What a Mother Knows (20 page)

Nikki coughed on camera, then flashed her straight white teeth in a smile before resuming her speech. She knew she was being watched, but did she know that she'd been watched every day, twice a day, since she stood before the camera? The women longed for her freedom; the men lusted after her form. But only Michelle would love her long after they snorkeled and took their souvenirs home.

On-screen, Nikki flipped on a monitor and the darkness filled with dazzling fish. Giant turtles soon appeared on the wall like images of prehistoric ghosts floating past. The image popped, then a snorkeler swam into the frame. He waved until another snorkeler kicked into the picture, then a smaller figure paddled after them, like a family of seals. The camera froze on their facemasks. Letters typed in:
The
Smith
Family
Vacation.
The screen went black.

Families rushed to the counter. Young couples stopped kissing to count their cash. Michelle stood like an island as they streamed around her. When a reggae beat flooded the air, Michelle began to move, but her steps were more frantic than festive.

Leilani pushed her mirrored glasses up, a shield against her gaze.

Kimo's voice boomed on the bullhorn. “Ahoy there! Once you've paid Leilani, help yourself to fins and masks. Anyone interested in a wet suit, follow me.”

Michelle gave up on fighting the crowd and followed him to the storage locker on the aft deck. He flipped through the worn wetsuits hanging behind him. “Floatation belts are optional, but you'll want one.”

“Just tell me about Nikki.”

“Who?” He turned around, the small rubber suit in his hands.

“The girl in the video.”

“Never met her,” he said. “That recording is older than the turtles. Doing the new one myself, almost
pau
. Hi-def, 3-D—it'll be solid.”

Beer-reeking boys with flippers tucked under their arms interrupted to rent wetsuits. Kimo set the small suit on the bench beside him, then pocketed the brothers' cash and pointed to the extra large suits. “Have fun, but stay off the reef or you'll get a ticket from the Coast Guard. And don't touch the fish! Seriously, brah, those scales are razor sharp. We'll have to sew you up with sailcloth thread.”

Michelle waited until she had his attention. “Is the captain the owner? Would he remember her?”

Kimo looked up at the skinny old man who was steering them across the open sea. “Don't bother. I've been here since last summer and the dude has no idea what my name is. First mate is always Kimo. Photographer is always Leilani.” He waved behind her at the next in line.

Michelle turned and peered back to the shaded area inside the cabin. There were still a few people surrounding Leilani. One of them looked like the pasty man outside the activity booth. Had he followed her? Michelle's legs felt wobbly.

She leaned against the bulkhead and took a deep breath, permeated by the scent of ganja. Snorkeling wasn't a bad idea if it would free her from being followed. She turned back to Kimo, and pulled a fifty dollar bill from her bag. “Keep the change. I hear weed is pricey these days.”

“You a cop?”

“Just a mom,” she said, tugging at her cover-up. Her rash of scars was exposed by her black tank suit.

“Fifty gets you personal service,” Kimo said, stuffing the cash in the tip jar. When he opened the closet of wetsuits for the others, she saw the scar across his back. He caught her looking. “Hockey,” he said. He helped her step into each leg of the wetsuit then pulled it up high to ease each arm in. He kept the back zipper open and showed her how to reach the pull tab. “My mom's freezing her ass back in Wisconsin, dusting my trophies. I keep asking her to visit.”

“At least you talk to her. My daughter doesn't know I'm alive.”

Kimo laughed, then saw that it wasn't a joke. “Talara—that's Leilani's real name—she might have gotten those shoes from a roommate.”

Michelle gave Kimo a one-armed hug. “Thanks. I grew up in Buckeye country, so I know how important sports can be. But you're a good kid.”

“Tell my mom,” he called, as others surrounded him for help.

Michelle headed back where she had last seen Nikki. The wall was white and shiny, like a dream. Nikki had looked so confident in the snorkel video—so different from the scrawny girl she had reported to Detective Alvarez. Thank heaven for all that poi, Michelle thought. She wondered if she should call the detective—or whoever had taken over the case. Then she remembered there wasn't a case. It was up to her.

Perhaps Leilani would know what Nikki looked like now, but there was no sign of her amid the tourists milling about the boat. Michelle sat by the rail to wait.

