Freckled

by T W Neal

  To add to my worries about nukes and the Gas Crisis, Mr. Nitta tells us about tidal waves. These huge waves are caused by underwater earthquakes. They suck back the whole ocean from the floor of the sea, leaving all the fish flopping around, and then surge back in, high as a house, and mow down everything in their path. Hanalei has a few rusty sirens around, set up since the 1965 tidal wave, but “every family should have an evacuation plan and a bag packed for escape,” Mr. Nitta tells us. “Make a list of all the things you would take to escape and pack your bag ahead of time. Hanalei is a very vulnerable zone.”

  Maybe because of the stockpiling at home, or the disaster drills we’ve been having at school, I begin to worry nonstop about tidal waves.

  I go home and pack my emergency bag—an old pillowcase. I put in my gold locket from Gigi, my precious drawing pens and paper, the rusted gold watch I found under the house, a change of clothes, a spare toothbrush. I try to assemble the Family Escape Box Mr. Nitta has recommended—five gallons of water, food for a week, candles, and a flashlight with batteries.

  There’s no food for a week that could be transported to high ground. We either eat fresh food, or food that needs a lot of prep, like beans or rice. I can’t find a single can of Spam or box of Hamburger Helper like Mr. Nitta suggested. I settle for a washed-out milk jug of water and bag of dried figs.

  That night, I have a dream that we are all annihilated by a wall of water and can’t run away from it. I wake up with tears on my cheeks, and go to my parents’ bed to burrow between their sleep-smelling bodies, something I haven’t done in years.

  “We have to pack an Escape Box,” I whisper to Mom in the dark. A little wind stirs the hand-sewn curtains. Pop snores beside her, oblivious.

  “Okay, you can tell me about it in the morning,” she mumbles—but in the morning there’s no time to pack anything, and with her pregnancy, she’s still in bed when I get myself on my bike and off to school.

  Mr. Nitta wanted us to bring in examples of what we put in our Family Escape Boxes, so I wait for everyone to leave for recess before I put my bag of figs on his desk.

  “We don’t have an Escape Box,” I tell Mr. Nitta, “But my parents are very worried about the Gas Crisis so we have a lot of beans and rice and other food stashed. I think we will be okay if we get a tidal wave.”

  He peers at me through square black glasses and lets a beat go by, as if trying to understand what I’m saying. “I could call them.”

  “Oh no.” A call from school would freak Mom and Pop out. I’d have drawn attention from The Man. “I will get something together. I just brought the figs in to show you that if I had one, it would be a very nutritious escape box.”

  “I can see that.” His eyes twinkle a bit, but he doesn’t mock me. Mr. Nitta has a way of cracking jokes and teasing that makes class fun, and he has already picked up on Kira’s hassling me and put a stop to it—at least, whenever he catches her. Kira and I mostly ignore each other now; I stay out of her way and try not to attract her attention. Kira reminds me of Pele, the vengeful volcano goddess. Even when things appear peaceful, she’s boiling underneath and waiting for a chance to blow up.

  The bell rings ending recess, and Kira is the first one back to class. She’s followed closely by my friend, Samson, one of the Chandler boys who I suspect might have a crush on me—but because of Kira, he just quietly slides his cookies over to me at lunch.

  I don’t want Kira to see the figs, so I give the bag a little push toward Mr. Nitta. “Can I leave these here until the end of the day?”

  “As long as you pay the tax.” Mr. Nitta opens the bag and takes out a fig, biting into it with a flourish. “There, you paid it. Thanks.”

  I leave his desk and take my seat. When everyone is back, Mr. Nitta calls out. “Who’s having trouble getting their Family Escape Box together?”

  Several hands go up, and Mr. Nitta organizes kids into teams to do a “scavenger hunt” at various families’ houses around town to gather the basics so everyone can have one.

  “You just want to sleep well at night knowing you’re prepared,” he says. This perfectly echoes my dream of the night before, but I wonder if an Escape Box will really help if a tidal wave comes. It seems like it’s better for afterward than during. During, nothing will help but getting to higher ground.

