This time she thought she saw a narrow opening in the bushes, barely wide enough for a car, with ginger crowding in on both sides and tall grass down the middle. A couple of lava rocks had been placed across the front, almost as a deterrent. As if anyone would be driving down this overgrown corridor on the side of an active volcano. Darkness was closing in fast.
Marie saw it, too. “That?”
“Has to be. Can you guys get out and move those?”
Much to her relief, the girls did as they were told. Coco also said to Sailor, “We’ll be there soon, so don’t worry.”
Lana swung the truck wide and gassed it. They could put the rocks back later. Or not. Her father always leaned toward being overly cautious, but maybe in this case that had been in their favor. And as much as she was hoping that the house would be just what they needed, a small voice reminded her that this was Jack Spalding they were dealing with. Nothing involving her father ever went as expected.
After moving through dense ‘ohi‘a and tree ferns the size of giraffes for what seemed like an hour, they suddenly came upon a clearing. For as far as they could see—which wasn’t saying much—there was only lava and tiny ‘o¯helo berry bushes. Lana came to a stop.
“Is this it?” Marie asked.
There was no sign of a house. And almost no sign of a road across the lava. In this part of the volcano, there were newer flows over older flows, and you could have a barren rock desert next to a rain forest.
“Maybe this is where the road forks,” Coco said.
Lana climbed out and noticed what could have once been a dirt road off to the right, and straight ahead there were signs of crushed lava and an ahu, a small piling of rocks the Hawaiians used to mark the trails across the lava. Earlier she had wondered about the cracks and goats comment. Now it made sense.
“I guess we go this way,” she said, watching her words come out in small puffs of steam. “You guys okay back there?” she called.
A muffled yes.
The truck creaked and groaned along as they crept across the lava flow. Coco sat at the edge of the seat. “Why would you put a house here?”
Lana had been wondering the same thing. Everyone with houses at Volcano built them mauka—toward the mountain—from the main road, where rich soil and rainfall made for an enchantingly rich landscape, with rhododendrons, blackberries, ‘o¯helo berries, plums and wild strawberries dotting the forest. As a girl, Lana and her best friend, Rose Wallace, used to make up stories about the wild bands of fairies that traversed the area.
“I guess we’ll see.” It was too late to turn around now.
The ahu rock piles were helpful when one could see, but between the fog and the oncoming night, they came to a standstill. If it had been just her, Lana would have curled up with exhaustion and closed her eyes until the morning. In the past week her total hours of sleep had been less than twenty.
“We need to put the covers over the headlights so I can turn them on,” Lana said.
“Even out here in the boondocks?” Marie asked.
“Better safe than sorry. That’s our motto now, okay? You saw how jumpy everyone was back in Hilo. And we don’t want to call attention to ourselves.”
Lana hopped out and secured the heavy blue cloth with slits down the center over each light. She kept the lights off until they were absolutely necessary. But with the fog, the lights only magnified the white. She imagined going off into a tantrum, just like Coco had earlier, but thought the better of it. You’re the adult here; you need to act like one.
At several points they passed steaming cracks in the lava, and the girls hung their heads and arms out the window, and Sailor began another round of barking. At least they knew where they could find warmth if they needed to. Apparently the girls’ parents had never brought them up here to see the volcano. Marie said it was because they spent every spare moment working.
They came to another abrupt switch in terrain, where they were back at an old-growth forest with strands of yellowish-green lichen hanging down from the branches. A group of small black animals scattered at their approach, revealing a narrow road.
“Pigs,” Lana said.
“Ooh, I love pigs,” Coco said, sounding delighted.
“Not these kind.”
At long last the fog thinned and so did the foliage. At a small grassy clearing, another fork in the road showed up. The path they were on seemed to keep going downhill, while another one curved in. Visibility had gone from bad to worse, and Lana’s eyes burned from all the squinting. For all she knew, they had driven ten miles, not one or two, so she took the turn and circled around a large cluster of cedar trees. If this wasn’t it, well, they would pull over and camp.
Then Coco and Marie both screamed, “There it is!”
There, just beyond the trees, was a long one-story structure. Untreated wood siding, with an olive tin roof and rust-colored trim, a big deck out front and an empty trellis to one side. It looked large enough to house several families at once. A hand-painted sign said Hale Manu. At least they were in the right place.
“Is that a tree coming out of it?” Marie said.
From where they were, it did appear that a large tree was coming out of the roof. “I think it just looks that way.”
“Do we get to choose our room?” Coco asked, as if they were on a Girl Scout adventure or at summer camp. She certainly had perked up in the last ten minutes, and Lana prayed it stayed that way. The mood swings were wearing on her.
“Of course.”
The driveway ended in the grass, and she pulled up as close as she could get. With the motor turned off, the quiet was an eerie contrast. That was when they noticed the side of the house. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Coco’s little face scrunched up. “Where’s the wall?”
Lana mustered every ounce of strength she had to sound upbeat. “Well, that is a wonderful question. What do you say we go find out?”
