Diamond Head (16 page)

“Amy.” Henry said my name and I turned around. He touched a hand to my shoulder and my body went cold—everywhere but my shoulder, where the heat from his fingers penetrated me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I said, remembering the low rumble of the ocean, the sound of water filling miles of open air. I saw Henry holding my fish, heard him telling me how he’d saved me the biggest one.

“You used to walk me home,” I said.

“Every Tuesday.”

We were so still. I was thankful for the wind, for the relief it provided.

“It’s getting pretty late. I think I should get home.”

“I scared you,” Henry said as we drove. “I know I did. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sorry—it was stupid.”

“No,” I said. “I’m glad. Really, I am. It’s just strange, you know—meeting you again like this.”

“It’s not strange,” he replied, slowing the car as we came to a stoplight. “It’s fate.”

He let his words linger; he didn’t take them back or apologize
for saying them. He said it like it was a fact, like he had read it in a book.

I couldn’t sleep that night. There was too much to think about, to remember. My mind flickered with images of that last summer, of Henry. I couldn’t believe he had recognized me. The boy I knew had been quieter. Not shy—we talked endlessly. Handing me my grandma’s fish, he would explain to me how it was special in some way or another. One week he told me the scales had stayed bright blue, even after it died, which was rare because they usually turned grey. I still remembered that fact, still remembered so much of what he’d told me. I had no idea if it was true, but every so often, when I ate mahimahi, I would think of its scales and of Henry and wonder if the fish had been special.

We had a secret inlet, a shallow bay hidden by naupaka shrubs where we would sit for hours after delivering the fish, keeping each other company as the summer waned on, when we would find each other there on Wednesdays and Thursdays, then almost every day of the week, both of us parentless, friendless. Henry had grown up on that beach, steeped in its lore, a story for every plant and animal we passed. Naupaka, he told me, was once a beautiful Hawaiian goddess who fell in love with a commoner. Henry’s young voice returned to me, his fingers dragging a stick through the damp sand as we sat in the shade of the glossy plant found all over the island, unremarkable before that afternoon. The goddess Naupaka was forbidden to marry the commoner, so she took the flower from her hair and tore it in half, giving him one side, keeping the other. Naupaka’s lover was banished to the mountains and Naupaka to the beach, which is why, Henry said, the naupaka tree blooms with just half a flower. Which is why the plant is found only on the beach or in the mountains.

He made me something, I remembered suddenly. I got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, started pulling boxes down from above the toilet. I sifted through three boxes filled with
Christmas ornaments and old clothes and art we had made in elementary school. At the bottom of the fourth box, I found a piece of flat wood, facedown. I lifted it out and flipped it over. Attached to the front was my name, spelled out in long pieces of skinny white coral. It was perfectly constructed, the coral glued evenly to the frame, the letters expertly formed. A young engineer, I laughed to myself. We had collected the pieces together, I remembered now, Henry explaining along the way.
They’re actually animals; they eat plankton with their tentacles.
We gathered them in a plastic bag we found caught in a hau bush. I had forgotten to take my pieces home and Henry had showed up the next day with my present.

I looked in the mirror and lifted my hair. The scar was barely noticeable, just a faint line, slightly lighter than my skin and shorter than my thumbnail. I was still mad at Henry when my mother had come to get me. I showed her the cut and she’d teased me.

It’s the red string of fate
, she laughed to my grandma.
Lucky girl, her destined match gets such a good price on fish.

Afterward, as an apology, my mother had explained. As we rode the bus back to Kaneohe, she told me a story.

And even as the memories of Henry faded, I still thought about that old tale. I remembered the red string, hoped for my destined match. Was this fate? Even before I knew it was Henry, I knew there was something there. We felt connected; each time we touched, it had reached through me. I stayed up all night, lost in my memories, and the next morning I found myself sitting on my bed, staring at a blank wall from when breakfast ended to when lunch began.

“What are you doing?”

I looked up, snapping from my daze to see Francine standing above me. Her hands were covered in red dirt, her hair tied back with a handkerchief.

“What?”

“There’s a guy out there in a black car. He asked if you were home.” Francine shrugged and walked back outside.

