The Goddesses

by Swan Huntley

  Why did I feel like she was outsmarting me again? And why was I still here? I didn’t have to be here. I could leave.

  “You wanna know what I think?” she asked.

  I wanted to know so badly.

  “I think you don’t know the answer,” she said.

  I didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

  Neither did she.

  Again, I was the first to blink.

  Outside, the palm trees slow-danced in the easy Hawaiian breeze. I looked for the red bird but didn’t see it. There were other birds, maybe chirping, but I couldn’t hear them over the humming and beeping of hospital machinery outside the room, and the episode of Wheel of Fortune, which was broadcasting at low volume on her personal TV. I looked at the door. From the doorknob to the wall, a row of tiny ants. And this was the thing about Hawaii. You couldn’t get away from nature if you tried. Not even here, in the hospital, where the goal was to defy the natural hazards of life and living. Seal the doors and anti-bacterialize your hands at every station and still you lose.

  I looked at my feet. My Tevas planted on the mint-green floor. A stain one tile away.

  The ants moving in a line across the door.

  When I looked at her again, I flinched. Maybe because it hurt to say the words.

  “I’m leaving you now, Ana.”

  “Wait,” she said. Was there a tear in her eye? “I never read your cards. Don’t you want to know how it ends?”

  “No one knows how it ends.” I swallowed. Salt at the corners of my eyes. “Anything could happen.”

  “No,” she said. “With me, anything could happen. With you, we know not much will happen. We know how it will end. It will be just like it is now, but in the future. Nothing will change.” Ana clasped her hands in prayer in front of her chest slowly, very slowly, so she wouldn’t disturb the IV. “I want you to know something.”

  I waited. She was making me wait again. I was letting her do it.

  “I want you to know,” she said, “that every time I look at my shadow, I will think of you.”

  I walked to the door. It felt good to move. I turned. I said it in her yoga teacher voice. “Good-bye, Ana.”

  She refused to cry. She was telling herself to hold on. I knew she would miss me.

  I waited.

  She placed two loving hands on her heart. She swallowed her tears again. She bowed. “Good-bye, sister.”

  41

  “I already called the San Diego store,” Chuck said. “They said they would take me back.”

  “When did you call?”

  “A month ago.”

  “So you’ve been wanting to leave.”

  “It seems wrong, doesn’t it?” He motioned at the backdrop. “It’s so nice here.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I guess that doesn’t matter.”

  The Hawaiian sunset, neon pink like her hair. How the light here was like butter, the air like a warm hug. Here was the jungle that surrounded us, and the grass we called ours rolling softly up the hill, and the debris from the storm reminding us that nothing was ours, not really.

  •

  The boys weren’t exactly stoked, but they agreed it was better than the alternative. I told Cam that Tom was welcome to visit anytime.

  “We’ll take him surfing,” Jed said.

  “Dude, we only went surfing once here. That is so lame.”

  “Dude,” Jed said, “we are the lamest.”

  The Clairemont coach would let them play in the last few games. “However,” I told them, “if you light anything else on fire, you’re grounded until college.”

  Their arson charge was dropped to a fourth-degree misdemeanor. We paid the fine. They would pay us back by doing yard work around the house in San Diego.

  Chuck and I realized we were sending a mixed message by letting them burn the shed, but we let them do it anyway.

  Together, we stood on the lanai and watched the fire engulf the air. It was mesmerizing.

  •

  On our last day in Kona, after the boys had gone to school and Chuck had gone to work, I laid out my purple mat and stretched. The birds and the water heater and I heard her voice the whole time. Breathe, she said. Close your eyes. Imagine you are made of feathers. Imagine yourself as a bird above your life. You are untethered but you hover. Pleasantly you hover. You watch, amazed. This life is amazing. You are both weightless and so full.

  I made oatmeal on the stove, and while it cooked I went through the cupboards. All this food we were going to throw away. All this bread. All this peanut butter.

  Repentance, I thought, as I opened the Ziploc. Repayment, I thought, as I put the sandwich inside. I feel better already, I thought, as I drove down the winding road toward town.

  Our old route. From Huggo’s to the King Kam and then the parking lots. Top down, I drove slowly. Daniel didn’t recognize me until I held up a sandwich. “New car,” he said, dragging his elegant piano player fingers over what would have been her headrest. He moved with such grace. “Mahalos,” he said, and in the moment he lifted the sandwich from my hands, I felt better.

