The Islands at the End of the World (4 page)

The doctor’s eyes widen. “You surf?”

“Yes.”

“Not a good idea for the next several weeks. Promise me you’ll give it a break.”

I take a deep breath. Dad squeezes my shoulder and then leans over and signs the permission forms.

We follow Dr. Makani down the hall toward the MRI room. I’m not scared, I realize. It’s shame. I know it’s silly—I didn’t do anything to earn my disorder—but as I approach the machines that will pry into my mind and uncover what I desperately want to keep secret, I feel like a criminal being shuffled into solitary confinement.

“Avoid any adventures for a couple of weeks.”

I play absently with my medical bracelet.

I’m waiting for Dad to say
I told you so
. But he only takes my hand and squeezes tightly. This brings me more comfort than he can know.

* * *

Later, I fall asleep during the EKG. Go figure. A little nap is good for the baseline, I’m told, but they also need me awake to monitor my brain activity. Dad grades exams by my side and casts me soothing smiles. I’m grateful.

A technician is talking to the nurse clipping electrodes on me. He says, “They just shut down the stock exchange—an hour early. Dow was down over two thousand points and still plummeting when they hit the switch.”

Dad stiffens. “Two thousand!
Why
?” he asks the tech. The guy shrugs. “Serious heebie-jeebies out there. Now the vice president isn’t around.”

“What?”

“Prime minister of Japan is missing, too.”

The nurse stops clipping wires and escorts the tech out of the room. I hear him mumble, “Hey, these folks are supposed to be relaxed. Talk story later.”

Dad looks like he was just rear-ended in a car accident. “You should go,” I tell him. “Find out what’s going on. I’m fine. I’ll want you here more tomorrow, but this is no big deal.”

He shakes his head. “I’m here for one reason: we do this together.”

The tests end, and we bolt from the clinic. We stop for lunch—I inhale a mahi-mahi plate—and head north toward
the Banzai Pipeline. On the radio, talk-show hosts freak out about the stock market.

“A twenty percent drop
in one day
? The Canadians halted trading after dropping a
tenth
. And where’s the Fed? Nobody’s doing anything.”

I look at Dad. He continues turning the dial, shaking his head, and then hits the seek button.

An ad urging listeners to buy gold.

Click
.

“What if that wasn’t a meteor strike off Alaska? What if it was a North Korean nuclear attack? There’s a whole series of—”

Click
.

A trembling and worn voice. “Then another angel came out of the temple and called in a loud voice to he who was sitting on the cloud, ‘Take your sickle and reap, because the time to reap has come.…’ ”

Click
.

“… the Capitol was emptied. All congressional offices closed. Three British banks have already failed. The Euro’s in a tailspin—”

Dad smacks the radio off. “Pure speculation, at best. Don’t pay attention.”

“Dad, come on.”

“You know what?” He suddenly turns into the parking lot of a small strip mall. “You’re going to kill me, but … would you mind if I rented a board?”

“Wait. You want to … surf?”

He grins. “Chuns Reef. Whaddya say? You want to watch me?”

“Dad. What?” Chuns has a more forgiving wave than nearby Banzai Pipeline, but it’s fierce.

“Come on, why not? I may have lost my 401(k). The sky is falling, Lei. Brought to you by an asinine twenty-four-seven news culture that’s finally jumped the shark.”

My breathing is a little heavy. I don’t know much about the stock market.
401(k)
. That’s for retirement, I think. But what does some banking problem six time zones away have to do with us?

People are pouring in and out of the shops here. This stuff on the radio doesn’t match up with what I’m seeing. Perfectly normal. Except for Dad. He’s upset and trying to hide it.

He needs to surf.

“Fine. Whatevah.”

“We never would have used your longboard out here, you know that.” He looks at me. “Even without doctor’s orders, you wouldn’t be trying this wave.”

“I said fine.”

“Thank you. It’ll be fun!”

“Yeah.
You’ll
have a blast.” We jump out of the car.

Dad rents a quad-fin shortboard at the surf shop. “You can handle that?” I ask.