  Mr. Nitta makes a list on the board of the suggested contents again. I squint because, even sitting in the front row, I can’t see the board well enough to read it. I finally, reluctantly, reach into the slot in the table, take out my glasses, and put them on.

  I’ve been having trouble with my vision for a couple of years now. We can only afford the glasses Welfare will pay for. There are four frame choices, each uglier than the last, and this pair was the best of the options: lenses shaped like stop signs in thick purple plastic.

  I’m not only a redheaded, hippie bookworm, but I wear cheap, ugly glasses.

  A few days later, I go for yet another eye checkup an hour away in Lihue with old Dr. Yee, who’s been upgrading my glasses to stronger every six months since I was nine. This time, he pulls my mom aside for a whispered discussion. I frown, looking at them through the giant metal lens contraption I’m still stuck behind.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Nothing, honey. We just need to see a specialist,” Mom says, and there’s a funny tightness in her voice that puts me on alert. On the way home, we stop by Kapa`a Library. I’ve pretty much read everything in the place, and I’m working my way through adult fiction alphabetically now. Mom parks under an ironwood tree and sends Bonny and me in alone.

  “I need a break,” she says. “The baby is making me tired.”

  She looks pale and closes her eyes, leaning back in the seat as we wind down all the windows in the Rambler so the breeze passes through. The faithful old car is quite rusty now, the upholstery on the roof blooming in gray mildew patterns.

  At the checkout, my old friend the librarian, Mrs. Rapozo, eyes me over her half-glasses as she opens a stack of books topped by Erica Jong and James Joyce, since I’ve got to J by now. “Fear of Flying. Hmm. Does your mother know you’re reading this?”

  “Sure. She doesn’t believe in censorship.”

  Mrs. Rapozo tightens her lips, and I know I’m in for a good one. I’ve already devoured the Jackie Collins section, in spite of Mrs. Rapozo’s audible sniffs and attempts to catch my mom’s eye.

  Mom starts the car when we get back in. We drive home, the windows down. There’s no radio reception in the car because Kauai’s too small to have its own station, and the steep mountains prevent reception—the same reason there’s no TV on the island, either.

  I lean my face on the window frame and watch the ocean stream by, the flashing columns of coconut trees, the swishing cane fields, and corduroy rows of pineapple. I do my favorite driving daydream.

  The car is pulled by six galloping black horses, and I alternately stand on the hood and drive them, or climb onto their backs and urge them to go faster, cracking a rawhide whip over their heads. Sometimes, I lean down to unhitch one of them and let Bonny drive the team while I drop to the horse’s back and gallop out in front.

  I can feel everything about the daydream: the surge of the horse’s muscles, silky under my bare legs; the wind cutting my eyes so I have to squint; the way the leather straps squeak with the strain of our speed. I breathe the warm perfume of horse that surrounds me and love the way the animal pours on more speed when I bend alongside his neck and whisper “Go!” in his ear.

  “I’m having a confab with Pop when we get home.” Mom still has that funny note in her voice. “And then we have to talk.”

  Confabs are rarely a good thing. I can’t get the daydream going again after that.

  After the evening routine of dinner, baths, personal reading, and homework, I listen as hard as I can to Mom and Pop’s confab from my side of the wall, but I can’t make anything out but their muffled voices.

  I turn off the light and take
off my ugly purple glasses, setting them on the dresser. Immediately my world goes fuzzy. “Impressionistic” is how I like to think of it. Silver moon luminosity lights the cabbage roses on the curtains from behind.

  Mom knocks on the doorjamb, then flicks on the light and comes into my room carrying a kitchen chair. This can’t be good. I sit up in alarm as she sets the chair beside my bed. Pop follows her in and parks beside me on the bed.

  “Toby, we have to go to the mainland to see a specialist. Dr. Yee thinks there’s something seriously wrong with your eyes and . . . that you’re going blind.” Mom chokes on the last words, and Pop puts his hand on her shoulder. This just makes her cry harder, and she reaches out to pull me into her arms.

  I can’t take it in.

  I’ve just started surfing, riding the little waves next to the pier—how could I surf, blind? I love my drawing and art. I love seeing everything! I think in pictures. There’s no one who likes seeing more than I do.

