Diamond Head (27 page)

“In 1896, when he was nineteen, Frank married a woman named Ching Lan. Together they had two children. Both full grown by now, both girls.”

I listen. My face begins to tighten but still I say nothing. The name Ching Lan echoes in my head and it sounds like traffic.

“In 1898, he married again. To a woman named Huan-yue. With her, he produced another girl. While he was married to them, he began his shipping business, which took off right before he did. In 1899, when his oldest daughter was three years old, he disappeared. He found you.”

Mr. Lee stops. It’s a horrible story he’s telling and I want him to leave. This is not why I asked him to come. I feel the warmth beginning to seep through the fabric of Frank’s shirt. It’s leaking from my bones.

I keep my limbs as still as they’ll let me.

“Sam, is this some kind of joke?”

Sam shakes his head, his eyelids heavy. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Why are you telling us this now? Why would you tell us this now?” I wonder if it’s me saying this but it’s Kaipo. He’s holding my hand and I’m overflowing onto him.

“Of course,” Mr. Lee says, nodding at Kaipo. “Of course there is a reason.”

The humming in my head makes it difficult to hear. I want to find the sound but I’m too afraid to move—too concerned that everything I’ve been saving will slip away.

“The vast majority of your husband’s accounts are in China. When I called to change the rights on the account, I was told that they had all been frozen and were pending a transfer to his wife. When I told him that I was doing the same thing, we realized that our names did not match. And that’s how I discovered his first two wives.”

First two wives
, two wives. More traffic, more honking. I want to bring my hands to my ears but I don’t.

“Legally speaking, and tragically, there’s nothing we can do. Your husband sent them money every month until he died. He provided for all their expenses. He sent all three girls to private school, then to college. There are receipts for American cars. As his first wives, in China where the money is held, they are entitled to everything.”

What about a will?
Kaipo is standing, but I don’t want to look. I shut my eyes.
My father had a will!

This,
I hear,
is perhaps the most tragic part of all. From what I can tell, your father had no will—not officially, at least.

Sam’s words are melting in my ears. My husband had no will. Why does my husband have no will?

He always skirted the issue with me, telling me he had an old one that would do for the time being. I offered to write up a new summary many times, but he put it off. I realize now that he probably never had a will—you know your father, he thought he was invincible. And he did not want me to know about his other wives, which is why I could never be a witness. If a will exists, I don’t have it. Right now, I have nothing in my possession.

I open my eyes. I look in his hands and there’s nothing there. I forget what I’m looking for.

Wind blows from my right and it’s Kaipo again and his hands are moving like tree branches in a storm. It echoes to the left and it’s Bohai in a shadow and I see a girl with grey eyes lying on the floor. It’s Hailee and I close my eyes again.

When I open them, she’s still there, lying in the pile of toxic sheets she died in. But now there’s a red string around her neck and it’s my fault. I know where it leads. It’s Bohai in the shadow, the string extending from Hailee’s neck to his, cutting into his flesh and tangling around his limbs. I see hands extending and I realize they’re mine, the fingers fumbling with the knots, groping to find the end but it continues; the string extends past my son to another shadow, and as I see Amy’s face I begin to grow frantic, tugging at the knots, but it only pulls their bodies closer together, the friction making them bleed.

I release my hands and shut my eyes. I try to breathe.

What’s left?
It’s Frank’s voice and he’s asking me but someone else replies. Funeral costs, he says, and the sound is lower than I expected. Other than that, the women haven’t offered anything.

The tree branches rustle to my right and I bring my hands to my ears. I remember a song that we would dance to. The humming comes from my stomach and it vibrates through my neck and I sway to the music.

You will receive seven thousand dollars, he says. What’s left in the account.

I see Frank in the traffic. He’s wearing the same suit. I try to open the car door but it’s locked. I yell to him but no sound comes out. Everything is buzzing like static on the radio. He’s running frantically and I know he’s looking for me. Over here, I’m trying to yell, but there are a million cars and they’re smoking. It’s billowing from underneath and he’s coughing now. The horn. I remember the horn and I lean against it and Frank turns. I leap forward and bang on the window with both fists but something is stuck.

Additionally, you are entitled to what you already possess—that is, your house, your cars, the funds from your charities.

I pull on my foot but it’s closed in the car door. My leg is on one side and my foot on the other. I look out the window and follow the trail of blood, under cars and over
hoods, wrapped around tires and dripping down windows. The smoke carries it into the air.

I’m so sorry, he says.

To the north. I must go to the north, he says, and I know. Now blood is inside the car. It’s on the floor, a little puddle but growing. Collecting, beginning to rise.

You have the option of going to court, but I fear it will be a long and difficult battle. Branches rustle, a shadow falls over the car and suddenly it’s freezing.

When blood spills onto the seat I reach for the roof. My fingers touch the soft underside and I think of the lotuses in our front yard. They need to be watered, I say to Frank. They’re dying. He’s outside the window but he won’t open the door. He smiles while the car fills with blood.