Just you watch me
, his eyes tell me.

Oh, I’ll be watching, all right. Taking video.

* * *

By the time the sun’s low enough on the horizon to light the clouds on fire, Dad is showering off near the restrooms, and I’m speechless.

Dad was a great surfer until he got so busy with work. He came to Hawai`i for the surfing and met Mom on the beach when she was in grad school. He’s still got it. The swim out to the larger swells looked brutal, but he’s one mean fish. After a few false starts, he nabbed a series of waves with long walls that just kept going and going.

Dad wasn’t the only surfer I had my eyes on out there, either; I watched openmouthed as tanned bodies and sun-bleached heads twisted and spun on the waves with the ease of dolphins. One famous pro bulleted flawlessly through barrel after barrel. He’s on one of the posters in my room! I tried to sneak a pic of him for Tami (for me, too!) with my phone as he walked up the beach afterward, rubbing his hair with a towel, but he caught my eye and grinned at me. I blushed but got the shot.

I finish sending a vid of his best moment to Mom and Kai and Tami—a quirky little two-step on the board just as he crouched into his barrel attempt. When he reaches me, I look up with awe.

“You like that?”

“Where did you …?”

“I taught you how to surf, didn’t I?” he says. “Give your old man some credit.”

“I just did!” I say, pocketing my phone. “The vid’s on my feed now.”

We head for the car, cradling Dad’s board. It feels so natural under my arm. Soon I’ll graduate to this kind of board.

On the way back into Honolulu, we listen to the radio. Now the French president is missing. Dad and I hunt around the dial for clues, but he finally turns off the radio. “We’ll catch some real news back at the room.”

The surfing really mellowed him out.

Relax: this ain’t the mainland
, I remind myself.
Whatever’s going on out there won’t have much to do with us anyway
.

We stop for dinner at Costco. We’re in one of the world’s top tourist destinations, and Dad wants a ten-dollar pepperoni pizza from a warehouse food court.

“Pizza two days in a row? Are you having a midlife crisis or something?” I tease.

But this greasy meal feels just right. First we top off our Civic with gas, and then we pile a mountain of snacks into a shopping cart—goodies we can’t find in Hilo.

Dad stands in line to fetch our pizza while I grab a table. Tami and I text:

That was ur DAD out there? Some vid.

I know right?

“Moment of silence?” Dad asks as we sit down to our giant pie.

I slip my phone into my pocket. “Dad, you don’t thank God for Costco pizza. That dilutes the whole gratitude thing.”

Dad gasps. “Don’t let Costco the Great hear you say that!” He squeezes my hand. I glance around, then close my eyes.

Every night, I silently recite a traditional Hawaiian chant that Grandpa taught me:

It’s a chant in honor of the dawning of enlightenment. I love how it sounds, and how Grandpa translated it:

I pull my pillbox out of my pocket and stare at it silently. I take two pills each day: one every morning, one every evening. But the doctor said no meds tonight.

Dad smiles. “You ready to do this?”

A monumental moment at a Costco food court.

“Just remember”—Dad puts his hand over mine—“if something happens, you’ll be safe in the clinic. Totally private.”

I usually just black out, but my mind sometimes fills in the scenes later. I vividly remember the sensation of watching myself on that afternoon in the cafeteria, along with the rest of the school.

“We’re doing this together, okay?” Dad says. “We’re right here with each other all the way through.”

I look at him and nod. I put the pillbox away without opening it.

The drive back to Waikīkī takes ages. Rush-hour traffic. I watch the sunset from the passenger window as we exit the highway and get stuck in gridlock. This cityscape doesn’t feel like my Hawai`i. Each island is very different from the next. O`ahu is all stores and glass and glamour. It’s much friendlier to outsiders and visitors and tourists. Probably because it’s those kind of people who mostly live here. Military people, business types, retirees. The Big Island is more my style. Jungle. Lava. Volcanoes. Nothing over three stories high. Nobody honks on the Big Island; no one’s rushing off somewhere. Funny how I miss Hilo, even though I could fit right in in Honolulu, disappear. But I don’t want to disappear.