A disposable camera dangled in front of her face as the young family beside her slathered on lotion. “Would you like me to take your picture?” she asked.

The young father grinned as if his crappy camera was too complicated for Michelle to handle. Then he displayed the ticket Leilani had given them. No offense, but here was proof they'd have plenty of pictures, moving pictures, the ultimate souvenir to show their friends. They were starring in a movie of Hawaii!

The young mother wearing a Hilo Hattie muumuu pointed at Michelle's zipper. “Would ya'll like some help?”

Michelle shook her head. In a world of helpers and helpless, she'd crossed the wrong line. When the woman finished rubbing lotion on the boy's face, he clambered up to the wooden bench. Michelle saw the Velcro closure on his red sneakers and chuckled. She missed those days of dressing her children. She'd dressed Tyler in sporty clothes, and he'd become a jock. She'd dressed Nikki in pink, and she'd become a pirate wench. Go figure.

Michelle clutched the rail and savored the last quiet moment of ocean mist. The sun burnt a hole in the clouds and the sky was a ceiling rising up and up and up. The day expanded on all sides, sharply real, as Michelle looked around. The surface of the deep green water lightened to a cool algae glow, then faded to a crystal sheen where the sunlight skimmed across.

The bench bounced when the boy started jumping and pointing at the yawning green patch ahead. Soon, the far side of the crater came into view with a ridge of scrubby trees clinging to steep rock. The horn wailed, the engine coughed, and gas fumes filled the air.

The deck soon resembled a country bar with couples dancing a rubber two-step. Families applied sunblock and adjusted masks as they prepared to snorkel. The young mother turned to chat. Michelle knew the kind of small talk to expect: children's names and ages and activities. She used to love to compare notes. But what would she say now that her daughter was a runaway and her son had followed his father? Michelle stepped away and pulled the leash from behind her neck. The zipper sealed up her sleek neoprene skin. No room for sympathy.

She looked out at the water, where yellow snorkel tubes sprouted like daffodils as the first group kicked past. A moment later, a flurry of violet fish flashed beneath the surface, then turned and swished from sight.

Michelle wandered back toward the empty cabin, taking deep breaths to stop herself from hyperventilating. A scuffling noise made her look around the counter. Leilani was kneeling in a bikini, with a wetsuit zipped up to her waist. She set a cigar box inside the cabinet, then lifted out the camera equipment.

“I know she lived with you,” Michelle said. “Tell me where she is.”

Leilani lifted the camera package up and set it on the table, avoiding Michelle's eyes. “Not me, my sister.”

“She knew Nikki?”

Leilani slipped her arms into the sleeves of the wetsuit and zipped it over her bikini top. A fluorescent stripe rose up from each side. There was a hole in one armpit. She picked up the camera, and adjusted the shoulder harness.

Michelle blocked her way. “I'll give you fifty dollars to tell me how to find your sister.”

“Forget it, I'm no snitch.”

Michelle chased her to the edge of the cabin. “Hundred bucks,” she said. “Tell her if she ever hears from Nikki, to please let her know—” she felt her throat closing up. This girl couldn't possibly express how much Michelle missed her daughter, how she had a hole in her heart that burned larger every day. Leilani shifted the camera and held out her hand. Michelle dug in the bag for her emergency cash. “Just tell her to be careful. I'm not the only one looking for her.”

Leilani snatched the money and stuffed it in her fanny pack. “Okay. But if she's fencing drugs again my sister's no part of it.”

“Excuse me?” Michelle said. This had a familiar ring.

“Word is, Cap'n found her stash in the camera hold. She split and stuck my sister with the rent.” The boat horn wailed. “Believe me, if my sister could find her, she'd have gotten her money.” She heaved the camera to her shoulder.

“Wait—if that's true about the drugs, then why didn't your boss call the police?”

“Cap'n keeps things on the down low. Plus, that girl had
da
kine
eye. Cap'n says my underwater shots will go online soon, but I'm not holding my breath.” She headed off.

The words echoed in the empty cabin.
Da
kine
meant good. Nikki had a good eye? That meant she was good with the camera. But if that was true, then so was the part about selling drugs.