I hear birds calling from the kitchen. Third wife, they call me, and they think it’s my name. A knife, they say. Use the knife to be with your husband.

If he could only hear me he would open the door.

I open a drawer and reach inside.

November 1964

H
ONOLULU
, H
AWAII

As quickly as the screaming began, it retreats—all at once—as soon as the driver opens his door. He hesitates in the new calm, but still he decides to get out and help the old woman, to give her some air.

The driver is met by three faces, all turned to the left, all facing in his direction as he opens the rear door. Farthest from him, Amy Leong’s tears have stopped but her face is tinged red across her nose and cheeks, her skin swollen. She takes deep breaths as her eyes dart upward, absorbing their wetness as she tries to calm down. Beside her, her daughter’s expression is absolute desperation. She seems disoriented by the chaos, both startled and suspicious of the sudden silence that has fallen over them. And Mrs. Leong, closest to the driver, sits calmly now, hands clutching the underside of her seat, frowning at him passively, quietly.

“Get Hong,” the daughter says. “You need to get Hong.”

“What—who?”

“Hong.” Her voice shakes. “White hair—just ask for her, please!”

The driver knows exactly which woman is Hong. He looks again to Amy Leong and when she nods, he turns and begins to sprint, in his best suit, up the road to the entrance of the cemetery. His legs thrust forward impulsively, from sheer adrenaline, the sound of her screaming still hanging in his ears, pushing him onward.

When he arrives at the sign, a red pagoda with a jade roof flanked by a pair of snarling stone dragons, the driver turns right and begins to climb, with considerable effort, up the winding, rising asphalt that
curves through the hundreds of gravesites around him. He follows the red ginger and scarlet ti leaves that guide his path up the sloping hill, twisting with the cracked road, its crevices filled with streaks of bright green grass.

Thin, weeping trees kiss the ground, offering him flashes of shade, fluttering softly as he passes. The driver’s pants strain with each forward stretch of his leg, gathering at his knee and falling stiffly back down. It crosses his mind that they might tear, but he doesn’t slow. He runs as fast as he can, inhaling deeply, exhaling with forceful determination, feeling better with each stride he puts between himself and his car.

At last, at the top of the hill he can see the funeral car parked beneath the enormous banyan tree, twisted roots falling like ropes from above. Warped shadows, like lengths of knotted cord, fall across a statue of a child Buddha; they reach east, across a pair of granite pagodas. The white-haired woman stands below the banyan, beneath its glossy leather branches. She no longer holds the silver bowl.

“Hong,” the driver pants, slowing, slumped with exhaustion. “Hong, they need you. Mrs. Leong. She’s screaming. They asked for you.” He points down the long entrance of the cemetery, toward where he left the car.

Hong’s face stills and she nods, once, in a way that makes the driver feel instantly melodramatic, excessive in both his pace and delivery. Hong nods as if she had expected him to say this, like she knew it would happen before Mrs. Leong could scream, before Amy’s daughter could think to ask for her. She nods as if it is perfectly reasonable, nothing extraordinary.

“Okay,” Hong says, and she begins to jog, arms held tightly into her body, the skin on her cheeks shaking loosely with each landing on the pavement. Ten feet ahead of him, she turns. “Come,” she says, beckoning him with her head, before continuing her steady jog down the pathway. The driver starts forward, following her white hair, her white clothing, thankful at least for her authority, relieved to be moving downhill.

Hong’s pace is difficult for the driver to match. Her feet take small, tight steps, but they move swiftly; her body makes more vertical movement than forward progress. The driver tries to jog but feels ridiculous, running in place behind the old woman. Walking feels even stranger, lunging downhill after her. He settles on a kind of march, arms tight to his side, feet moving with adequate urgency as they reach the bottom of the hill.

They turn left and see the car. Amy and her daughter have exited the backseat. They stand by Mrs. Leong’s open door, pacing, guarding her passage.

“Oh, thank God,” Amy breathes as Hong approaches. “I’m so sorry, she just started panicking and I didn’t know what to do.”

Hong raises a palm as she slows beside the car.

“It’s okay,” she says, inhaling three times, her chest expanding and collapsing. “I’ll take her to the house. You two go. Be with Bohai.”

Neither of them responds, unable to accept or deny Hong’s instructions. Two more cars pass as they stand along the side of the road.

“Go,” Hong repeats. “The service will start. Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

Amy walks toward Hong and wraps her arms around her shoulders. She pulls her body into Hong’s and remains there for a few moments, her face buried in Hong’s neck.
Thank you
, she whispers. She wishes she could stay there. She wishes she could go with them, back to the empty house, an empty room, a chair, a cold drink. Her muscles stiffen; she has a hard time letting go.

At last, Amy releases her. Hong walks to the open car door and squats in the space, facing Mrs. Leong. Without a single word, Mrs. Leong slides over and makes room for Hong, who gets in and shuts the door softly behind them.

