by Sonia Patel
That’s when the icky thoughts encroach. I can’t stop them. I can’t lock them away and avoid them like I usually do.
Dad. Hands. Lips.
Hidden images zoom. I’m terrified.
I try to pull my straight leg up, but I can’t move it. All at once the muscles in my whole body are tensed. Then I realize my heart is pounding violently. I can’t get enough air. It’s like I’m choking and meanwhile someone’s slowly pulling down thick, black curtains over my eyes. Everything gets blurry. I feel dizzy. I watch myself from above. It’s hazy. Unreal.
I’m not here.
My body shakes with sobs as the walls of the pavilion, the beach, and the ocean close in. I want to run away but I can’t feel my body.
Am I dying?
I try to endure. To no avail. I feel myself slipping.
PAPOHAKU PLEASURE AND PAIN
Mark points to the crusty scabs on my arms. “Woah, what happened?” he asks.
“Oh these. Battle scars.” I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t notice. I mean, he didn’t make out the scabs at Mo’omomi, probably because it was dark. Even though he did make out with me. And thankfully, unknown to him, the world’s fastest make out session resulted in a chain reaction revealing my mental scabs. Scabs adhering to the convolutions of my brain. Scabs that were ripped off by recollections of the past. Instead of blood, panic gushed out.
“Miss nonviolent in a battle? And to think I missed it,” he says. His eyebrows arch high and the corners of his lips head south in fake disappointment.
“Yeah, I caught cracks from Pono’s ex, Emily.”
“What? No way. What happened?”
“Girl was pissed. She said I was the reason Pono broke up with her. Not.” Shaking my head I say, “Hell hath no fury…”
“Uh-huh,” he says, laughing. He clutches my arms, one at a time, for inspection. His fingers skim the flush semicircular discolorations on my inner arm. “These are older. What happened here?”
I feel my pulse rise. “Oh. Umm. I got them on a freight day last month, I think. You know, all that unloading boxes and stuff.” There’s no way I’m telling him that I did that to myself. I know I didn’t mean to do it. It happened just like the panic did. Because of flashbacks. But I’m not sure he’ll get it. He might think I’m crazy.
And that would be a major buzz kill. Not that I’m drinking. Yet.
I pull my arm away and change the subject.
“Yep. Emily did all sorts of beat down on me. Clawing. Slapping. Choking. But Pono saved me in the nick of time,” I say with a flat tone. A slight sigh still escapes from my mouth. I scowl inside because though I haven’t been thinking about my crush on Pono, my body still sometimes betrays me.
“Good ole’ Pono,” Mark says making a wry face.
Why’s he frowning and being so sarcastic? I want to ask him about it, but my goal is to avoid conflict with Mark at all costs. Best to keep my mouth shut.
My eyes take inventory around the restaurant. It’s empty except for a tourist couple ordering lunch. Mark is sucking down a beer. He knows the bartender here at Kaluakoi, so underage me gets to park on a barstool. And drink. I’m waiting for the tequila shot Mark ordered for me. The bartender had to go to the storage room and grab another bottle of Cuervo. A popular poison, indeed.
Mark kills the rest of his beer. His short sleeves are rolled up so his dreamcatcher tattoo is clearly visible. I trace it lightly with my fingertip, lingering on the ink a tad longer than necessary. I watch my finger slowly work its way down the tanned skin of his arm. His hand gravitates down and wraps around my bare thigh. It works its way up. I bite the side of my lower lip. Is there such a thing as a moist fire? Because that’s what’s going on down there.
He pulls his hand back just when the bartender returns. I steady my breath, watching the bartender pour the shot of Cuervo. The small, forbidden thrills of touch and anticipated taste exhilarate me. The bartenders grabs another beer for Mark and sets our drinks in front of us. Mark grips the frosty bottle. I catch a glimpse of what looks like small burns on his fingers. “Wait, Mark. My turn. Let me see your hand,” I say, gently prying his hand off the beer. I study the wounds. “What happened?”
