I finally found the Maui police station, but it took forever to get someone to help me with all the paperwork and to let me see my grandmother. As I waited, I tried to think like my sister, Josephine. If she had been there, she would have kicked butt, taken names, and then color-coded them by the size and number of bruises before convincing them to help her.
I learned pretty early on life isn’t fair. There are no such things as fairy godmothers or guardian angels. When my mom called me about this crazy mission, I did my best to throw my sister under the bus.
Not only was my sister born into the wrong family and era, she totally blew the geography by about two thousand miles. From the time she could walk, prance, and pirouette, Josephine was a southern belle, complete with fluttering eyelashes. My parents ate her act up. To this day I have to bust her chops every time she tries to pull out a “honey child” or “darlin’.” Unlike Madonna’s we-know-she’s-really-from-Michigan-and-bet-she-totally-sounds-like-it-when-she’s-yelling-at-her-kids accent, Josephine’s forte was whistling Dixie. She truly thought she was Scarlett O’Hara. The only problem was, she lived in Cleveland.
Josephine was a year older than me, ten times richer, and according to my parents, a hundred times more responsible. Of course, she has also produced grandchildren—after she stole and then married my boyfriend. Unlike Suellen’s beau, it wasn’t like he was in poor health, chewed tobacco and had a long, scraggly beard, but he did own a couple of stores.
In all fairness, he and I weren’t a match made in heaven, but still. Josephine, no one would ever dare call her Josie, was a great mother, a good friend and tried to be a good sister, which made her that much more irritating. She got the best of our parent’s genes. She swung around her dark brown hair with mahogany highlights like it was blond. She had the darker skin of my father and the blue eyes of my mother. She was so organized I told everyone she even bathed herself in alphabetical order: ass, boobs, crack, deltoids, ears, femur . . . I could go all the way to Z. An attorney for underserved women, at age thirty-one, Josephine seemed to have it all.
I never claimed to be Cinderella. My family supported me, the only way they knew how, with backhanded compliments: “I’m sure one day Jaswinder will reach her full potential,” I overheard my sister say, not sounding very sure at all.
Poor Suellen. She really got the short end of the stick, although it was probably better her sister did steal her beau. I always wondered about her side of the story, imagining what kind of woman she was in the shadow of her sister. What had Suellen’s dreams been? Did her sister ever apologize, or accept her for who she was?
I don’t think it’s fair that Suellen was judged so harshly. I sure didn’t want to be judged on the basis of how I got along with my sister.
Sitting there in the Maui police station for nearly three sweltering hours gave me a lot of time to think. I like to think I used it wisely.
Finally, I got to see my grandmother.
“Halmoni! I can’t believe it!” I screeched at the tiny old woman sitting in the small jail cell. I even got tears in my eyes. Granted, I get weepy during the “Star-Spangled Banner” at Padres’ games, at dogs-helping-other-dogs on YouTube, and just about anything they run on Lifetime Television. “Halmoni.” I said again, trying to scrunch back the lump in my throat. My voice cracked and I burst into tears. I surprised myself at how truly glad I was to see her. “They said they arrested you for possession of marijuana.”
She stood and came to the bars, smiling, her hand reaching to touch my pouffy hair, which in the Hawaiian humidity made my head look like a dandelion that some kid was going to run up on and make a wish.
“What were you thinking? Do you actually smoke marijuana?” I asked, knowing my grandmother probably didn’t understand a word I said but could probably figure it out.
My grandmother spoke in a mixture of Hawaiian and Korean and shook her head and gestured with her small hands. “Da-di-da, da-di-da, da-di-da.”
I heard the rhythm, but all I could make out was, “Not that.”
The sheriff came in and jingled the keys. “Okay. The paperwork is all done. Your fees have been processed. Your grandmother is free to go.” He opened the cell door and motioned my grandmother through. “No more pakalolo. You hear?”
Halmoni nodded and looked at me. I just stood there and then moved in for a hug that I felt she was waiting for. My five feet three inches towered over her. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
Halmoni smiled.
“Let’s get you home.”
I helped my grandmother climb into the passenger side of her own jeep, before I returned to the driver’s side. “I had a heck of a time finding this place,” I jabbered. “Then, I was so worried they weren’t going to let you out. They said if they would have caught you with any more weed, you would have to go to trial.” I shook my head and hoped I got through to her.
