by Frankie Bow
Mother’s Day
FRANKIE BOW
Hawaiian Heritage Press
Mother’s Day
Copyright © 2017 by Frankie Bow
Published by Hawaiian Heritage Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
DEDICATION
For my wonderful children, who would never dream of murdering me.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TRUST FALL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I could not have written this without the help and support of my family. Thank you.
.
CHAPTER ONE
I wasn’t having a great day. There was the usual beginning-of-semester chaos, of course. The last-minute scramble to hire adjunct instructors, the confused students caught between payment deadlines and late financial aid checks, and the ongoing struggle to interpret the administration’s latest half-baked “student success” initiatives.
Now throw in an unexpected summons from administration, a case of round-the-clock “morning” sickness, and the coup de grâce: a call from my mother. Who thought I needed to be reminded (once again) how risky it was to have a child at my age.
“Although to be fair,” she added, “they’re finding out the father’s age has something to do with it too. Donnie’s no spring chicken either. That’s why you have to be doubly careful. Molly, you sound like you’re out of breath. Do you need to lie down and rest?”
“I’m fine,” I panted. I didn’t tell my mother I was marching in place, a tactic to disperse stress hormones. “And thank you for the helpful information, but I’m already pregnant. Listen, Mom, I'm kind of stressing out about this appointment with administration. I’m supposed to report to the Death Star in half an hour, so I—”
“Molly, I know it’s tempting to poke fun at your administration, but please be wise. Things always get back to them. That’s why I never say anything negative about our medical director, no matter how craven and incompetent he may be.”
“Mom, I wasn’t—”
“Really, dear, it's nice you have tenure, but those people know how to get around it. Mahina State’s already the bottom of the barrel. Who’s going to hire you if you lose your job there?”
Marching wasn’t dissipating enough stress. I began doing high kicks, careful to avoid the living room furniture.
“Not that your father and I aren’t immensely proud of you, dear, so please don’t take it so negatively.”
“We’re real proud of you, sweet pea!” I heard my father shout in the background.
“And we think it’s wonderful that your due date is Mother’s Day. That way you won't forget the date again.”
“Mom, it was that one time. I already said I was sorry.”
“Of course, due dates are merely estimates, so don’t be disappointed if Baby doesn’t come exactly when you planned.”
“I know that, Mom. Thanks.”
“Well, the good news is that mixed-race children are healthier than average. They call it hybrid vigor. And the Polynesians are very strong people, so it seems you’ve made a good choice there.”
“That’s great, Mom.”
“Also, they’re finding the mother’s education level tends to predict the children’s life outcomes. So it’s a good thing you have a Ph.D., even if it is only in English.”
I switched from can-can kicks to deep-knee bends.
“Yes, it's actually good for something. Who would have guessed?”
“Let’s hope it makes up for Donnie’s being a dropout.”
“He’s not a dropout, he just never had time to go to college. Doesn’t he get any points for, you know, building and running the most popular casual dining spot in Mahina?”
“I sent you a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did, thank you. It's very thick.”
“I tried to find a large print edition, but they don’t make one. I imagine most new mothers aren’t at the age yet where they need reading glasses. Do you want me to send you a pair of reading glasses?”
“I don’t need you to send me reading glasses, but thank you for asking. Listen, Mom, I really have to go. The Death Star—I mean Victor Santiago’s office does not tolerate tardiness.”
I could never remember Victor Santiago’s actual job title. As far as I could tell, his duties involved cozying up to potential donors and scolding faculty members whose unruly behavior threatened to tarnish our Institutional Image.
“Professor Barda.” Victor half-rose as I entered his office and shook my hand, in precisely the way you’d greet someone you could barely stand. “Please. Have a seat.”
I sat down as directed and stared at the plaque on Victor’s desk, trying (once again) to memorize it:
Victor Santiago, (M.Ed., MBA) Vice-President for Student Outreach and Community Relations.
Alas, I’d forget it (again) as soon as I walked out the door.
“We’re rolling out an exciting new program,” Victor said, without any excitement whatsoever. Victor did not waste his charm on faculty members. “We call it the Young Leaders Program. It’s a targeted, high-touch, boutique program for our valued student stakeholders.”
“Sounds great.”
“We’re piloting the program this semester with a student named Jeremy Brigham. You’re familiar with the Brigham family, I assume.”
I shook my head.
“Jeremy’s late father was Alexander Brigham, a direct descendant of Hiram Brigham.”
“Hiram Brigham, of course.” I vaguely recalled something about a planter son of a missionary who had married a Hawaiian princess. The confluence of money, land holdings, and political connections had catapulted the Brigham family into Hawaii's elite.
