whatevah.”
“We never would have used your longboard out here, you know that.” He looks at me. “Even without doctor’s orders, you wouldn’t be trying this wave.”
“I said fine.”
“Thank you. It’ll be fun!”
“Yeah. You’ll have a blast.” We jump out of the car.
Dad rents a quad-fin shortboard at the surf shop. “You can handle that?” I ask.
Just you watch me, his eyes tell me.
Oh, I’ll be watching, all right. Taking video.
* * *
By the time the sun’s low enough on the horizon to light the clouds on fire, Dad is showering off near the restrooms, and I’m speechless.
Dad was a great surfer until he got so busy with work. He came to Hawai`i for the surfing and met Mom on the beach when she was in grad school. He’s still got it. The swim out to the larger swells looked brutal, but he’s one mean fish. After a few false starts, he nabbed a series of waves with long walls that just kept going and going.
Dad wasn’t the only surfer I had my eyes on out there, either; I watched openmouthed as tanned bodies and sun-bleached heads twisted and spun on the waves with the ease of dolphins. One famous pro bulleted flawlessly through barrel after barrel. He’s on one of the posters in my room! I tried to sneak a pic of him for Tami (for me, too!) with my phone as he walked up the beach afterward, rubbing his hair with a towel, but he caught my eye and grinned at me. I blushed but got the shot.
I finish sending a vid of his best moment to Mom and Kai and Tami—a quirky little two-step on the board just as he crouched into his barrel attempt. When he reaches me, I look up with awe.
“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.”
I blush. “I love you, Mom. Where’s Tūtū?”
“He’s already in bed,” Kai says.
“What did you guys have for dinner?” Mom asks.
Dad shoots me a look and vigorously shakes his head. “Uh, you know, just … Thai.”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Mom murmurs. “Say something, Kai.” She nudges him.
“I did more back handsprings today!”
I laugh. “You still have to practice before you catch up with me. Land your first backflip on a balance beam!”
“Whatevah. Boys don’t do balance beam.”
“Boys can’t do balance beam.”
Kai just grins.
“Anyway, Lei,” Mom interrupts, “we don’t mean to keep you. It’s late.”
I glance over at the TV. A somber anchorman is stalling: “The timing of this address is highly unusual.…”
I turn back to Mom. “Dad’s Command Center seems to be fully operational now.”
“Mike, turn it off!” Mom yells into the computer. She looks at me. “Don’t pay attention to all that stuff, Lei.”
“It’s fine.”
Mom smiles. “We really should be going. Kai’s—”
The television set flashes to a close-up of the president. Dad and I gasp. The president looks haggard and uneasy. Behind him is a plain blue drape. Not even an American flag. I’ve never seen him so … I don’t even know what the word is.
“Malia, honey, wait!” Dad shouts toward the laptop. “Stick around. He’s on. You should see this. Lei, turn the computer, would you?”
I do, making sure Mom has a good view of the television. The president’s voice is strong. “My fellow Americans, and my fellow citizens around the globe: I apologize for the deceptions of the past twenty-four hours. Well-intentioned advisors have counseled me to keep secret what we’ve recently learned. My conscience and my heart will no longer allow that. I have made the determination that you have a right to know about the extraordinary—”
The flatscreen turns blue. A small text box bounces about the monitor:
Weak or no signal.
“What!” Dad shouts, leaping to his feet.
I stare wide-eyed at the television.
“I can’t believe this!” Dad pounds the remote keys. Nothing. All blank.
I turn to the laptop and notice that Mom and Kai are frozen on the screen. I click the connect button. “Hello? Mom? You still there? Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
I can close the program, though, and open others. The computer’s fine. I try clicking on my browser’s home page and get the white error screen. “Internet’s down, too.”
The microwave dings. Dad and I stare at it. The bag inside is still flat. “Cable with no cable, and now a microwave with no microwaves. Just great,” Dad says.
The broadcast returns. I whip around to the television. The president is still talking in front of that blue curtain.
“—uncertain of the exact effects. But we do know there’s no reason to be alarmed. We all have a responsibility to each other to remain calm, and to continue to go about our lives in an orderly fashion. There is much we don’t yet know, but I am making a commitment to you, from this moment forward, to keep you informed of developments on an hourly basis. We …”
An unseen, muffled voice distracts the president. He turns for just a moment, nods, and returns to the camera. “I understand we’re already experiencing some glitches. Some satellites are cutting in and out. So, let me repeat, it’s important that you—”
The image goes blank again.
Dad and I wait, motionless. A minute or two crawl by like hours. The TV screen remains blue. Dad seizes the telephone. He dials zero and waits.
“Wow,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“It’s busy,” Dad says. He tries again. This time he gets through. “Hello?” he says. “Hey, our cable and Internet
are out. It just dropped right in the middle of the president’s … Well, okay, but … Fine.” He hangs up.
“They’re working on it,” he tells me. He fetches the remote and sits down, running through the channels. Still all blank.
“Hey, we can watch it online as soon as things are back up,” I suggest.
“Good idea. You should grab a shower. I’ll give Mom a call while you’re in there.”
“Yeah, sure.” I turn to close the computer. But it’s already off. And it won’t even turn on. Battery? I plug it in. “Night, Mom. Night, Kai,” I say.
I hope Mom’s not flipping out.
These islands and their sacred tides call me forth.
The wave rises. I paddle, catch it. I spring up on my board, rush over the waters. Everyone on shore watches, agape. I’ve done it! I’m riding the surf! They all laughed, thought I was crazy, but here I am, the inventor of surfing, drifting on the sea, the gods whispering in my ears through the salty breeze. I’ll be lost to history, but for me, this moment will last forever.
Come, drift upon me, and spread. Bring me the means of life. “Honey? Come on back, sweetie. Wake up.” Dad’s voice cuts in and out, like a lighthouse beacon twirling through heavy fog. “Hey. There we are. You okay?”
“What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You just blanked, kiddo.”
“Huh?”
“Petit mal, maybe. Little too much excitement.”
My elbow hurts. Did I bang it on the nightstand? Did I fall? “Oh, no.”
“It’s okay, honey. We were expecting this, right? Why don’t you take a quick shower? Freshen up and get to bed.”
“Okay.” I feel like crying, but I gulp it down. I get ready for a shower in a sort of stupor. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I can mentally prepare for it all I want, but when it finally comes … I feel robbed of my hopes.
I don’t want to take a shower. I run a shallow bath instead. Before I get in, I poke my head out the door. “Dad?”
“Sweetheart? Need something?”
“Just … thank you.” I pause. “Hey, what do you think he was about to say?”
“Lei.” He takes a deep breath. When he answers, his voice is kind and patient. “There’s no point in speculating. There’s nothing to worry about; I know that much.”