“Battle scars,” he replies. Then he raises one eyebrow and gives me this look that says touché.
“No really. What happened?” I ask, persisting.
He rips his hand out of mine. “Don’t worry about it, Rani.” He’s a little irked.
I let it go and stare at my tequila shot.
Are we both lying to each other?
Mark hands me the shot glass. “You have to drink it quick. Don’t sip it.”
I remember my dad sipped on his tequila. But I take Mark’s advice. Putting the shot glass to my lips, I tilt my head back and down the one and a half ounces. It burns in the back of my throat. I gag and cover my mouth with my hands. Wish I had sipped it.
I take a swig of water. I think about his tattoo again. That’s when I remember a paper I’d written for social studies last year on Algonquian peoples. “About your tattoo. Why a dreamcatcher? Are you part Ojibwe?”
“No. I’m white as snow. I got this tat when I was sixteen. I’d been having these nightmares about my dad killing my mom. My dad used to beat her up all the time. I had to get in between them so many times. Pull him off her so many times.”
He knew exactly when to pull my dad off me.
He takes a deep breath and holds it for a bit before exhaling. “I wanted the nightmares to stop. I tried everything. Nothing worked. Then my mom told me to talk to her friend. A healer of some sort. Anyway, I spilled my guts. The healer told me to get a dreamcatcher tattoo. That it would protect me. It worked. No more nightmares.”
“Oh man, that’s intense. Poor you. And your poor mom.” I reach for his hand and hold it in both of mine. He gives me a meek smile.
All of a sudden he gets wild-eyed. “I could’ve killed him. I should’ve.” He pauses and looks through the menagerie of liquor bottles on the wall, his expression blank. “If he wasn’t beating my mom, he was high or fooling around with other women.”
“Oh no.” I know his mom lives on Maui. “Where’s your dad now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since I was twenty.” Then his face turns pallid, like it hasn’t seen sun in years. “My guess is that he overdosed on heroin.”
“Geez. Is your mom ok?”
He drops his head and shakes it. His eyes and nose are crinkled and his lips are in a slight downward pout. “She got into heroin and coke because of my dad but got clean and sober years ago.” There’s agony in his voice. He stops and peels the label off the beer bottle. “She relapsed four months ago. It’s been so hard. She’s been my rock.”
I rub my thumb over his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Mark orders another beer for himself and another shot of tequila for me. I think about his parents using hardcore drugs. About what it was like for Mark as a kid. I can’t even imagine.
Then without warning, Mark sweeps his hand over his face. It’s like his hand has magic powers to change his mood in a split second from down in the dumps to high in the sky. When he drops his hand, he’s wearing a nice smile. And I can’t help but give him a big smile back. He changes the subject. “What’s up with your dad? Your mom hasn’t let him back in, huh?”
“Nope. Mom seems happy. I haven’t seen Dad since that day you served him.” Our drinks arrive. I take my second shot grimacing at the caustic feeling in my mouth. “Maybe I need a dreamcatcher tattoo. I keep having these nightmares that my dad’s—” I stop myself. I think he notices that my smile’s gone.
Oh no. Why’d I bring that up?
“He’s what?” Mark asks. His chin is tucked but his eyes are up. It looks like he’s expecting bad news.
“Nothing. Nothing.” I spin the shot glass with my fingertips.
“Come on, Rani. Tell me.”
I look up. His sympathetic eyes console me. I open my mouth, but all I can say is,
“Doing what he’s always done to me.”
Mark frowns and his eyes narrow. And that tells me he might know what I’m alluding to. “What’s he always done to you?”
I’ve never told anyone.
He shifts to the right on his barstool. Now he’s facing me. He looks concerned. “Has he…” He eyes me intently.
I can’t talk.
Under his breath, I think I hear him say something like, “I should’ve kicked the shit out of him the other day.” He says something else but I miss it because I’m lost in my head.