  “I would rather die than be blind.” I push away from Mom’s arms. My throat is closing off my air. My chest won’t lift to breathe until I tell it to.

  Mom sobs harder.

  “Maybe Dr. Yee’s wrong. He’s not sure, that’s why he’s referring you. Gigi is going to pay for you and Mom to go to the specialist, and you can visit her in La Jolla, too.” Pop tries to make it sound like a treat.

  They’re trying to comfort me and I recognize that, but my skin is cold, my chest constricted, my body turned to wood. I wait stiffly for them to leave, and they finally do, shutting the door. I hear Mom crying some more through the thin wall connecting our rooms.

  I get out of bed and drag my plywood bed frame, scraping the painted floor in long gashes, over to the window. I push up the sash and lie there with my face pressed against the screen, staring out at the moon. I blink, and squint, and that delicious white lozenge like a mint in the sky won’t come into focus.

  My whole body contorts with pain, and the tears burst out. I muffle my sobs in my pillow so I won’t stress out the family any worse.

  I’m terrified of a world without light. My hidden cowardice pounces, mauling me like a lion, making me think of dying rather than be stuck in a world I can’t see. I tick through the methods I could kill myself.

  Drinking Pop’s insecticide.

  Too risky, it might just make me sick.

  Drowning.

  I already know how my lungs burn like inhaling fire when the seawater gets in. I’d never be able to make myself do something like that on purpose.

  Cutting my wrists.

  Would hurt my family too much to do it that way. So gross.

  Hanging.

  Not sure I know how.

  Guns.

  I don’t know where to get one or how to use it.

  I decide on jumping. I already like jumping off the waterfalls, and jumping requires just one decision and then you can’t take it back—plus I could make it seem like an accident so my family isn’t so sad. Maybe I’ll jump off the cliff into the dump, where all unwanted things end up. If I survive that, there are lots of other cliffs with rocks at the bottom.

  I cry in great heaving spasms into the pillow. Finally, I’m exhausted, and rest my face on the window frame, staring at the fuzzy moon.

  There’s an angel descending from the moon, drifting down toward me.

  Or something like an angel. I blink repeatedly, and squint, but I can’t see it clearly.

  Maybe it’s Jesus. I’ve heard about Jesus from Gigi who’s a Catholic and believes he’s the Savior. Mom says he’s just a great teacher, like Buddha.

  This angel has a Jesus vibe, but I can’t see it well enough to be sure. But there’s definitely a radiant, glowing white figure right outside my window, and it’s not going away.

  I hear a voice like a bell in my head: “Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.”

  The silvery-white presence glows, rising and falling gently as if the air were water it’s floating in. The constriction around my chest releases, my breath comes easier. My heart pounds with a new excitement—I’m being visited by a supernatural being!

  I sit up and open my mouth to call Mom, Pop, and Bonny so they can see—and the angel fades, disappearing.

  It’s gone.

  But it told me not to worry, and that everything would be okay.

  Snuggling back down into my sleeping bag left over from the camping days, I press my cheek against the screen, my face turned up toward the night sky. I fall asleep that way.

  All through the hurried arrangements to fly to California for a second opinion, I’m unfazed. I’ve been visited by an angel—it doesn’t get any more reassuring than that. My dad, his green eyes unfamiliar with the shine of tears, hugs me goodbye. Bonny cries openly, both at the news and at my departure, and I cry because she does—as usual. But I’m not worried anymore.

  We get on the plane and take our seats. Mom holds my hand. I smell the fear on her, an unfamiliar tang of stress, and in that moment I know how loved I am: by my parents, by my sister, even by my grandparents.

  They pick us up at the San Diego Airport in Grandpa’s big floaty-suspension black Cadillac and take us straight to Macy’s for new clothes. This is La Jolla—I can’t see the doctor in my thrift-store getup.

  “We have The Best Specialist lined up.” Gigi pats my hair, her fluttery birdy-hand a-jangle with gold bracelets as we sit down at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club for lunch.