  The girl whose sign simply said HELP was back. I tossed her two sandwiches. She gave me a thumbs-up. This was the most alive I’d ever seen her.

  Mana at the bus stop bellowed, “Where’s your sistah?”

  “Busy!” I yelled.

  He caught the sandwich with the free hand—the one that wasn’t holding the brown paper bag. “You da best!”

  The boys weren’t at the banyan tree, and Marigold and Petunia weren’t at their usual dumpster. I left sandwiches in those spots anyway, and then I handed out the rest to new hungry people I hadn’t met before.

  When I had one sandwich left, I went to McDonald’s. Maybe the man in the sleeping bag was still there. He wasn’t. I set the sandwich under the speakers for when he came back.

  I walked back to my car feeling lighter. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe I didn’t deserve to feel lighter. And maybe it was selfish—doing this good thing to make myself feel better, to make myself better. But, even if it was selfish and even if I didn’t deserve to feel better, no one could argue that a person who did good deeds wasn’t a good person, at least some of the time.

  In the shadows of the car next to mine, a woman scarfing a Big Mac. She chewed with her eyes closed. Sandy hair, responsibly combed. I tried not to look, but I couldn’t look away. Her doughy hands, her floral hat. Wait. And then she turned her head.

  Marcy.

  The second she saw me, she put the burger down. She wiped her mouth. She chewed faster.

  Hi, I waved.

  She rolled the window down. “Oh,” she said, covering the ketchup on her chin, “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. I noticed she was wearing my San Diego Zoo shirt.

  “It’s great to see you, Nancy,” she said, studying my face. “You look good.”

  “Oh.” This was nice to hear.

  “I mean it. You look great.”

  I wanted to say, “You, too,” but I had caught her at such an inopportune moment. I couldn’t bring myself to lie. I gave her a hopeful smile instead.

  “You’re glowing,” she went on. “You seem less stressed than the last time I saw you.”

  “I do?”

  She shrugged. She was too polite to tell me I’d been a wreck before.

  I laughed. What to say. “We’re going back to the mainland.”

  “You are?” Her face twisted and fell. “I’m jealous. I hate it here.”

  I shook my head at the sun, the sky. It was the most perfect sunny day.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry I never called you. I just—I don’t know—I got caught up.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Maybe I’ll see you in San Diego. I’m a better version of myself there, I promise.”

  My hand covered my heart like a reflex. “I hope to meet you then.” I waved good-bye.

  “Nice shoes!” she called after me. “I have those exact
same ones! Same color even!”

  I’d never gotten around to throwing the Tevas away. “Good choice!” I called back.

  On the drive home, I enjoyed everything. The wind in my hair, the sun on my face, the smell of my mango air freshener and the smell of the wet jungle and how easily they blended together.

  42

  We would make it home just in time for Thanksgiving. Chuck would brine a Costco turkey for two days like he did every year. The rusty garage door would moan when it opened and the roof would leak when it rained, and together we would complain about these things. Someday we would fix them.

  I would still hear her voice. Sometimes in the mirror, I would catch a glimpse of her. Ana, my twin, my sister, how I had envied her freedom. How it would take me so long to understand her freedom wasn’t real. Ana wasn’t free. She was her sad past, replaying itself. In a way, she was still a child. She’d chosen the sky as a mother, as a guide. The sky. It was the biggest thing she could have chosen. The biggest empty thing.

  While taking out the trash or scraping cheese off a pan, I would think: yes, I am a housewife and yes, my life is small and yes, sometimes boring.

  But then maybe my boring life was a miracle.

  Because, Nancy. Nan. You survived your past.

  You reinvented yourself when you left home. When you left home, you left the past behind. You told no one the truth—of how your older boyfriend was paying you for sex by the end of that relationship, or of how you stole his credit cards and maxed them all out. Or of how, when you found your mother in her smelly chair, you had never really thought she was sleeping.

  It had been just the two of you in the house that day. When you found her, there was no mistaking it for sleep. She was having a seizure. And you let her have it. Because that was what she deserved. You could have given her the medication and you didn’t. You weren’t worried about anyone walking in to find you because there was no one. She had no one. She was alone. And that was her choice—she had chosen her loneliness. Her last breaths were frantic. Her face was frantic. You still might not be sure how you just stood there and watched without mercy.

