Live TV was petrifying, but it had always been my dream. Dream Subplot B, buried beneath my future hot husband who would love me more than I loved him, and next to my neck-breaking high-heel collection that would be as comfortable as Havaiana flip-flops, (which I had yet to invent) stuffed me into one of those super-secret Spanx wrap dresses worn by scary anchorwomen. I would totally rock that look, who wouldn’t? What I lost in the ability of being able to sit down I would more than make up for with killer posture and finally having a spine. I knew it was my destiny to become an anchorwoman. I felt it with every fiber of my being. I could taste it, though I didn’t take big bites, what with having to fit into the Spanx dress and all.
My mom supported me the best way she could. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I don’t know what renaissance fair she picked that ditty up from, but I wish she would have a little more faith. I believe I could correctly delete the word more.
In addition to doing the weekend weather, the station was beginning to use me for reporting and allowed me to do feature stories—even though I think I probably drove the senior producers and editors crazy, trying to get the stories just right. I really wanted to prove myself but had a tendency for second-guessing, or as my executive producer said, one-hundred-twenty-second-guessing. That apparently was funny because that’s the amount of time they allowed me for my stories, and according to them, it worked as well in mocking the number of times I supposedly changed my script.
How could this be happening? How could I have screwed up so badly that I threw away the one good thing I had going for me?
I rested my head on my knee and peeked through wet eyelashes to see the day begin to break outside of my window. Light streamed through fronds of a big palm tree as birds greeted each other. It sounded like they chirped, “kokua, kokua.” Help, help. I sure needed help.
I tried to stop crying and snuggled back under the sheet to call my parents. Of course, they wanted to hear about Halmoni first. “Put Dad on the other extension Mom, you’re not going to believe this.” I explained how I got her out of jail and was surprised they weren’t really surprised.
“Let me get this straight, Dad. Your seventy-something-year-old mom was busted with weed and you don’t bat an eye?”
“Oh, Jaswinder,” my dad said. “It’s hard to explain. Your grandmother has always been a little different. She kind of fancies herself a healer and after my dad died she needed money. I always knew she grew marijuana on Molokai, but after the incident ten years ago, I thought she learned her lesson.”
“What incident?”
“Don’t ask,” my mother interrupted. “She was never charged. Besides, your grandmother is known on the island for all these crazy herbal remedies for everything from sinus problems to cramps. She really sees nothing wrong with marijuana. In fact, half the island doesn’t either.”
“Great. Granny’s a dealer.”
“She’s not a dealer, Jaswinder,” my dad said. “She’s a healer.”
“Potato, Po-tah-to,” I said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She’s fine. She showed me her bank statements last night. She still gets grandpa’s social security, she has a nice chunk in the bank, and get this, she has a stock portfolio that looks like it’s doing pretty well.” To say nothing of the wad of cash I found stuffed under the sink.
“Jaswinder,” my dad continued. Uh oh. I knew that voice. Whatever followed I would not like. “Koreans and Hawaiians take care of their own. As foreign as she is to you, she is still ohana, our family. And it’s our kuleana to make sure she is taken care of.” My dad spoke a little Korean and Hawaiian, at least enough to understand his own mother, and pulled it out once in a blue moon to show off, or lend gravitas to the bull crap he spouted.
“Real nice, dad. I don’t see you out here. I just got fired from my job because of this mess.” I started to cry again and sobbed out the details. “Just because I owe you money and always feel like such a screw up, I felt guilty like I had to come over here and save the day. Look what happened. I’m out of a job and in trouble.”
“Oh, honey,” my mom said. “We’re sorry this happened. But you really shouldn’t have lied to your boss. Honesty is always the best policy.”
“Really, mom? Thanks. I appreciate your understanding. I try to do something nice for this family, and it backfires on me?”
“Jaswinder,” she said. “We do understand and we are grateful you are there taking care of Halmoni. Maybe this is a good thing after all.”
If she says “look on the bright side” I will scream.