I’ve never, ever, ever let myself really think about it. Because thinking about it made it real. I’ve never, ever, ever told anyone about it. Because telling someone about it made it real. And what would it mean about me if it was real? I’ve always thought it was my fault. Like I was the other woman. I figured that’s why Mom was always mad at me.
When it happened, I escaped. Not literally. Not my body. Only my mind. In my head I went up the mountain to the Wailau lookout. Machete in hand, I’d hack my way up. Wary of wild pigs of course. The thick foliage all around blocked out the blazing sun above. Alone, I’d trek in the shade of the jungle. Though I was sweating and my breathing was heavy, I’d feel at peace.
Dad hasn’t been in my room since last spring. But the memories I’ve blocked out for years somehow got released after he started leaving me alone. The recollections have been coming in different forms. There’s been the recurring nightmares. Then the thoughts and images that pop up when something reminds me of my broken family. But it really hit me after Mark full-on kissed me.
“Rani?” I feel his hand on my back. How long has he been rubbing it?
“Rani?” This time I hear him.
Don’t tell him anymore.
I shake my head. My eyes well up. Tears escape.
Mark finishes off his beer. He stands up and moves next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”
He drives us to Papohaku Beach Park. The wide, empty road to Papohaku is lined with kiawe. I’ve often seen deer grazing among the thorny trees. Today only a couple of wild turkeys roam. We don’t pass any other cars.
We arrive and he backs his truck into a stall in the empty parking lot. We make our way to the sand. I get why people call it Three Mile Beach. The sand seems to stretch for miles. There’s no one around. I delight in pretending we’re the only ones on the island. I tread carefully over the warm, soft sand, trying to avoid the inch long kiawe spikes. The sun massages my scalp with its heat. He reaches for my hand as we walk along the water’s edge.
We’re a 3D postcard.
“Let’s sit there,” he says, pointing to a spot under the shade of some kiawe. We meander over and find a relatively thorn-free spot. I stare at the cloudless blue sky and rolling ocean. I feel safe.
And horny. Going Back to Cali plays in my mind’s boombox. To me, this rap is normal sex. Good sex. Well, what I assume normal good sex feels like. Smooth like LL’s lyrics. Hot like the groove.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. I’m certain he knows what he’s doing because everything happens like clockwork. He slides my glasses off, folds them, and lays them on a small patch of grass. I lean my head on him. His hand lingers on my bare shoulder. Then his fingers play with the spaghetti strap of my tank top. Like a wisp of cotton, his fingertips graze my collarbone. My neckline. My breath quickens. His hand slides down under my tank top. Searching. Finding. He pulls me onto him. I straddle him and his lips move up my neck to my mouth. I close my eyes. His tongue captures mine. Urgently he needs more of my skin. He unfastens my bra and runs his hands up and down my back, sinking his fingers into my flesh. His hungry hands plunge under the waistband of my shorts.
Dad.
He’s kissing me harder and pulling down my shorts.
Dad.
I tear my mouth off his and quickly roll off, pulling my shorts back up. Hugging my knees, I rock in fetal position.
The dizziness is happening. I can’t breathe.
“What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. I make myself breathe slow and deep. I focus on a bunch of shells and pebbles nearby. I start counting them. Anything so I don’t lose control.
“What’s wrong, Rani?”
I’m still taking belly breaths. “I need to slow it down, Mark.”
He nods and strokes my back. I can’t tell him that his touch, even though it was making me feel crazy good, was punctuated by sickening flashes of Dad. The images were so strong. I’m shook up and frustrated. Tears cascade down my cheeks.
“Hey, it’s ok.”
We sit in silence. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. I’m not sure how much time goes by but my breath eventually returns to normal. I feel a little better. Mark stands up and steps directly in front of me. He kneels down and cradles my face in his hands.
“Rani, I’ve never told anyone this,” he whispers. His bright blue eyes sparkle in confirmation. He strokes my stubbly head and says, “I think I’m falling for you.”