I pushed off my bed and ran to the front door to look out the screen. There was Henry’s car, and Henry, talking with my brother Richard. I rushed to the bathroom and studied myself in the mirror. I looked terrible, tired. I brushed my hair into a ponytail and pinched my cheeks to bring some life to my face. He was here.

“Henry?” I said casually, walking through the screen door. “What are you doing here?” I couldn’t control how big my smile became. It surprised me, how scattered I felt.

“I’m here on official family business,” he said with a smirk. “My mom made malasadas this morning and wanted me to bring some by. For your father, of course.” He held up a brown paper bag.

“How friendly,” I replied, feeling warm all over again.

“So how much does a car like this cost?” That was Richard, walking around the Ford coupe, squatting and examining the wheels.

“Well, it costs nearly an entire military bonus. If you join the army, you could get one too. But then, of course, you’d have to go to war.”

“It’s really nice,” Richard said, kicking up some dirt with his foot.

“Can I show you inside?” I interrupted. Henry walked to me and leaned down, shaded his eyes with one hand.

“Is this okay?” he whispered. “I’m not crazy, I promise.”

“I know,” I said. “I just can’t believe you’re here.”

I didn’t mean to say it like that; I worried Henry would take it the wrong way, but he knew what I meant: I couldn’t believe this was real. I couldn’t believe he was here, physically—flesh-and-bones Henry from a childhood that had almost vanished.

“Me neither,” he said, taking my hand. “Okay, let’s go find that scary father of yours.”

We walked through the one room, past the kitchen, and out the screen door into the backyard. My mother and father were sitting at the table, drinking instant coffee and not talking to each other.

“Dad,” I said, closing the door behind me, “Henry’s here and he brought us some malasadas.” My father turned around in his plastic chair.

“Henry!” he said, standing up. “Congratulations! Five twenty-six—you got my daughter home early last night!” He shook his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Chan. It wasn’t easy.” Henry handed him the bag. “From my mother.”

My mother eyed Henry curiously. She stood and took the bag from my father.

“I’ll put these on a plate,” she said. “I’m Amy’s mother. What a nice surprise on a Saturday.” She was smiling when she walked back into the house. When she returned, doughnuts shimmering on a plate, she asked Henry about his family.

“We live nearby, in Kailua.” He pointed behind him. “My parents have a small pharmacy in town. My father fills prescriptions; my mom does perfumes and soaps but only to fund her cooking. We like to say we sell drugs to buy food.” My mother giggled.

“She used the last of her flour but she wanted you and Mr. Chan to have some. As a thank-you for the photographs.”

“Well, these are some of the best I’ve ever had. Tell your mother she’s a very talented woman.”

“I will,” he said, grinning. “She’ll like that.”

I looked at Henry and couldn’t get over the fact that he was sitting in my backyard. It felt like a secret history, something heavy yet fragile that we shared. It was reassuring to see him in the light. He was real like this, not a memory or a stranger on the Pali. As I sat next to him, listening to the tenor of his voice as he spoke with my parents, I could feel myself slipping.

He didn’t stay long; just enough for a malasada and a cup of coffee. I walked him to his car and he said, “Well, I knew if I didn’t have something to do today, I’d ask you to come with me. And I’m trying not to scare you today, so I promised my sister I’d take her to the beach. But say you’ll come for lunch tomorrow. My mom is making a feast.”

I was barely listening. I was thinking about how much I liked his mustache.

“Yes,” I said abruptly.

“I’ll pick you up at noon, okay?” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Henry,” I said, as he lowered himself into his car. He looked up at me and I lost what I was trying to say. I stood there, trying to collect my feelings.

“Yes?” he asked slyly.

“Thanks,” I whispered, when that’s all that came to me.

Henry smiled as he started the engine. “No problem.”

I stayed on the street, watching Henry drive away, and when his car disappeared, I felt an overwhelming urge to start walking. To make the distance between us smaller. I wondered if this was love, not meaning to wander so far but unable to stop myself. I wondered how long I could make this feeling last, if I could go to bed wrapped in this warmth, if I could spread it through a week, a month, an entire season. And then another feeling—a strange detour that I hadn’t intended but couldn’t help, feeling a certain sadness as the thought passed through my mind—that the way I felt for Henry that afternoon, there on the empty road in front of my house, was stronger than anything my parents had ever, in the span of their lifetimes, felt for each other.

