Come Sunday: A Novel

by Isla Morley

  “What’s up, tita?” She laughs, and I hear her take a deep drag on a cigarette. I am the palest of all my friends by several palette shades, scrawny by comparison with her, and certainly far from the picture of what comes to mind when locals refer to women as titas. Theresa, by virtue of her size, is entitled to call me—or anyone else—whatever she wishes. A hair shy of six feet, she makes dwarves of her friends. She is built like a swimmer although she has never learned to swim, and when she dances with her husband, Jakes, it is often she who leads. Still, she is by no means a tomboy. Theresa favors dangly earrings, polished nails, and outrageous handbags. She is the only one of us who wears makeup, often adding to her ample cheeks a neatly appointed beauty spot. “Hey,” she adds, “I liked your article in the magazine on the mahu. I think I recognized a few of my cousins!”

  Theresa is Samoan but is on what she calls “a self-imposed exile from the tribe” because, she says, “they are all stupid,” by which she means the old customs cramp her style somewhat. Her exile has involved marriage to Jakes, Annie Lennox–length hair, a wardrobe sans muumuus, and children who do not know the tongue of their parents’ land. When she removes her small oval spectacles and ties her T-shirt (WILL TRADE HUSBAND FOR WINE) into a knot above her belly button, she is quite beautiful. Never the shrinking violet, Theresa dances at parties that are meant to be sit-down affairs and breaks into song after as few as two mai tais. Her mother, who has imported Samoan culture all the way from their little island in the South Pacific to Theresa’s cramped semidetached in Kalihi, shakes her head and mumbles every time Theresa wears her white Bermuda shorts to church. Wearing shorts to church? Her mother should be lucky she shows up at all.

  “Can you watch Cleo tonight for two or three hours? I want to take Greg out to a movie,” I ask.

  “Sure!” she croons. “Going to fool around with the preacher man, are you?” Theresa told Jenny and me that after sixteen years of marriage and three kids, she and Jakes still have sex every night. We have made allowances, therefore, for her one-track-mindedness, and try not to stare at Jakes at every church potluck.

  “Fat chance! Can I bring her by at six-thirty?” I ask. “I’ll feed her first.”

  “No, no, we’re having pizza tonight, bring her for dinner.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “That’s what Jakie says!”

  “By the way, tell him the roof leaked and to come by when he has a free moment.”

  “You know, I swear that man is good for one thing, and one thing only! Oh hell, I’ve got to go, the boys are having a food fight!”

  I hang up and look for Greg, who is in the garage cleaning up the mess.

  “We’re going out tonight. I’ll pick you up at six!” I tell him.

  He is surprised, and a bit pleased. “What’s the occasion?”

  “You and me being an old married couple, that’s what,” I say. “Theresa’s going to watch Cleo.”

  “Can we sit in the back row and make out?”

  “Only during the trailers,” I say.

  It is six-thirty when I pack down the layers of tulle of Cleo’s pink tutu so that I can buckle her seat belt. “We’re late!” I snap as Greg lifts up the garage door.

  “Mommy, it’s okay, don’t be mad,” Cleo says. Immediately chastised, I take my seat and give myself the mental talk about not sabotaging the fun before it has started.

  “I’ll get you there in time for the trailers,” smiles Greg as he pats my knee and backs out of the garage. I have to unbuckle my belt, get out, and pull the door down manually. I glance over at Mrs. Chung’s front doorstep and notice the box of Ziplocs and the bag of dog turds are gone, but as we drive past the house the blinds of her living room window swing slightly from where she has no doubt been peeping. The storm clouds fold over the hills again and the town below looks like it needs to be wrung out.

  The island is least appealing when it is overcast. When the sun is shining and the cartoon clouds cast big shadows on the evergreen mountains, Hawaii has the most chance of living up to its reputation. You can overlook the congested neighborhood streets where the single-wall construction houses have given up even elbow room. You can put up with the potholed roads, the rust-stained buildings, and the crumbling lava-rock walls because just an arm’s length away are the brightest rainbows you’ll ever see. Crane your neck past the high-rises in Waikiki and you will see an ocean whose colors defy adjectives. Look close enough and you’ll see, among the folds of the Pali Mountains, ribbons of waterfalls. But on damp days like these, there’s no masking the deterioration, no sun to keep at bay the creeping edges of third-world neglect.