THE SINS OF THE FATHER
Sunlight floods the store porch. I bask in its glorious rays. And in the fact that I’m off for the rest of the day. The main street is empty. The only sound is the occasional chirp of birds perched in the colossal banyan across the street in front of the Big Wind Kite Factory.
Maunaloa seems deserted on quiet Sundays like this. I skip down the stairs of the front porch, whistling. I’m heading to Omar’s house. On the smaller roads running perpendicular to the main street, trucks and cars are parked in front of the houses. But no one’s hanging out in their yards. And there aren’t any kids galavanting around the hood. Maunaloa looks like a beautiful, tropical ghost town. Then I get this funny feeling. Like naseeb is lurking in the red hibiscus shrubs waiting to pounce. I don’t like it. So I ignore it. Instead I follow Bob Marley’s recommendation—the one I heard on the radio a few minutes ago—to Lively Up Yourself. It works.
I’ve been plugging away on my new rap, “Love and War.” I got the idea last Monday when I was at Hale O Lono. Monday was October 28th. What happened two years ago on that day devastated the entire island. No one on Moloka’i will ever forget it. It’s the day that Aloha Island Air flight 1712 returning from Maui crashed into the side of the cliffs near Halawa valley. All twenty people on board—including Molokai High students and staff—were instantly killed. Since we only have one high school on the island, we have to travel to neighbor islands to compete for sports or other school events. There was a bunch of MHIS teams on Maui that weekend. I was there for a math team tournament. There were at least three or four flights heading back to Moloka’i at different times during the day. Many of us traded boarding passes at the Kahalui Airport. It could have been any of us on flight 1712. Sunday morning October 29, 1989, I was at Hale O Lono catching papio with my dad. That’s where we heard it on the radio.
Each year on that day I’m pretty sure everyone on the island does something to commemorate the victims. Last year I went down to Hale O Lono by myself to pay tribute. I decided to do that again this year. Sitting on the rocky sand, the ocean was dark blue and calm in the harbor. I thought about my classmates. What would they be doing if things had turned out differently? I thought about their families. I thought about how much they’ve lost. How did they cope? How are they now? My mind wandered to other kinds of loss. Then to loss that women in my family have suffered. That’s how “Love and War” was born.
Six days later it’s done. It chronicles the struggles of multiple generations of women in my family. Including my mom. I want it to be perfect for the next 4eva Flowin’ production. Omar agreed to give me an honest critique of it. I hurry ahead, excited to get to his house and spit my rhyme.
Practicing in front of Mark doesn’t work. My genuine rehearsal attempts with him unavoidably go from rapping a few lines to giggling to making out. Not that I’m complaining.
Especially since I’ve kinda figured out how to freeze the yucky Dad thoughts a
nd the fear. I was so tired of not being able to get my kiss on with Mark that I decided to try to fix it myself. I did some research at the public library and found some books, one about panic attacks. Super helpful. Now I can usually stop the panic before it gets out of control. That means more uninterrupted kiss time.
Oh yeah.
But dang. Now I can’t get enough of Mark’s lips. I want to make out with him all the time. I even got my first hickey. I covered it up with a bandana. Just like Samantha on Who’s the Boss?
It gets better. A couple of days ago, Halloween night to be exact, Mark said he loved me. I’ll never forget the scene. Caesar and Cleopatra at the wharf. Sitting in the open bed of Caesar’s black Chevy 1500 4X4 lifted truck. Sharing hot bread. Warm butter and cinnamon softness under the starry night sky. Caesar, regal in his purple toga, wraps his arm around the majestic Cleo. He looks deep into her black-lined eyes and says she’s the first girl he’s ever loved. Besides his mom. Cleo drags him into his truck and they make out like Caesar’s leaving for Rome the next day. All the while Cleo’s thinking, It’s funny, Caesar, you’re the first guy I’ve ever loved. Besides my dad.
I turn right onto Mark’s street and remind myself that I’m going to Omar’s place for serious business, not to Mark’s for monkey business.