“Look on the bright side—”
I yelled into the phone.
“Stop it.” My mother continued. “You never did seem to be very happy with your job. You always sounded so stressed. You’ll find something else, something you’ll like better and be really good at.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. We just want you to be happy. Do you have any ideas what you’d like to do?”
“I have no idea. This all just happened. TV jobs don’t come along everyday, especially not when you eff-ed up like I did.”
“Language,” my dad tsk-tsked.
Before I knew it, my mom, Cliché-opatra jumped back in and offered up the ol’, “This may be a blessing in disguise.”
“Grrr . . .” I growled at them into my cell phone.
“Why don’t you stay with Halmoni for a while until you figure things out? You can tell her you don’t need to get back right away while you keep an eye on her,” my dad said.
“I don’t need to get back. Didn’t you hear me? I got fired because of all this!” Sometimes my dad was as foreign as my grandmother. I knew he meant well and tried to be a good father, but I always thought it was something he read in a book somewhere. He used to pack our school lunches when we were little. My friends always said that was so sweet, but he packed them all, for the entire week, on Sundays. By the time Thursday and Friday rolled around, my ham sandwiches always tasted like iffy-bologna-jerky on soggy soda crackers. I rubbed the back of my wrist underneath my eyes, trying to stop my tears.
“Sorry, Dad. You’re right. I’ll stick around for a couple of days.” No job. No money. No boyfriend. One credit card. About fourteen hundred bucks in the bank. I really did get gypped when it came to guardian angels.
I said goodbye to my parents, got up and got dressed. I put on my jean skirt and tugged a tank top over my head and padded into the kitchen where my grandmother was already up, bustling around.
“Hey, Halmoni,” I said, reaching for a coffee mug on a shelf.
“Not that,” Halmoni said, handing me a cup of steaming tea.
“Come on, Halmoni. How about some coffee? It’s been a rough morning.” I checked the clock. It was barely eight-thirty. Halmoni pushed me down into a chair by the table where she had another fruit plate set out, along with warm cinnamon rolls. “Yum. Thank you, Halmoni.”
“A’ole pilikia,” my grandmother said and then smiled at me. I think that meant “it’s no trouble.”
After breakfast, I headed for the couch in the living room and caught a whiff of sweet jasmine carried in on the early morning breeze. I swiveled my head around toward my grandmother. “I thought for a split second I saw someone. Did you?” She didn’t answer. I shrugged. Just being on the island put me in a different state of mind. Unfortunately, island instructions didn’t come with a warning about what was going to happen next.
Chapter 5
S-To-the-Lutty
The song of birds, rustling palm fronds scraping at the window, and wafts of air spiced with salt and sweet essences of exotic blooms did nothing to entice me outside into paradise. Monday morning, I set up camp again in the living room and settled in for a long day of TV. Catching up on reality shows, which helped make me feel a smidgeon better about myself, I burrowed deeper into my grandmother’s funky smelling couch.
I knew I needed to pull myself up by my flip-flops, but my grandmother had just gone to
the store and brought back a box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. When in Rome . . . I crammed three pieces into my mouth at a time.
The highlight of my afternoon led me to discover that sucking all the chocolate off the macadamia nuts before chewing was a good way to go. My grandmother came in and removed the empty box and invited me into the kitchen for dinner. I ate some rice and vegetables but passed on the fish my grandmother prepared.
“He had such nice eyes,” I told my grandmother as I handed the plate back to her without taking any.
The heaviness of the warm humid air seemed to make it harder to breath. I clomped upstairs to take a shower. As I dug in my backpack for clean clothes, I found my little sundress I tossed in, packed with high hopes when I pictured myself wearing it and having fun on my brief trip to Maui. Brightly colored swirls of lime green and yellow made me wish I packed my favorite faded go-to oversized Padres T-shirt instead.