“Jeremy Brigham has had to withdraw from his classes due to illness.”
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“Fortunately, under our new Young Leaders Program, Mr. Brigham will receive daily tutoring sessions to keep him on track for graduation.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Very compassionate.”
What does all this have to do with me? I wondered. If Jeremy Brigham were a management major, I’d know his name by now.
“Is Jeremy Brigham a management major?” I asked.
“No. Psychology. But they can’t spare anyone, so we’re inviting you to serve as Mr. Brigham’s tutierge.”
“Me? Excuse me, his what?”
“Tutierge. Tutor-Concierge.”
“I see. Well, that’s immensely flattering. But I’m the chair of the management department. Why would you choose me for such an important job?”
I wondered how Victor would manage to answer this question without saying anything positi
ve about me. He did not disappoint.
“Your elective didn’t fill. Your participation in our pilot of the Young Leaders Program gives you a way to discharge your teaching obligations. Without having to pay part of your salary back.”
“Pay my…what? I thought I just had to do more research or something if my class didn’t make. I have to pay my salary back if my class is canceled?”
“Your union agreed to the terms, Professor Barda. To those of us without tenure or summers off, it seems more than fair.”
I didn’t bother to reply that my summers were unpaid, which was very different from having summers off. Especially when I always got stuck doing work over the summer anyway. And tenure was great, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t get fired. It only meant the administration had to put in a little more paperwork to do it.
“No, that sounds great,” I said. “I’d be thrilled. What am I teaching him?”
“Statistics.”
“Stats? I've never even taken a stats class, let alone taught one.”
“It won’t be a problem for you. It’s the intro class. I’ll have my assistant send over your schedule and textbook. You and I will make the initial visit together. And remember, Professor Barda.”
Victor fixed me with his unsmiling gaze.
“Your students don’t care how much you know, until they know how much you care. We’ll start on Monday. Meet me here at my office at seven-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes. In the morning.”
CHAPTER TWO
Russian Road wasn’t far from campus, and I would have been happy to meet Victor there. But he clearly didn’t trust me to find my own way.
And he insisted on driving. I believe he would have preferred to commit seppuku rather than show up at a donor’s house in my turquoise-and-white 1959 Thunderbird. I sat in the passenger seat of his Lexus and checked my email as he drove. Then I texted Donnie:
ME: With Victor from marketing. On my way to be a tutierge.
DONNIE: I know you’ll do a great job. Darlene brought in a book for you.
ME: Who is Darlene?
DONNIE: the shift manager
ME: Is it what to expect etc.?
DONNIE: Yes how did you know?
ME: My mother sent me a copy already
DONNIE: I’ll keep this one then. If your mother recommends it must be good. BTW she called me, would like you to call her back. Have to go. Love you.
Then I texted my friend Emma Nakamura. Between her paddling practice, her teaching schedule, and some book project she was working on, I hadn’t seen much of her since the semester began.
ME: With Victor from marketing. On my way to be a tutierge.
EMMA: [emoji of a round yellow face, barfing].
As much as I loved my husband, sometimes Emma understood me better.
We turned onto Russian Road, the most beautiful neighborhood in Mahina (in my opinion, anyway). The mansions ranged from lacy white Victorians to earthy Craftsman bungalows with deep porches and tapered pillars. The vast, velvety lawns needed no sprinklers; Mahina had enough rainfall to keep the landscape green and vibrant. I cast a longing look at the old Brewster House as we drove by. At one time, I'd considered buying the Brewster House, and for a time, it seemed tantalizingly within reach. But alas, it was not to be. Pink Garisenda roses twined around the white pillars of the porte-cochere, and the mullioned French doors glittered in the morning sun. I reminded myself that my remodeled plantation house on Uakoko Street was perfectly nice, and tried my best not to boil with envy.
Victor drove in silence. Probably imagining all the ways I could screw up this deal, I thought.
“Are there any dos and don'ts for me to remember?” I asked. “I’m not really experienced with fundraising.”
“We don’t call it fundraising, Professor Barda. We call it friendraising.”
I started to laugh, but a quick glance at Victor’s stony profile made me choke it off immediately. He was not joking.
“Mrs. Brigham is a very distinguished member of our community and a great friend of the university. She’s in poor health as well. I believe she’s worse off than Jeremy, sadly. Ah. Here we are.”
He pulled up in front of a vacant lot that was overgrown with sixty-foot-tall trees and garlanded with vines. We got out of the car and I stared at the wall of jungle.
“Where’s the house?” I asked.
“The Brigham House is right through there. There’s a path to the front door.”
Victor walked ahead of me and parted a curtain of vines.
“I don't see any …”
“Follow me.”
