by Sarah Smith
“You can’t keep pushing yourself like this. It’s not good for you.”
The wrinkles in her forehead deepen. She still refuses to make eye contact with me. “Says who?” she mutters to the bowl of egg wash.
My stomach twists in a knot. That frustrated look, that annoyed tone. A fight is on the horizon, I just know it.
I rein in a frustrated sigh. “Says me. And your doctor. Remember what he said? How important it is for you to relax and de-stress, especially when you’ve been on your feet for hours and hours? You can’t be keeping up this work pace.”
“Did you hear that?” she hollers.
Her eyes are still on her hands, but I know exactly who she’s talking to.
“Our daughter thinks she knows better than me, Harold.” She shakes her head. The small gesture is as dismissive as it is disappointing. “How crazy, right?”
Most people would think it’s weird that she regularly chats to the urn containing Dad’s ashes, which sits on a shelf nearby in the living room, but I don’t. She’s been doing it since we lost him. It makes total sense to me. She does it because she misses him more than anything and it’s her way of maintaining their connection.
Her hands move quickly, her dark, crepe-like skin stretching every time she rolls lumpia. She’s knocking them out at a dizzying pace, faster than any machine could. She shakes her head and her eyebrows knit deeper.
“Mom.” I take a centering breath before I continue. “If Dad were here, he would tell you the same thing. He was just as excited about the food truck as you were, but he was a stickler on not working yourself to the bone. You know that.”
Memories of Dad hugging her from behind during one of her hours-long cooking or cleaning sessions in the kitchen filter through my mind. He would give her a gentle squeeze, a kiss on the cheek, then whisper how she needed to take a break. She would always twist around to smile up at him and take a break for at least a few minutes. Always.
My words don’t carry the same charm as my dad’s.
“I know what’s good for me,” she snaps, as if she didn’t even hear what I just said. “To stay busy.”
My hand falls on the table. “Mom, you are staying busy just by working at the food truck with me every day.”
Finally, her dark eyes cut to me. “Not every day. You make me stay home one day a week, sometimes two. Like I’m a child.”
I stand up and walk to the sink for a glass of water. It’s the only way I can think to keep from unloading on her, to keep from saying what I truly feel.
Slowly, I sip until the glass is empty, then refill it. It does nothing to calm me. Turning around, I focus back on her, still rolling lumpia.
“That’s not fair, Mom. You know how important your health is to me. You can’t put in eight- to ten-hour days doing food prep in the morning and working at the truck, then continue cooking for hours when you’re home. That’s too much.”
“It’s not. I like the work,” she says, her voice hard, her tone clipped. “Besides, we have to work extra hard to make sure we do well at the festival. You don’t want to lose, do you?”
Her question, spoken in her signature impatient tone, leaves my head spinning. I know it all too well. She uses it whenever she’s asking a question she doesn’t want an answer to.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself in check.
“Of course I don’t want to lose. And we won’t. I’ve got everything covered. Your help at the food truck is more than enough.”
I take another sip of water and stare out the kitchen window of our Kihei condo. My gaze fixes on the indigo sky, the bright specks of starlight scattered throughout. Beneath the darkness above, I can just barely make out the hedge dotted in tropical flowers that marks this end of the condo property and the line of palm trees behind it. During the day in full-on sunlight, endless lush rolling hills complete the view.
Every time I look out our little kitchen window to the scenic view in the daytime, it’s an instant mood lifter. I wish it were daytime now so I could use the view to calm me.
“I know you like to work, but you have to be careful,” I say.
She waves a hand in the air, like she’s swatting away a fly. “You don’t know what I need, Nicole,” she bites.
The knot in my stomach slingshots to my chest. When she calls me by my full name, I know I’m in deep. I slam the glass down on the counter. It’s all I can do to keep from letting out the scream of frustration lying in wait at the base of my throat.
“Yes, I do.” My voice booms against the walls. “Would you just for one second stop and realize that I might be asking you to slow down because I love you? Because I care about you and want you around for as long as possible? Because being on your feet like this for fifteen hours a day isn’t what a woman your age should be doing?”
A wide-eyed stare is the only response I get from her. I should stop. I should take a breath, and get my voice back under control. But I can’t.
I already lost my dad because he kept going, kept pushing himself, because he refused to go to the doctor for what he thought was a minor pain in his back, even though it had persisted for a year. By the time he went, it was too late. Only months were left.
I refuse to let her fall down that same path, to push herself into exhaustion, into some serious health condition that could have been avoided had she just slowed down. I refuse to stand by and watch my only living parent disregard her own well-being.
Tears burn at my eyelids, but I spin away, back toward the kitchen window, so she can’t see my trembling lips. I’ve already lost my temper in front of her. I don’t want to lose the rest of my emotions too.
Slow, quiet breaths ease the knot in my chest, my racing heartbeat. A gust of air flows in through the open window, immediately cooling my skin, which was hot with frustration moments ago. A crack of thunder sounds in the distance.
“We lost Dad because he didn’t slow down until it was too late,” I finally say. “I don’t want to lose you for the same reason.”