I was so warm after my shower I put on that skimpy little dress. The chocolate macadamia nuts hadn’t shown up yet so it fit me like stingray skin. I blew dry my hair and feared the worst. In the humidity, every split end straggled up like fibers on a coconut. I smoothed on some kukui oil hair gel I found in my grandmother’s bathroom. “Not too bad,” I thought, looking in the mirror. I pulled my hair up and off my sweaty neck. Suffering was great for my complexion. I let my hair fall back. All the TV watching, laying around and eating chocolate seemed to recalibrate my brain cells. “I need a drink,” my shiny glossed mouth told my image. I knew I was in trouble when I cocked my head to the right and swiped my pinkie through the bow of my lips.
I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs. “Halmoni, can I borrow your jeep?”
I found my way back into Lahaina and even managed to find a parking space right off of Front Street. Lahaina, which literally means “merciless sun” is the tourist mecca of Maui. Over two hundred years ago it was the surfing paradise for Hawaiian royalty and served as the royal seat of the first king, Kamehameha I. In the 1800s, during the peak of the whaling trade, sailors must have thought they died and went to heaven when they entered the beautiful harbor. I loved to imagine myself living back then until I remembered there were no TVs, iPads, air conditioners or margaritas.
Tourists spilled onto the sidewalks. Hand-holding couples, laughing with the certainty that they would never become the heavier, faded version of love wearing the same clothes from when they first met, passed by harried parents who were trying to bargain with their overtired, over-indulged kids.
“You can have an ice cream cone after we eat, Isabella,” a mom tried to coo to her pre-teen, who was standing with her tiny arms folded over her tiny color-coordinated pink and hot pink vacation outfit.
“Let’s just get her the frickin’ cone,” the sunburned husband said.
I stepped into the street to go around them all, feeling like I didn’t fit in anywhere, not half of an us or even part of an ours. I headed into the Coconut Shack, which was a small, bamboo-themed bar, crammed with locals and tourists alike.
Sweet fruity drinks usually made me woozy, but then again, uncertainty being my middle name, I always tried to go with the house specials . . . I ordered a mai tai. The pretty pink umbrella went well with my dress, I thought, as I took a big gulp of the orange sunshine before me, then placed the little parasol behind my ear. Thank goodness I kept Artie’s cab number.
I was sitting at the edge of the bar on a high stool, serene for once being alone in a bar. Knowing that I’d never see any of these people again helped me not be self-conscious.
More and more locals trickled in as the evening wore on. I hiccuped but didn’t feel buzzed at all. It was time for a shot of tequila. Just as I covered the webbing at the base of my finger and thumb with salt and went to lick it off, a dark, wavy-haired head swooped in, licked my hand before I could get to it and tossed back his own shot. I turned to look at him as he bit into a wedge of lime.
“Are you kidding me? How dare you? I’m telling the bartender.”
“Hot and salty, just like I like it,” said the handsome Hawaiian guy with the tongue.
“Thanks.” I couldn’t believe it, but I actually thanked him. Why are those pan-Asians so suave and debonair? They look like they come complete with a super secret sex manual that they’ve memorized.
He smiled, his teeth marching a friendly path across his smooth brown face. He reached across the bar for the salt shaker, licked his own hand, sprinkled salt on it and presented it to me, palm side down.
“Ancient Hawaiian custom,” he told me.
“I am not going to lick your hand,” I told him. The next thing you know my tongue was sliding along his thumb and I swigged back my own shot. He patted my back as the force of the tequila hit my tonsils. He signaled the bartender and slid a glass of water in front of me.
“Mahalo,” I said, feeling the pink paper parasol twirling in my hair. I took a sip of water as Mr. Hawaiian Tropic sat down onto the barstool next to me.
I sniffed a cool citrus scent wafting off his crisp white untucked shirt that set off the color of his skin. I adore stocky guys. I fluffed my hair and thought how funny it would be if I ended up marrying a Hawaiian. Halmoni would be so happy.
“Would that make our kids three-quarters Hawaiian?” I wondered.