  The first thing you did was drink her wine. White wine in a plastic cup on her table. Recently poured and nearly full. You downed it. You thought that when the police came, if they were coming, the scene should be found in its authentic state. The charade. It began when you went to refill the cup, but the white wine was gone. Red wine in the fridge. You used that instead. This is what had confused your story.

  You’ve never told a soul about how she really died. You buried the past, and you became someone new. And every time the past has needed to be buried, you have buried it, and you can do it again. You do not get stuck. You do not get depressed. You move on. You keep moving. This is freedom.

  When you remember her frantic face, you might be sorry. If there is a God, you might say, God, I am sorry about my mother. I am sorry about Peter. I am sorry for everything I have ever done wrong. From now on it will be different. I know that innately I am a good person. I will show you. I promise.

  •

  The pilot said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Clear skies today. The temperature here in Kona is 82. The temperature in San Diego is 75. Not much wind today. It shouldn’t be a bumpy flight.” The mic turned off, and then back on. “My copilot here just informed me the volcano has hit Pahoa. Destroyed the new police station and the section of highway at mile marker 79. No casualties—everyone was evacuated in time. Just wanted to let you folks know in case you have family there. That’s it for now. Mahalo.”

  “Phew,” Chuck said.

  Jed and Cam weren’t paying attention. They were making origami with the barf bag.

  “They’re safe,” I said, in awe, like I couldn’t quite believe it.

  •

  When you’re in a plane, all you can see is sky. You look out the window. You are above the clouds now. The clear blue sky never ends.

  Out this window is everything. Inside is you. This is your bag under the seat, this is your book in your lap, this is the way you sit, this is the way you carry your body when you walk to the little bathroom.

  Why do the thoughts come now? They always come when you don’t expect them, and every time it feels new. But you’ve had these thoughts before. You remember and forget them. Sometimes you think this is all life is: a process of learning what you have already learned.

  If there is no escape. No better destination.

  If the horizon’s just a line in space.

  If this is all you are.

  These are the pants you wore today, but they’re not that comfortable. Next time you take a flight you will wear different pants. Next time you will bring more snacks. This Thanksgiving you will make a pie from scratch, maybe mulberry. And next Thanksgiving you will make it again, and then again the following year. Mulberry pie will become a new Murphy family tradition. And you can make extra pies and give them away. Everything counts, even if you’re the only one counting.

  Your reflection in the little mirror is almost too much. You close your eyes. For a minute, or for ten long seconds that feel like a minute, you breathe.

  This is the sound of you breathing. This is the sound of the engine. Inside this small space, the air recirculates. It always feels cold. Outside you are rushing through the air so fast. There is always this rushing.

  Stay here. Stay calm. Stay still.

  Open your eyes.

  Do you see me?

  You won’t want to see me, but you will.

  This is us in the little mirror. This is us inside the runaway plane, trying to stay still.

  You splash water on your face, asking it to heal you. All you want is to be healed.

  You go back to your seat and you kiss your husband on the cheek. You open your book. You have been meaning to read this book for months. Today is the day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, thank you to the town of Kona for being such an easy, warm source of inspiration while I wrote this book. Kona, I love you.

  Jenny Jackson, thank you for your wisdom. I’m so happy you’re my editor.

  Allison Hunter, your enthusiasm is kind of mind-blowing, and I would be lost without you.

  Victoria Chow, Lauren Weber, Emma Dries, Nora Reichard, Maria Carella, and all the people at Doubleday who had a hand in making this happen, I appreciate everything and am lucky to have you.

  Special thanks to Mark Huntley for letting me take over his space, and to Annie Piper, whose yoga dialogue is the most inventive I’ve ever heard.

  Last, I’m beyond grateful to the kind friends who read early drafts and gave me their feedback. Vauhini Vara, Tasha Tracy, and Jen Silverman, huge mahalos to all of you.

  About the Author

  Swan Huntley is the author of We Could Be Beautiful. She earned her MFA from Columbia University and has received fellowships from the MacDowell Colony and the Ragdale Foundation. She lives in California and Hawaii.

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