My throat strains to keep my voice steady. It’s a challenge when all I want to do is sob, to make her understand that I’m not doing all this to hurt her.
More silence passes. Another long, quiet inhale ensures I won’t lose myself. When I turn around, she stands up from the kitchen table, her back to me this time.
I would laugh if I weren’t so distraught. We’re so damn alike. We don’t want anyone to see us vulnerable, to see us falling apart, not even each other.
“Fine, then,” she says quietly. I can tell by the way she says nothing more, by the way she walks down the hall and to the bathroom without another word, that’s she’s more hurt than angry at what I’ve said.
Gripping the sink with both hands, I heave out a breath.
She may be upset with me, but she’s still here, living and breathing. That’s all that matters.
Downing another glass of cold water does little to quell this anger and sadness warring within me. I pivot to face the gray ceramic urn sitting on the bookshelf in the living room.
“Sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “You know how stubborn she is. But I’m trying.”
I clean up the kitchen, head to my bedroom, and do the one thing I know I shouldn’t.
I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, my phone gripped in my hand. I swipe to the last voice mail my dad ever left me. The last memento of his voice I have other than the dozens of videos I saved on my phone and backed up on my computer.
Sweetie pie, it’s Dad. Listen . . .
The seconds-long pause after he says “listen” always sends a lump to my throat. I could be in the middle of laughing, and if I heard his low, soft voice in that pained tone, I’d be left speechless, fighting the urge to collapse into a ball on the floor and sob.
. . . I’m sorry to call you like this, but it’s serious. I went to the doctor and I nee
d you to call me, okay? As soon as you can. I love you, sweetie pie. Talk to you soon.
Even with his diagnosis looming over him, he somehow kept that gentle tone. If it had been me who had just been given the worst news of my life—that I had stage four pancreatic cancer and months to live because nothing could be done—I don’t know how I would have reacted. But I sure as hell wouldn’t have that same composure he did during that phone call.
Somehow he was thinking clearly enough to know that going into the details of his diagnosis over voice mail wasn’t a good idea. So he waited patiently those four hours until I fished my phone out of my purse after a night of barhopping. The entire staff at the Portland restaurant I was managing at the time was out celebrating after hosting a stressful corporate party. I was about to indulge in my third shot of tequila when I happened to glance at my phone, the voice mail alert flashing on the screen.
And then when I listened to his message—his voice a mix of love and worry—the floor fell out from under me.
Tears tumble down my face, soaking the pillow underneath my head, but I don’t sob. I don’t want to make any noise that would disturb Mom. Instead I swallow back every almost-sob that grips the base of my throat and stare at the ceiling.
Despite my tipsy state that night, the serious tone of his voice mail sobered me up real quick. I never knew my fingers could fly across a phone screen that fast. And then I was crouched down in the hallway of some random bar because the corner by the bathrooms was the quietest spot I could find.
And then he answered. Hearing his voice was comfort and terror all at once.
“Nikki-Nack!” He practically sang his nickname for me on the other line. I could tell he was smiling.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” My voice broke before he said anything because, despite the joy in his voice, I just knew. It was so, so bad.
Shoving my face into my pillow, I let out a soft cry. After that call, I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus.
The only thing I was certain of in that moment was that I needed to be with him for however long he had left. That night, I packed my bags and told my boss at the restaurant, who was an old culinary school pal that brought me on to manage, what had happened. He and my other workmates were nothing but sympathetic and understanding. Told me to take my time and that when I was ready to come back, to contact them. I threw together a post on Craigslist to rent out my room in the house I shared with two of my friends so I wouldn’t leave them high and dry. The morning after, I was gone.
I thought I’d be back. Portland was where I went to culinary school and earned a business degree. It’s where I learned the ropes of the restaurant industry. I loved my work and my life there.
But that was before I saw how rapidly Dad declined and how gutted Mom was at losing her life partner. I couldn’t fly back to Oregon and just pick up where I left off. I couldn’t leave Mom to fend for herself, grief-stricken and with next to no savings after spending most of it on medical treatment for Dad.
My mind flutters to that last week he was in the hospital, when I sat next to his bedside, holding his hand. I bite my tongue, staving off the next sob that surely won’t be as quiet. Behind the dark of my closed eyes, I remember how he smiled up at me from his hospital bed, despite the unimaginable physical pain he was in.
“Take care of your mom, Nikki-Nack. Okay?”
I nodded, promising him I would.
And then his smile turned wistful and sad. “Do a better job than I did at the end.”
I scolded him, told him he had no right to say that, that he always did an excellent job taking care of her and me. Every word was true. He always had a steady job, worked long hours so she could stay home with me until I went to grade school. And he was even able to save enough to make her dream come true: retire in Maui.
It’s almost funny how one trip to the doctor, one phone call, one evil cluster of cells changed all of that.
But I promised him. Taking care of Mom and carrying out his food truck dream is the least I could do after every single wonderful thing he did for us.
I play the message once more, wishing I could call him right now.