THE HOMECOMING
December 6, 1941 Hilo
It was a strange and wondrous thing to approach Hilo from the air. The large crescent bay spanned out before them, as did the massive breakwater, Coconut Island, and the harbor full of colorful sampans and boats of all shapes and sizes. And over land, large swaths of cane as far as the eye could see, rows and rows of two-story buildings, and patches of rain coming down in big gray bursts.
Stepping off the plane was like walking into a wall of moisture. The kind that leaves a permanent sheen on your face and frizz in your hair. For a half second Lana thought about kneeling down and kissing the ground but decided to wait until later, when no one was watching. And, oh, that familiar scent of fish and burning sugarcane. She felt as though she was plopped right back to the moment she had left. Then, she’d traveled not by plane but by steamer. And not just to Honolulu but all the way across the cold Pacific to a strange and foreign land called California. She had known this trip would dredge up memories but was wholly unprepared for the jumbled mess of emotions she felt at that moment.
Images of her father suddenly came to light. Letting her stick her whole fist into a jar of honey they’d just harvested. His goofy grin when he’d come out of the water with a lobster in each hand and chased her around the beach while she screamed half in terror, half in delight. The way his voice lulled her to sleep reading The Lilac Fairy Book while he patiently answered endless questions. And then the look on his face when she’d told him the news. Daddy, I have something to tell you. They had been sitting on the porch listening to the roar of rain on the tin roof, but the cozy afternoon turned disastrous in five seconds flat.
So much love, spiked with anguish and one big wrong turn.
Baron was kind enough to arrange a ride for her to Hilo Memorial, and she slipped him a big tip as they parted ways.
“Keep yourself safe and happy,” she said.
His eyes got wide when he
saw the extra green. “Say, I usually come in around lunchtime Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, if you want to hitch a ride back.”
“I’ll look for you next week, then.”
Hilo was nowhere the size of Honolulu, but it was the second-largest city in the territory and had grown since she’d left. There were more cars on the road now, and far fewer horses. Lawns were so lush and green they almost hurt your eyes to look at, a byproduct of the frequent rain.
The hospital was a one-story wooden building with elegant white stairs and a welcoming facade. Nevertheless, as she approached, Lana felt a squeezing in her chest. She had first agreed to see her father five years ago, when he had traveled to Honolulu for an engineering convention. He had asked if she would meet him for lunch. She’d reluctantly accepted his offer, but the lunch turned out stiff and awkward and painful. And when they parted, she promised she would try to visit. But whenever he called, she always had an excuse, sometimes real, sometimes manufactured. They still met up when he came to Honolulu, but it never felt right.
“Avoidance is the easy way out, Lana. Remember that,” he had finally said, sounding ready to give up.
Over the years those words had bored into her psyche, keeping her up at night. Because, on some level, she knew he was right.
Inside the hospital there was no one at the front desk.
“Hello?” Lana said into the hallway.
Moments later a nurse came out of the nearest room. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see my father, Jack Spalding.”
The woman stared at Lana a little too long, then said, “Hang on. Let me get Dr. Woodell.”
A feeling of dread arose. Lana sat. Fiddled with her hair. Watched a spotted gecko on the screen.
You’re too late.
He’s gone.
Stop.
He’ll be fine.
Heavy footsteps announced Dr. Woodell, an impeccably dressed bald man with a mustache large enough to house several birds. His hands were clasped and his face unreadable.
“Would you come with me, Mrs....”
“Hitchcock. But call me Lana,” she said.
He walked her into a small office lined with framed degrees and shut the door quietly behind her. “Is my father okay?” she said, antsy and suddenly out of breath.
“Have a seat.”
Again, she sat. He sat across from her and took her hand. His palms were warm and clammy. Or maybe hers were the clammy ones.
His watery eyes said it all. “I’m sorry, dear, but your father did not make it. He succumbed several hours ago to the meningitis.”
The words refused to register, hanging halfway between her and Dr. Woodell. Suspended midair. She fought them off. Her stomach felt an awful turning.
“Wait, no. But I just spoke with him last night,” she protested.
“It’s been touch and go for several days. Problem was he came in too late. We gave him the serum, but the swelling had already taken hold.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry.”
She wondered about his last moments. Had he known? “How did he die?”
“He went into a coma early this morning. And once that happened, it was a matter of hours,” he said, squeezing her hand and covering it with his other one.
This had been the one thing she had not counted on to happen. Her father had been a young and active fifty-two. In fact she always knew he’d be a young eighty, when the time came. Or even a young one hundred. In some small corner of her mind, there had been the rock-solid belief that when she was ready to patch things up, he would be there.
How selfish and stupid and naive.
Small, choking sobs wanted to come out but lodged in her windpipe instead. Lana buried her face in her hands. This was not supposed to happen. She’d come to be with him. She was a lifetime too late. Tears turned on and flooded her cheeks. Someone must have made a mistake.
“Are you sure he’s dead and not still in a coma?” she found herself asking.
Dr. Woodell, bless his heart, pulled her in and gave her a hug, and not the fake kind where someone just pats your back and says there, there. Her head rested on his shoulder and she inhaled starch and something sharply medicinal. “You can see him, if that would help,” he said.