Marijuana was medically legal in California, probably Hawaii too, if Kimo could reek like that and still have a job. Michelle tried not to think of Colleen's son with his suburban heroin addiction. Nikki hated needles so much that it took three nurses to hold her down for her measles vaccine. Michelle couldn't imagine her shooting up. Then again, she couldn't imagine Nikki doing a lot of things that she'd apparently done. Were drugs the reason she couldn't come home?

Michelle wandered through a tunnel of confusion into the sunlight. Back when she was a rebellious teenager, her therapist had said that getting high was an escape, a distraction from counting Elyse's sleeping pills and checking that she was breathing. Michelle didn't let herself off that easily; she had been lucky nothing bad happened. And apparently, she'd lost enough brain cells to believe she could make her children happy. Now it seemed she was no better of a mother than Elyse had been.

A cold sensation startled Michelle awake. She saw bits of pink floating before her eyes and recognized her own polished toes, dangling in the dark water. She smelled coconut oil and ganja.

“All set?” Kimo asked, kneeling beside her at the ladder to buckle a banana float around her waist. The parrot squawked. Michelle glanced up to see the captain surveying his domain. He reminded her of Dean Valentine. Maybe Nikki was selling pills. Michelle pushed the thought away and pulled her flipper on like a prophylactic. Kimo turned to calm a man who had slept through the snorkel video.

“No worries,” Kimo said, taking a bite of a muffin. “You can still order online. Leilani takes pictures of everyone, just in case.” He turned back to help Michelle with the other flipper.

“How can she take pictures of everyone?” Michelle asked.

“Everyone looks the same in a snorkel mask, yah?” He winked as he stuffed the rest of the muffin in the sleeve of her bad arm. “You want a good picture? Toss this in the water when Leilani comes close.” As more snorkelers crowded the ladder, Kimo pushed her in.

***

The Pacific was clammy, so Michelle peed to warm up. Other snorkelers were a kazoo hum of voices beneath the surface, with the occasional toot as they converged on each glorious anchovy. Michelle kicked slowly over the mile-wide crater of igneous rock. A draft of warm water reminded Michelle of the lava vents below. She wondered whether this volcano was dormant or dead, how close she was to hell.

Above the surface, someone cranked the stereo until the tinkling ukulele tune gave way to Jimmy Buffet. Floating on her back, she could see Kimo's brawny arm pointing at another pirate to prep the galley for lunch. A loud splash interrupted the chorus of “Margaritaville.” When Leilani floated her camera around from the other side of the boat, a dozen pairs of flippers turned and kicked like a school of barracudas. Those treading water adjusted their masks.

Leilani dove down deep to begin photographing the snorkelers. The white stripes glowing from the sides of her uniform wetsuit made her easy to track. The light attached to her camera shined a deep dusty path, like a searchlight exploring the
Titanic
. Twenty yards away, at the crusty lip of the crater, Leilani waved for paying customers to paddle by. Bubbles escaping from her ventilator rose directly above the red beam of the Record light.

Michelle kicked in circles above the others until her gums were sore from biting the mouthpiece. Far below, between the rocks, a long gray shadow rippled in the sand. Michelle didn't care if it was a shark or an eel or an octopus. She dove under, to the end of the picture parade. She was determined to make this special, not only to get it on the website, but also enough for Nikki to notice. Didn't all artists look in on their work? Michelle liked thinking of Nikki as an artist. It was so much nicer than thinking of her as a drug dealer.

Michelle kicked to stay upright and ripped off her mask. Then she pulled the sodden muffin from her right sleeve. An angelfish flitted across the expanse, then a flurry of fish surrounded her in a cloud of silver scales. A bright light glowed. Michelle held her clenched hand up like the Statue of Liberty with her torch. She kept kicking and opened her eyes. The strobe light flashed.

All was golden.

After a moment, Leilani kicked a cloud of bubbles between them. Michelle unclenched her hand. The fish turned and swished past, slicing the flesh of her wrist. Wisps of blood trailed as she swam up to the surface.

She floated in the amniotic sea, drifting over the depths. The sound of her breath eased until it matched the rhythm of her chest: up and down and easy. She felt Nikki's presence, lurking like the fish so many fathoms below.