  “Whatever it costs, don’t worry about it,” Grandpa rumbles, piercing blue eyes almost hidden under craggy dark brows. “We’re taking care of this.”

  “Thank you so much,” Mom says meekly. She’s wearing a new pin-tucked maternity smock from Macy’s, my grandmother’s idea of appropriate clothing, and she picks at her salad.

  “Thank you,” I echo, resisting the urge to scratch at the seams of jeans so stiff and new that they feel like they could walk on their own. I’m still not worried, even though all of the adults are.

  We take the Cadillac to the doctor’s office in a high-rise building. I’m a Kauai bumpkin enough to enjoy the long ride up in the elevator—I haven’t ridden one of these since the last time I was in La Jolla.

  The Best Specialist is a kind middle-aged man who jokes a bit to put me at ease. We go through the usual lens fittings with the big black metal lens contraption on the moveable arm. He gives me eye drops and pretty soon I can’t see at all. He puffs air into my eye, and it stings. He looks at it with a light, for a long time, and says “hmm.” I hold my chin in the black plastic cup and keep my eyes open so long they water until he takes a picture, a burst of light that feels like my brain exploding.

  So far it’s nothing different than what Dr. Yee does, except that this man’s breath smells like the peppermint Chiclets I see peeking out of the white pocket of his jacket, instead of the faint cigarette smell Dr. Yee has.

  He sits down with Mom and me when the whole thing is over.

  “You aren’t going blind,” he says to me. Mom covers her mouth with both hands and her eyes well up. “You have severe astigmatism, which is a malformation of the lens of your eye. You’ll have to get new glasses every six months until the degeneration slows down after puberty.”

  I look down at the slightly painful nubs just beginning on my skinny chest—that could be a while.

  Gigi and Grandpa pay for the visit and a pretty new pair of glasses with delicate gold frames, then take us to the Country Club on the hill for a celebratory dinner. I remember to let the valet open the door for me this time.

  Mom doesn’t participate in the bottle of champagne they order, but they let me have half a glass. I hold the slender flute, watching the bubbles stream up from the bottom through liquid the color of fresh-cut pineapple. It tastes cold and misty, and the bubbles tickle the inside of my mouth.

  “I knew The Best Specialist would get to the bottom of this,” Gigi says. “That quack on Kauai put everyone through an unnecessary scare.”

  “Dr. Yee. Sounds As
ian,” Grandpa says, with a snort. He has low opinions about Asians, Jews, blacks, and pretty much anybody who doesn’t belong to one of his clubs.

  Mom bites her lip. She doesn’t believe racism is okay, and it’s hard for her not to challenge their comments. I know she’s keeping quiet for me, to make sure I get the pretty glasses that will be mailed to us on Kauai soon, and my heart swells with love.

  “We appreciate the support in getting a second opinion,” she says carefully.

  The next day, Mom borrows Gigi’s cream-colored Thunderbird, and we drive a little north of La Jolla to Yogananda’s ashram, the Self-Realization Fellowship, a big walled compound on the cliffs in Encinitas. Mom gets excited when she hears there’s a summer yoga camp for kids my age.

  “Wouldn’t this be a great camp to go to, Toby?” She gestures to the fanciful buildings with swirly gold-plated tops like cupcakes, gracious plantings, and Hindu statuary dotting the grounds.

  I worry about being made to fast on lentils and water while doing meditation and yoga all day, but after my recent divine visitation, I should give something back. “It would be good for my meditating.”

  Mom’s been showing me how to meditate, but I suffer badly from “monkey mind” and have difficulty sitting still. I’ve only been able to do fifteen minutes so far.

  “We’ll see if Gigi will pay for it,” Mom says. We glance at each other and laugh. Gigi loves to send Bonny and me to camps—dance camp, art camp, tennis camp—but I wonder how a yoga camp at our guru’s compound will go over. Without her sponsorship, we don’t have money for anything like that.

  “Let’s see,” Gigi says about the yoga camp. “I think the country club is doing a nice tennis camp this summer that would be right across the street and might be more appropriate.” I nod eagerly at the same time as Mom shakes her head, and the topic is shelved.