That made her sit straight up. “He’s still here?”
“Downstairs. They are readying him for the mortuary. From his file, you’re his only next of kin,” he said.
“He has a sister in California.”
“Well, you were the only one he talked about. From what I gathered, you are quite a gifted artist. You were at the top of your class, and you had big dreams of being a volcanologist,” he said.
Lana had to laugh at that. “I do enjoy drawing, and those dreams of being a volcanologist were quite far-fetched. As a girl I was enamored with Thomas Jaggar and his wife, Isabel. I met them only a couple of times, but they left a lasting impression, especially Isabel. That was a long time ago, though, and you know how it goes with dreams.”
His eyes sparkled. “Dreams are what hold our world together.”
“In my experience, dreams don’t usually pan out.” She realized she sounded harsh, but this was not the time to talk about old dreams and missed opportunities. Outside, a mynah bird screeched. “Please take me to see my father and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
He led her down the hallway, and she focused on his scuffed cowboy boots. They didn’t match the starched coat and polished man. This is Hilo, she reminded herself. The minute they reached the back door, a downpour started. Dr. Woodell stopped on the small porch, and Lana held out her hand to catch the drops, which felt warm and reassuring on her palm.
The doctor pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “I guess I’ll give you this now. It’s from your father. He actually had one of the nurses write it out, but these are his words.”
She slipped the letter into her pocket, unsure of when she would have the courage to open it. Right now she wanted to get this horrible thing over with and get to his house. Their house. Her house, now. And then catch the next flight back to Honolulu. Hilo without her father was unthinkable. But who would make arrangements for his funeral? The thought made her dizzy. Take a breath, one step at a time.
The rain let up a few minutes later, as it usually did here, and they went into the basement. The room was cool and dimly lit. Her nose picked up a sour and waxy smell, mostly masked by a strong chemical odor. On one side there was a large steel table with a sheet draped over what could only be a body.
Dr. Woodell stood next to it and fingered his stethoscope. “Are you sure about this? The choice is all yours, but I do know that sometimes it helps with closure. And I can leave you alone, too.”
The truth of the matter was Lana had never seen a dead person, and she was terrified. “I need to do this,” she said.
When the sheet came off, she saw a pale and much too thin version of her father. He was wearing an orange aloha shirt and his hands were crossed over his midsection, as if he had just lain down for a nap. Would it be strange if she climbed on the table with him and rested her head on his chest and told him that, despite it all, she loved him? She was so caught up in persuading herself that he was dead that she forgot to breathe.
“I’ll step out for a minute,” Dr. Woodell said, leaving her alone with the body.
The body.
Lana moved closer and bent down, placing her hand over his heart. She half expected to feel a beat. “Daddy,” she whispered.
No answer.
Outrage threatened to split her down the middle, coupled with a bone-weary sadness. Her whole body trembled. “Daddy.” There were so many things to say, and instead, huge gasping sobs overcame her. Before she knew it, her ear was flattened against his chest and she listened to the silence of a still heart. This life was done. Her father,
gone on to heaven or one of those strange other worlds he used to talk about. Strings of her snot dampened his shirt. She had no idea how long she stayed like that. Her neck ached but she didn’t care.
Eventually Dr. Woodell came back in, placing his hand on her back. “Dear, your father will always be with you. It’s time to go,” he said.
Outside, the air was still buzzing, which Lana found curious, since the tragedy had already happened.
THE GERMANS
December 6, 1941 Hilo
Life in Hilo revolved around sugar and fishing, and Lana was surprised at how many people milled about the sidewalks—Hawaiian, Japanese, Filipino, Portuguese, Chinese, haole and everything in between. Maybe because it was Friday afternoon, pau hana time, and everyone was eager for a cold beer and the weekend, or maybe there were just more people now. She half expected to see Mochi or any of her father’s other friends in the mix. Tall blue shadows from a row of two-story buildings fell on the far side of the street. The sun went down early, behind Mauna Kea, on this side of the island.
At her father’s place, down Kīlauea Avenue, the mango tree had nearly doubled in size, but otherwise the house looked exactly the same. Red roof and siding, white trim. Ti leaves galore. Grass had grown knee-high in some places, matching the Ramirezes’ horse pasture on one side. On the other side, where Mr. Young used to live, Lana noticed two blonde haole girls riding their bikes around a newly paved circular drive in front of the house. Never mind the wet grass and salty rain.
Whoever the family was, they had done a massive cleanup. Mr. Young had not believed in throwing anything away. Old cars, cable drums, furniture, lumber, fencing, an antique icebox, you name it. Her father had found more than his share of treasures there, and come to think of it, so had she.
Lana waved at the girls, who had stopped their riding to gawk at her. The older one waved back and gave a shy smile, but the younger one looked down. In no mood to socialize, Lana hurried up the steps and onto the lanai. The door was unlocked, as usual, and the moment she stepped inside, she felt a trembling under her skin. She fought the urge to turn around and run back out the door.
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