  The worst of it is summed up on the street where Theresa lives. Downhill from us, wedged in the valley, is River Street. A misnomer, it is nothing like the picture its name conjures. No quaint plantation houses with sprawling backyards sloping down to a willow-tree-lined stream. Just cramped shacks jammed in a one-way lane that dead-ends by a ditch filled only with litter and a few old tires. Not even a trickle, even after the rains. It is a shantytown street hiding behind the storefronts of Mr. Woo’s Laundromat and Phuong-Thai Takeout. River Street is the back-alley neighborhood that could have been imported from District Six or Soweto. The slouched bodies that stand in the doorways are not black, however, but mostly Asian. The slope of their shoulders and the weary looks of hopelessness are the same as those of township people, ghetto people, people hanging on by their fingernails.

  Greg stops the car in the middle of the street because there is no parking place at house number 121, a house the size of our soggy garage, a house with two front doors. 121B is open, and on the front step that doubles as a porch is Theresa’s daughter Tess hanging over the railing. She sees us and with a sticky hand pushes back the sweaty black strands of hair from her face and cries out, “Hi, Cleo!”

  I follow Cleo up the stairs and watch the two girls embrace. Cleo, a year younger than Tess, is the same height. They examine each other’s outfits and immediately exchange shoes. When Cleo insists on wearing the frilly pink dress Tess refuses to take off, a scuffle ensues. I begin insisting Cleo mind her manners, but Theresa sweeps Cleo into her arms, twirls her high in the air, and says, “Come, now, a princess like you needs something with a bit more pizzazz, don’t you think? Come look what Auntie Theresa bought for you today.” She latches Cleo to her hip and reaches for the shopping bag on the couch. When Cleo peers in, she exclaims with delight.

  “I want to try it on!” She grins.

  Theresa winks at me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “You just go have a good time now, you hear, and don’t be rushing back.”

  “We won’t be later than nine-thirty,” I promise. “Greg’s got to get up for Good Friday. You coming to the service?”

  “Nah, too morbid for me. I’ll go to both services on Easter to make up for it, how’s that?”

  “Deal.”

  “Go, already!” she orders me out.

  I bend down. “Cleo, have fun; be a good girl, okay? And remember to put your hand over your mouth when you cough. Now give me a kiss.” But she ignores me. “Kiss?” Instead, she takes Theresa’s hand and asks her to help her put on the dress.

  “Bye, baby!” I yell out the window of the car, but the two girls are already immersed in the world of princesses and monsters and purple nail polish. I roll up the window and Greg and I are sealed in air-conditioned silence, suddenly strangers.

  “Got your sermon ready for tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Oh, I guess. Nobody wants to hear much about executions just two days before Easter. Theresa coming?”

  “Nope.”

  “See what I mean?”

  Greg pretends he isn’t perpetually disappointed with his flock, even though it doesn’t afford him the same courtesy. Continuing its decline in membership and income, the church has started to look for a scapegoat, and the pastor who had been packaged and delivered to them with such promise has become the obvio
us candidate. Greg’s defense, if he had the will to offer it, would be to point out the congregation’s lukewarm commitment to the faith, its country-club approach to the Gospel, its cut-and-paste theology. Instead, he has increased the church’s budget, sparking severe rows over a spending deficit, so while the budget continues to grow like a fatted calf, it seems Greg is all but taking a knife to his own throat.

  Even though what would suit Greg more is a position in headquarters, something requiring the production of surveys and charts and reports with words like “strategy” and “benchmark,” he should, in my opinion, be putting up more of a fight. Or if not a fight, then at least a show. Instead, each Sunday morning, when he preaches to more vacant pews than occupied ones, I can see him straining and stumbling through his sermon as though lugging the deadweight of a gargantuan corpse behind him, not an inspiring picture of the Body of Christ. The congregation’s routine lack of enthusiasm is perfectly suited for only one service a year: Good Friday. It’s ironic that no more than a dozen will attend tomorrow.