I take it back. I don’t want the conversation; I want my dad. I want him here right now. If he were here, Mom and I wouldn’t be bickering so much. If he were here right now, we wouldn’t be stuck in a food truck together for eight hours most days, working our tails off to earn back all the money we spent to keep him alive just a little bit longer. He passed away three months after he was diagnosed.
Deep breaths ease me to a point where I can think clearly once more.
One thing’s certain: I could never survive a pain like that again. It’s why I impose days off for Mom like a drill sergeant. It’s why I have no friends, no dates, no social life whatsoever. I can’t handle another death, another loss, another person leaving me.
Minutes later I sit up in bed, forcing myself out of that familiar hole of agony and despair that gets harder and harder to crawl out of every time I let myself dip in. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and hope I’ve exhausted myself enough to sleep.
* * *
• • •
It’s a tedious climb over the hill separating Big Beach from Little Beach, especially in the darkness of predawn. The steep incline of lava rock and sand are the perfect elements for a trip or tumble. But I’ve made this walk countless times in the year and a half that I’ve lived in Maui. I could do it blindfolded by now.
It’s the only way to avoid the worst of the crowds, to come on a weekday right as the sun rises. Predawn visits to Little Beach have become my go-to getaway when I need to clear my head. Having spent my whole life in Portland, I never thought I’d ever be the kind of person who found nature soothing. But the peaceful vibes of Maui’s beaches are what keep me sane. I need that today more than ever.
Last night’s argument with Mom and the crying session in my bedroom has my entire body in knots. When I woke up an hour before my alarm clock this morning, I knew I needed to ease the tension within me if I had any hope of having a decent day at work.
Before leaving, I left a note apologizing for my outburst last night on the kitchen counter and wished her a pleasant day off. I know we’ll move past this argument—we had worse arguments when I was a mouthy teenager. But having this day apart from each other will be good for the both of us. I can distract myself with work, and she can busy herself with her day-off hobbies. And then we’ll start over again tomorrow.
As soon as my toes hit the sugary sand of Little Beach, every tense muscle in my feet and calves releases. I gaze up at the sun peeking above the horizon. One glimpse at the bright orange hue kissing the deep blue shoreline, and I’m as calm as the salty air around me. Eyes closed, I hum softly.
Thank heavens for last night’s surprise rainstorm that caused the local news to send out panicked warnings to tourists. Sharks are more likely to be out in the murky waters caused by lots of rain. The truth is that even with the rain and murky waters, attacks are still rare. But nothing clears a beach of tourists faster than warnings of possible shark sightings. I’m thankful for how deserted Little Beach is this morning. Including myself, there are only three people here. This is definitely a day where I’m not in the mood to deal with a horde of phone-toting tourists elbowing one another for selfies on my way to the water. Even though we’re technically past the busy season of winter, when more than a million tourists come from all over to get away from the cold and snow, Maui is still a popular year-round vacation destination. Crowds are common almost everywhere.
I drop my towel on the sand and dive straight into the waves. A rush of lukewarm seawater engulfs me. I hold the air in my lungs until my chest aches. When I break the surface, I gasp, then dive back in. Again and again I repeat, floating underwater until I can’t hold my breath any longer, then bursting through the surface, screaming for more air. It’s ago
ny and heaven all at once.
On this beach and under this water, no worldly worries exist. Just a fiery sun kissing the crystal-blue ocean and powdery soft sand tickling my toes. A row of gnarled trees surrounds this small strip of beach, marking the boundary of my heaven. In this moment, despite all the trouble it’s been to carve out an existence here, I’m thankful my parents picked Maui. Right now on this beach, in this water, against this sky, it is perfection.
A forty-something man with a killer tan and the body of a long-distance runner wades out of the water to his towel, giving me and the other swimmer at the opposite end of the shore a clear view of his naked rear end. Public nudity isn’t legal on Maui, but everyone looks the other way on Little Beach, one of the few beaches on the island where people routinely shed their clothes. People can swim, tan, and walk around naked. As long as they don’t make a fuss, no one bats an eye.
I tighten the strap of my navy deep-“V” one-piece. I’ve never been much of an exhibitionist, and I don’t ever plan on being one, but I love the “Who cares? Do what you want” mentality of this beach.
Another ten minutes of diving underwater and I’ve had my fill. I settle on my towel and gaze around me. The sun’s Day-Glo orange hue bathes every surface around me. Propping myself up on my elbows, I scan the beach behind my sunglasses. Still just me and the lone guy in the surf, still knocking out laps up and down the beach at a dizzying pace.
When he finally crawls out of the water and makes his way to the shoreline, my mouth falls open. This man is the phrase “holy hot damn” in human form. And he’s totally, completely nude.
Even standing twenty feet away from me, his hotness is as clear as the blue sky above. His tall form showcases loads of lean muscle everywhere. Biceps, shoulders, forearms, calves, quads. And abs. Oh dear Lord, those abs. In a soft whisper, I count them to myself. When I get to eight, I have to suppress a shiver, though inside I’m simmering with heat. I admit, I’m spoiled living on Maui. Six-pack sightings are an almost-everyday occurrence. Much of the population is fit and active, resulting in a higher than average number of hard bodies.