We check in to our fancy hotel on Waikīkī Beach. Dad scores us some free bottles of water and access to the VIP-floor courtesy bar.

Our twelfth-floor suite has an oceanfront lanai and a view of Diamond Head off to the left, visible now only as a dark silhouette against a starry horizon. The bay is dark, but the beach hotels cast a gentle glow onto the water, causing a strange green shimmering. We unpack, piling climbing and camping gear on the floor so we can get to our crumpled clothes.

Dad offers me the first shower, but I want to spend a few minutes in the hot tub before the pool closes.

He eyes me. “Is that safe?”

I look away. “I’ll only go in if there are other people there.”

“Sounds great,” he says to that. “Don’t forget we’re supposed to video chat with Mom before it gets too late.”

“I won’t be long.”

I linger at the pools, though. There’s a family with small kids in the Jacuzzi. They practice dipping their heads underwater, just like Kai did at that age.

Several brilliant falling stars dazzle my eyes as I lean my head against the lip of the spa. It’s sinking in that I won’t have much time to myself for the rest of the week. I’ll be on a hospital bed, enjoying the flavor of a bite stick—a wooden tongue depressor that keeps the airway clear during a seizure.

When I return to the room, I find Dad kicking back on his bed, a tall drink in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“President’s about to address the nation,” he announces, as if he’s personally arranged it. He must be in heaven. We don’t have cable at home, or even broadcast TV.

There’s a hum in the room I can’t quite place. I see a plastic
wrapper discarded beside the microwave. “Are you making
popcorn
?”

“Yeah. Should be a good show. Don’t forget to buzz your mom. She called. Tami too.”

“Cool. But … wait, isn’t the president recovering from surgery? Isn’t it, like, four a.m. on the East Coast? Who addresses the nation at four a.m. in a hospital gown?”

“Someone who’s woken up from surgery to discover half the country gnawing at his carcass, that’s who.”

“Dad. How much have you had to drink since I left”—I look at my phone—“thirty minutes ago?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Tragedy of the commons,” I say.

Dad grins. It’s an ecology phrase that describes how people stockpile goods when they’re afraid someone else will hoard them if they don’t. It happens with timber in unprotected forests, fish in international waters, and, apparently, liquor in hotel VIP courtesy bars.

The microwave hums along, but the popcorn bag inside never inflates. Dad looks through the little window. “Ring your mom before the speech begins,” he says. He pulls out the bag. “Not even hot.” He tosses the popcorn back in and resets the timer for five minutes.

I open the laptop and see Mom’s avatar active on the sidebar. I click on her and a window pops open on the computer. I can hear the insufferable pleas of the coqui frogs even before she and Kai appear, sitting by the desk at home. He’s in pajamas, sleepy. Mom is smiling firmly.

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Hi.”

“You’re off your meds already, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“You feeling okay?”

I roll my eyes, forgetting that I’m on a video chat, not a phone. I smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“You’re so strong, Lei. I’m very proud of you.”

I blush. “I love you, Mom. Where’s Tūtū?”

“He’s already in bed,” Kai says.

“What did you guys have for dinner?” Mom asks.

Dad shoots me a look and vigorously shakes his head. “Uh, you know, just … Thai.”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Mom murmurs. “Say something, Kai.” She nudges him.

“I did more back handsprings today!”

I laugh. “You still have to practice before you catch up with me. Land your first backflip on a balance beam!”

“Whatevah. Boys don’t
do
balance beam.”

“Boys
can’t
do balance beam.”

Kai just grins.

“Anyway, Lei,” Mom interrupts, “we don’t mean to keep you. It’s late.”

I glance over at the TV. A somber anchorman is stalling: “The timing of this address is highly unusual.…”

I turn back to Mom. “Dad’s Command Center seems to be fully operational now.”

“Mike, turn it off!” Mom yells into the computer. She looks at me. “Don’t pay attention to all that stuff, Lei.”