“Right. I’ll follow you.”
I could barely make out the black lava-rock stepping stones set into the ground, obscured as they were by moss and foliage. I watched my feet as I followed Victor down the overgrown path. Sure enough, there was a house there in the middle of the lot. It was neither Victorian nor Craftsman, but a simple design with a steep gabled roof, and walls of mortared black lava rock. It looked more like an old church than anything else.
Victor lifted the knocker, and then we waited.
The door was opened by a gray-haired man wearing a blue-and-gray aloha shirt and a stern expression.
“Please come with me.” He led us a short way down a dark hallway and showed us into a cramped parlor.
Victor and I sat uncomfortably side by side on a koa bench that looked like a refurbished pew. Rather, I should say I was uncomfortable. Who knows what Victor was thinking?
“The man who let us in didn’t introduce himself or ask us who we were,” I said.
“They’re expecting us,” Victor replied, completely overlooking the fact that I might have liked to know who the man was.
I quickly traced the cloying odor that permeated the room to a dish of gardenias on the windowsill. I normally tolerated the scent of gardenias. But to my pregnancy-sensitized nose, it was the olfactory equivalent of getting handbagged with a giant bouquet. I wanted to take my phone out and check my e-mail to distract myself, but I didn’t feel right doing that with Victor sitting right there.
I decided to amuse myself by trying to catalog the smells in the house. Aside from the gardenias, I picked up coffee, a trace of mildew, and a raw vegetal smell that reminded me of my grad-school roommate’s green juice fasts.
The gray man materialized in the doorway.
“Bernardine is ready to meet you,” he said.
Because Victor had warned me about Bernardine Brigham's failing health, I expected her to be bedridden. But she was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.
I recognized her right away. Twenty years ago, Bernardine McCrae had modeled for a preppy label and cultivated a golden surfer-girl image. Now she had transformed her look to Bohemian Dowager. Her tan had faded, and she wore satin and crushed velvet in jewel tones. Her grey-streaked hair was piled atop her head in a way that invoked Klimt’s Judith holding the Head of Holofernes. She had always been slim, of course, but now she was emaciated; her famous cheekbones looked like they could slice paper.
“Bernardine!” Victor beamed and held out his arms.
“Victor, darling!” She set down her chopping knife, embraced him, and offered her cheek. He kissed it.
“Please, sit down.” She indicated the sturdy maple table that occupied the center of the kitchen.
“Bernardine, this is Professor Molly Barda,” Victor said as we seated ourselves. “She’s the chair of the management department, and one of our most popular teachers.”
The last part was news to me. I assumed Victor was improvising.
Bernardine briefly acknowledged me and then turned her attention back to Victor, who had apparently flipped his personality switch to “on” the minute we entered the kitchen. He asked Bernardine about her herb garden (she was enjoying a bumper crop of sorrel), made delicate inquiries after her health (she had good days and bad days, she said) and finally brought the conversation around to the matter at hand: Jerem
y, the one-man inaugural class of Mahina State University’s Young Leaders Program.
“Jeremy’s not feeling his best today,” Bernardine apologized. “That’s why he’s not here to meet you. But he’ll be ready for you tomorrow, Miss Barda. I’ll make certain of it. Honestly, Victor, I don’t think it’s worth all this effort. Jeremy was never that interested in school. But Edward insisted, so here we are.”
We didn’t stay long after that. Victor and Bernardine exchanged gentle gossip about mutual acquaintances in town, then the older man (Edward, I assumed) returned and showed us out.
When we were back in the car, I asked,
“Were we supposed to meet Jeremy today?”
“He wasn’t up to it, as you heard. You’ll have the chance to meet him tomorrow. I won’t be able to be there for every visit, so you’ll have to do it on your own.”
“I’ll try to manage,” I said, and then immediately regretted it. It came out sounding much more sarcastic than I’d intended.
“Is Edward the name of the gentleman who answered the door?” I asked.
“Yes.”
We drove on in silence for a few minutes and then Victor asked,
“Are you in touch with Emma Nakamura?”
“Sort of?” The question surprised me. Emma and Victor weren’t exactly buddies. Of course, Emma wasn’t on particularly good terms with anyone in administration.
“What do you know about her book?” he asked.
“Not much. I know she was working on some kind of book project, but she hasn’t told me much about it.”
I wasn’t being coy with Victor; Emma had been secretive about her book project, which was unusual for her.
“These are interesting times,” Victor said, after a few moments. “There’s a lot of focus on the university. For better or for worse. Now, of course academic freedom is a bedrock principle of Mahina State University. We would never tell Professor Nakamura—or anyone—what they could and could not publish.”