  We do not speak again until we are at the theater, and then only to debate briefly the options. The romantic comedy wins and we take our seats, several rows from the back. Greg reaches for my hand, and for one bizarre moment I feel like grabbing his face and kissing him with the zeal of a sixteen-year-old.

  It is a silly movie, and it ends with all the predictable charm of apple pie à la mode. For two hours we have pretended to be lovers on a date, a feeling that is remotely familiar. “We should do this more often,” says Greg as we make our way back to the car.

  “We should kiss more often,” I say, and immediately regret it because it sounds like an accusation.

  “Like this?” Greg kisses the way he shaves, the way he first prepares, then delivers, sermons. Meticulously. And there is nothing wrong with a meticulous kiss, but it is a dirty kiss the day calls for, and only when I smother his best intentions with a mouth bent on foul play is he aroused.

  “A brazen hussy,” he says. “Want to come to my place and see my etchings?”

  “Why not?” I answer.

  The car clock says 9:25 when Greg starts the ignition.

  “We’re going to be late,” I observe.

  “You say that too much.”

  The roads are shiny with rain and the windshield wipers flip-flap against the downpour.

  “Think she’s asleep?” asks Greg. Neither of us wants to think about the roof and what the garage will look like when we get home.

  “Wired, more like it.”

  I check the time at every red light and stop sign.

  At 9:52 we turn onto River Street, and even before we reach their home I can tell something is wrong. Lights are on in all the houses and every door is open, like gaping mouths. People are standing in groups under umbrellas on either side of the road, and they stare like deer at our approaching headlights.

  “Greg?” I frown, feeling the lurch in my chest.

  On the porch of 121B, Theresa’s mother stands with Tess on her hip. The child looks frightened while the old woman keeps watch, stroking her hair rigorously. A police car blocks the street and an officer is talking to the Korean woman who lives at 121A. Something is very wrong. And among all these faces I notice only one missing: Cleo’s.

  TWO

  I am out the car before Greg has stopped it completely, tripping up the stairs to the old woman.

  “Where’s Cleo?” I ask, panic swelling in my throat. “What happened?” I look into her shrunken eyes, but she can only shake her head.

  “WHAT, for chrissake?” I shout, but the officer is next to me now and asks, “Reverend and Mrs. Deighton?”

  Ignoring him, I clutch at the old woman, and Tess begins to wail while Greg steps around me and says, “Yes?”

  Theresa’s mother moves her mouth, garbling sounds I cannot understand. Impulsively, my hand rises to slap her because I think she is hysterical, when from behind me the words “accident” and “car” and “hospital” embed themselves in my flesh like leeches. I swing around to the officer, who has taken off his hat, and cover my own mouth. “No, nononononono . . .” I shriek, and turn wildly wanting to run.

  Greg grabs me. “Get in the car, Abbe, the policeman’s going to take us to the hospital.” A uniformed hand holds open the back door and I tumble into what seems like a black hole. As the siren begins to wail, it is into this deep chasm that I begin to pray. “Please, God, please, please let her be okay.” The faces lining the streets are hollow.

  The robotic voice on the car radio reports that Cleo has been moved from the emergency room to the ICU. I clutch Greg’s hand and squeeze it hard. I look into his face, white with shock, searching for his assurance—she’s in the ICU, that’s good, right? She’ll be okay, won’t she? But he says nothing, eyes locked ahead, the desperate expression of a man with his head held underwater by an invisible hand.

  The police car’s digital clock blinks 10:06 when we pull into the emergency room parking lot.

  Maundy Thursday, I think suddenly, the night Jesus went up to the olive orchard lit by a pale moon to pray. Remove this cup from me. The night his closest friends fell asleep after they dutifully promised to keep watch. There is no moon when we step out of the police car and into the bright light of the Queen’s Medical Center foyer. But I need Beauty to walk out into the dark and retrieve from its bowels the offerings that will turn a bad moon good.