“I’ll come back,” the driver says, looking at Amy. “I’ll take them home and I’ll come right back for you.”

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

Alone, Amy and Theresa stand on the road. The afternoon breeze whips against their faces, which helps, Amy thinks, to erase the marks of distress.

Without a word, they begin to walk in slow unison toward the cemetery entrance. Their heels fight the uneven, broken pavement. They don’t look at each other.

Past the entrance, they begin their climb. They hold their eyes on anything they can: the canopy of green, the engravings on the tombstones, the offerings placed before them, the cracks in the pavement, the flat blades of grass, a ladybug, a stick.

Silently, they approach the top of the hill, where twelve marble statues, pristine and white, stand guard on a wall. The animals of the zodiac, the entire ensemble, perch above the most coveted gravesites; those highest in elevation, the most expensive, plots with six-foot pagodas, with thick slabs of solid marble and colored photographs set into gold. The women are met with the sound of a man’s voice, carried on the wind. It’s a greeting, breathy and heavy with deep, pronounced vowels. The service is beginning. The kahuna has begun to speak and Theresa knows what comes next. She’s been waiting for this moment; it’s the only ritual that excites her, the only part of the day that makes perfect sense. The smoke and the lights and the burning of paper—the Chinese ceremony was allegory for Theresa, traditions from a generation not her own. But the Hawaiian rites, the idea of
talking to the dead
, of being granted a final opportunity to speak to her father before he’s lowered into the ground, of having a last private moment—Theresa wants that chance. Shrouded in this sacred place, in the tranquility of the rising hill, among the gentle sounds and sweet smells of the island that raised him, Theresa truly believes that her father is nearby.

“What are you going to tell him?” she asks, turning toward her mother.

“What?”

“When you get up there, what are you going to say?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What?” Theresa halts. “You’re not going up there?”

“Theresa, why are you doing this to me?”

“Jesus
, Mom,” Theresa explodes. “Are you serious? Maku’s dead because you couldn’t get it together—because you played the victim for six
ridiculous
months and now it’s your last chance and you’re doing it
again
?” Theresa laughs. She can’t stop it. The cruel, broken sound rises from the back of her throat, pushing its way out, momentum from the entire day.

“It’s classic
,
really. I should have known.” She’s shaking her head; her fingers, laced together, pulse with the intensity she’s trying to contain. Theresa takes a breath and slowly, doggedly, she speaks to her mother like she is a young child.

“This is your final chance—do you understand that? If you waste this, you will not get another one. You will
never
be okay; you will
never
feel right about what happened, about what you did to him, because Maku will be gone. And because of what?” Theresa’s pace quickens, her breath shortens. “Because you’re too proud? Or is it because you’re too weak? Sorry—you never did tell me what role you’d be playing today.”

“Theresa
.
”

“Look
, I’ll never say anything because of Maku, not because of you—but for God’s sake, just be honest with him. That’s all he wanted. He wanted to know what happened between the two of you, what
actually
happened. Tell him the truth, tell him that you weren’t involved. Protect your husband, Mom, not some stranger. Some spineless pathetic stranger—”

“Theresa
.
”

“The last thing,” Theresa commands, raising a palm, “and then I’m done.”

Amy nods, full of shame that these words are her daughter’s. That somehow, her daughter, pregnant and confused and nineteen years old, has more insight, more tenacity when faced with disgrace than she does.

“Let it go,” Theresa says. “No one will hear you but him. No one will think less of you, no one will know if you tell him the truth. It’s only now that I realize how many years of your life you’ve spent wishing for something else. You think it’s so unfair what happened to you? Well, bullshit. He loved you. He loved you so much and you’re still doing
this
. If I end up with a man who loves me even a fraction as much as Maku loved you—which I won’t, which you know—then
Jesus Christ, Mom
. I hope like hell I don’t waste it the way you did.”

Theresa looks straight into her mother’s eyes. She wonders if she’s said too much. She doesn’t care. Theresa leaves Amy on the pathway. She turns and walks toward the service, her strides long and determined, where she can see Kaipo standing at the coffin, his head lowered, both hands resting on the wooden surface. She walks around the crowd and to the front. She stands by the kahuna; their eyes meet; she’s next. She absolutely must go next.

Alone on the asphalt, Amy hasn’t moved. She’s thinking about Theresa. She’s softening her heart, fighting to let the words penetrate, fighting the impulse to write them off completely.
Her daughter’s words, she doesn’t know anything
, Amy’s mind fights back. But she can’t write it off. Not this time. She’s immobilized by how much Theresa sees without even knowing the extent of her accuracy. How many years, Amy thinks, how many decades has she wasted feeling cheated? And how, she pushes herself.
How
had she let the disappointment become her, come to define her?

Amy thinks of Mrs. Leong and understands exactly where she lost control. She remembers the day that she first took the bait. She found her excuse; she never let it go; she followed it down a road that ended in this, in today.