I don’t know why, but I assumed Henry’s house would be much nicer than it was. I felt terrible thinking it, but after the fresh fish and the malasadas and the car, I thought that Henry’s family must have some money. They did not.

We pulled up to a house about the size of my own; a little larger, painted a light blue with brown trim, the smells of soy sauce and Chinese five-spice hitting my nose as we stepped from the car.

We walked through a screen door and removed our shoes, Henry calling out to his family that we were there.

“Amy!” A plump woman emerged from the small kitchen smiling, wiping her hands on her floral apron and opening her arms to hug me. “I’m so glad you could join us!”

I leaned in to hug his mother, as Henry’s father and siblings entered from the other room.
Paul and Margaret
, I reminded myself.

We exchanged hugs and handshakes as they ushered me into their small dining room, the wooden chairs around the table completely mismatched.

“Lunch is almost ready!” Henry’s mother said before rushing back into the kitchen.

“I like your dress,” Margaret said, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Where did you get it?”

“I like yours,” I said, “and this dress?” I looked down and pretended to think, as if I hadn’t spent the last twelve hours obsessing over what I would wear, “I made myself, actually.”

“Wow,” Margaret cooed, “it’s really nice.”

“Here we are!” announced Henry’s mother, emerging from the kitchen with a huge ceramic pot, steam billowing from the top as she placed it on the table. She scurried back into the kitchen and reentered the dining room with a bamboo steamer filled with pork-and-chive shumai, a bowl of glistening baby eggplant, soft mounds of rice paper rolls stuffed with bits of dried shrimp, and finally, little plastic saucers heaped with sliced scallion and ginger and toasted sesame seeds. I could feel my eyes expanding as she continued to fill the small table.

“I told you,” Henry said, “that’s my college fund.”

“For us,” Henry’s father started, “food is the most important part of family.” He took the lid off the steamer. “And we like to think we’re a very, very important family.” He chuckled heartily.

“At least for now,” said Paul. “With rations, we won’t be able to eat like this for much longer. We’ll run out soon enough.” He reached his chopsticks across the table and picked up a shumai.

“Oh, Paul,” his mother said, clicking her tongue and sticking serving spoons into the dishes, “you don’t always have to be so
negative
. I have plenty saved in the freezer. It will get us through. Besides, Amy’s here. It’s a special occasion.” She winked at me.

Henry’s mother served me everything on the table, each dish accompanied by its own garnish, its own special sauce. I had never seen this much food on a family’s table before, and Henry hadn’t exaggerated; it was all spectacular.

Henry’s father told me about the pharmacy, and that if I ever needed a medicine or a bandage or anything at all that he carried, just to let him know.

“Or a perfume!” added Henry’s mother. “Henry, bring her down to the shop next week and I’ll mix her a perfume!”

They were some of the kindest, most generous people I had ever met. I loved the feeling of being in their home, of eating their food and listening to their easy chatter. I wanted this for myself. I wanted this for Henry and me.

When lunch was over, I followed Henry’s mother into the kitchen to help with the dishes.

“Henry has not stopped talking about you,” she whispered, passing me a kitchen towel to dry the plates as she washed. “It’s a shame he’s leaving so soon. I know we’ll all miss him dearly.”

I nodded sympathetically. I had almost forgotten that he was leaving.

“When exactly does he go?” I asked, realizing that I didn’t know myself.

“Next week Friday, dear!” She squeezed some soap onto a sponge. “I begged him to reconsider, but at this point, he can’t. He’d have to give back that money and he already spent it on the car.” She shook her head. “But he’ll be fine. I keep telling myself he’s not going to
war
. He’ll be fixing telephone lines just like he does here and he’ll be back in a year and—”

“A year?”
I interrupted.

“Yes, darling, at least a year. It’s not what I want for him either but he enlisted before all this Japanese stuff even happened.”