  We run down a long, sterile corridor to the elevators. I stand and look at the round numerals light up: 8, 7, 6. A century goes by before the vault doors open, another universe collapses on itself before they close. The fourth floor is deserted, and we run down another hallway, heading for the double doors with a sign saying AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “Cleo Deighton,” Greg says to the male nurse behind the desk. “Where is she?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Deighton?” he asks, to which we both nod. “She has just been taken down to the OR. Let me call one of the physicians to come and talk to you.”

  “Please,” Greg says, reaching across the table and grabbing his arm before it can reach the receiver. “How is she?”

  The man, plump and rosy-cheeked, looks around for help. Seeing no one, he smooths his hair and replies in a soft voice, “She has sustained significant brain trauma and loss of blood from an aortic tear. She’s in critical condition, I am afraid, but we have managed to stabilize her blood pressure so the surgeon can operate.” He looks at Greg. “I am sorry, but you will have to talk to the attending physician to find out more.”

  “Jesus, oh Jesus,” I whisper, trying to assemble Cleo with “brain trauma” and “aortic tear.”

  “Where is she?” Greg asks.

  “Second floor. There is a waiting room on the left when you come out the elevator. I will call the OR and let them know you are here. There is a couple already down there—the people who came in with her.”

  In my recurring nightmare, I am required to dial 911 but keep getting the numbers mixed up. Such a simple task, yet one I find impossible to complete. It is into this dream Greg and I now lurch, hoping to find our daughter in a hospital of endless corridors. The second floor is quiet, dimly lit, and abandoned except for the waiting room, which we race by without noticing.

  “Pastor,” calls Jakes. He has completely filled the doorway with his broad tattooed frame, jet-black hair pulled back in a paisley bandanna. “Pastor Greg, it’s terrible,” he says, and starts to weep as they embrace. “Abbe, I am so sorry,” he says, breaking from Greg’s arms to hold me. Without waiting for the question, he begins to explain, in gushes, what happened. The girls had just finished eating their pizza when they went out to the porch. Theresa went to the sink to wash the Cinderella dress, upon which Cleo had spilled her soda. Jakes had just walked to the fridge for a drink and was returning to the living room when he saw a flash of pale skin whiz down the front steps, out from under the porch light into the dark night. The pale naked body he saw, not the yellow kite that had caused its pursuit. He ha
d called to her, he says, and walked to the screen door in time to see her squeeze through the two parked cars and dart into the road, where the kite’s short-lived flight had come to an end.

  “The guy hit his brakes . . .” Jakes says, and does not finish his sentence. “The others are in the chapel praying, got to just keep praying.” He shakes his head and moves back into the room and over to the left-hand corner by the fish tank where he kneels. Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial. No sooner have these familiar words run across my mind when from the ceiling come the words, “All personnel, OR2, Code Blue, Code Blue.”

  . . .

  “WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?” I cry, long before the two coats reach us. One of them is Cleo’s pediatrician, Dr. Demalka, her Dutch skin almost translucent in the fluorescent light. The first person to weigh Cleo, to measure her head, to count her toes and fingers. Who only two months ago gave her a fistful of stickers for being so brave at the annual checkup for putting up with four shots without crying. Her face looks zipped up, tight; she is not the doctor we know. I see her nod at the gray-haired man next to her and suddenly I am deeply afraid of her. Don’t say it. Don’t tell me. Don’t speak. God, don’t say a word.

  “Reverend and Mrs. Deighton,” the other coat says.

  We are two tall trees now, Greg and I, root-bound in a pot of rotting soil, bending and straining toward the other but not quite touching, waiting for the ax to find its mark.

  “I am very sorry,” Dr. Demalka says. “We did everything we could. She didn’t make it.”

  “Don’t say that, don’t say that, DON’T SAY THAT!” I scream. Somebody is holding my arms, I cannot tell who. The narrow tunnel of focus fixed on Dr. Demalka’s face becomes a dark, yawning cave. With my hand on the wall steadying me, I manage to ask, “Where is she?” The cavernous night from the plains of Africa rolls out in front of me, pinpricks of light filling my eyes. “Don’t touch me, let go! Get your fucking hands OFF ME!” They belong to Greg.