“Would what?” his deep voice asked me as his full carved lips that looked like they belonged on some fertility god totem pole, smiled.
“Nothing.” I drank some more water. Guys have no idea how fast a woman’s fantasies can walk them down the aisle, produce offspring and manufacture arguments. Poor things.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“What makes you think I’m not a local, a Kama’aina?”
“Because I would have met you by now,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m Mike Hokama.”
“Jaswinder Park,” I said, squeezing back. I loved playing handsies. “And actually you’re right. My dad grew up here, but hasn’t lived here in years. I’m just a haole.”
He laughed. “And a gorgeous one at that. I’m a sucker for haoles,” he said, picking up a strand of my hair and tickling my shoulder with it.
“I bet you are,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“So come on, where are you from and how do you know all these Hawaiian words?”
“California and grandma.”
“Let me guess. You have a little old Hawaiian grandmother?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
I pushed my hair behind my ears. “Believe it. Halmoni was born here. She’s lived here all her life. She married my Korean grandfather, who also was born here.” Most people couldn’t get past my coloring to discover any similarities with my ancestors. “She lives not too far from here.”
Mike snapped his fingers. “I know your grandmother. She lives inland a little ways, in a cottage style house set in front of a bunch of kukui nut trees. Mrs. Park?”
I nodded. Uh oh. How did he know my grandmother?
“She’s great. Everyone knows Halmoni. In fact I tried to buy her property a couple of years ago.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in development.”
“On Maui?”
“Yes, my home.”
“Oh.” I thought I had seen the bartender give him the stink eye. It was the tourism paradox. Natives hated to see their island chopped up for rich tourists, even though it was tourist money that paid most of their salaries. I bet he wasn’t very popular here.
“They’re not making anymore land, and it’s all we have so why not make the most of it?” he said. “Whether they like it or not, I’m doing it for the natives who live here, and for our future. If we can manage the growth we can preserve our island’s beauty.”
“And make money,” I said.
“And make money,” he agreed. “Shouldn’t the money stay here, instead of in the pockets of foreign or stateside investors? Why not us? I’m working on a major deal, bigger than Maui has ever seen, and the prof
its will stay on this island.”
“How do the islanders feel about it?”
“Oh,” he waved his hand as if brushing away flies. “They want to keep their heads buried in the sand. If they can surf, afford some liquor and pot, they don’t really look toward tomorrow. They just want to bellyache about the old ways and the new tourists and not change a damn thing.”
“I guess I can understand why,” I said. “I haven’t been here for years and I’m amazed at all the new construction going up right off Highway 30 heading toward Lahaina. It kind of made me sad to see all those houses marching up the hills.”
“It’s called progress, Jaswinder.”
“I know, but Maui is such a magical place. I’d hate to see it lose its charm.”
“We have the best beaches on the planet. Our hotels operate at over eighty-percent occupancy at any given time. People want to come here. Who are we to keep them out? Don’t even get me started on all the purists who want to keep the road to Hana as difficult to drive as possible. We can maintain our soul while making guests feel welcome at the same time. What’s wrong with that?”
“I can see your side. But who is in charge to make sure all this growth is what’s best for Maui? Who can control the greed, once it starts? Back in San Diego our government sold out to mega-developers years ago and now we are all dealing with crazy traffic, piss poor infrastructure, and our economy is a mess. I would hate to see that happen here.”
“I agree. That’s not what I want for my land, my birthplace, the place I hope to raise my sons.” He smiled at me.
He was so good looking I could feel myself blush. “I know. This island is unbelievable. I swear, all of Maui’s flowers are in bloom right now.”
A frown crossed his face for a split second. “Some of Maui’s flowers have thorns.” Before I could ask what he meant by that he turned his charm back on and gazed into my eyes like whatever I was going to say next was exactly what he wanted to hear.
“So, my grandmother wouldn’t sell? I didn’t know anything about that,” I said.
Haole Wood Page 3