“When we get back to your house, I’m going to have to call my parents. I need to tell my dad you’re fine and then tell them what you’ve been up to.” My grandmother just smiled and looked very satisfied with herself.
I drove us inland a few miles back to the house. Before I could help her, my grandmother jumped out of the jeep and hurried up the steps. I followed her into the small, messy kitchen where she started to steam a pot of rice. I watched her measure the water by using the knuckle of her index finger. I always thought that was pretty cool.
“Can I help, Halmoni?” I said, trying to stretch my mouth wider while I spoke as if that would help her understand me better.
Halmoni flicked her fingers in the air and pushed me into a chair before bringing me a cup of tea.
I curled my hair back over my ears and blew into my cup. “Whew. Thanks. I need this. I’ve been so worried. I didn’t know what happened to you, and then I had to leave my job and it was a long flight over. Oh brother.” I took a slurp to help cool the brew over my tongue as my grandmother watched me. It was quite weird. I don’t think I have ever been alone with her before without my mom or dad there to help translate and take on the burden of chit-chat.
I don’t think society appreciates the importance of buffers—those special people who can make being in the presence of others, palatable. I envy those gifted raconteurs, charming souls who can pretend fascination at the most inane conversations. Sitting there in Maui, I could have used a little hand-holding and help figuring out what to talk about. It was so quiet at my grandmother’s little house. I could hear the lid start to teeter on the simmering rice pot. Time to say something else to Halmoni. I took another sip of tea, swallowed, and tried to smile. Holy crap, granny, what the hell kind of tea is this? “Mmm,” I said instead.
Halmoni nodded her head up and down.
Dirt tea, my favorite. How did you know?
My grandmother wiped her hands on her Hawaiian print housedress. I wondered what she thought of me. Just then, she lunged and reached over my head, arcing her arm high in the air, brandishing what looked like an Ali Baba machete.
“Halmoni, No!” I screamed. Scooting my chair back I reached up to wrestle the blade from my grandmother. She was a complete stranger to me, she could be a total whacko. Maybe she was on drugs! She could be mentally deranged. No wonder I felt so uneasy. Always trust your instincts. I can’t believe I let my guard down. I ferociously twisted my body and tried to win control of the blade. I did not want to end up on one of those prime time TV murder mystery shows. (Which I was addicted to.) I could almost hear the disgust in the correspondent’s voice as he did his stand-up atop a scenic mountain, his cadence jaded by the heartbreaking lines he had to read and read and read. “Forensic evidence suggests the pretty young granddaughter fought back, but what happened next would rock this island paradise like a tsunami.”
Not on my watch. “Halmoni!” I panted. My grandmother was strong, stronger than I thought. I struggled, holding onto her arm for dear life. I did not want to die. Especially like this. “Give me that,” I said, gnashing my teeth, proper enuncia
tion and understanding be damned.
My grandmother did a few rapid “da-di-da’s,” knuckled me in the ribs and wrenched her arm free, still holding the huge knife. She whacked off a sprig of what might have been rosemary, growing in a pot on the shelf above my head. She stood on tiptoe and reached behind me again and retrieved a bamboo platter. She pointed to my tea with her knife and stomped over to the sink. She began cutting up pineapple, mangoes, and papaya with the sharp knife and arranged them on the platter. The rosemary, or whatever it was, looked lovely. Its tart, almost antiseptic smell almost disguised the rank odor of my fear.
Oh. “Thanks, Halmoni.” I smiled and used my napkin to wipe the sweat off my face. My grandmother came back to the table and set the fruit between us. I drained the last of my tea, before spitting out the loose dregs that clung to my tongue. I laughed nervously. “I didn’t really think you were going to kill me.” My grandmother just took my cup and refilled it, and came back with a cup of her own.
“Cheers,” I said, lifting my cup to toast her, hoping she would forget about that scene I just caused over the knife. Ha ha. I have been calmer in an LA traffic jam with my almost-out-of-gas light flashing.
I drank even more tea to give my mouth something to do besides talk. My grandmother slurped her own tea. Oddly enough, I started to feel better. The primitive golden orange succulent slices on the platter were so perfectly ripe, I could taste their colors. I plunked a bright yellow chunk of pineapple into my mouth, and I don’t even like pineapple.
“Pineapple is only good in Hawaii,” I told her. I chewed the juicy, sweet smooth fruit that smelled just like it looked. “On the mainland it’s like eating a piece of rope.” My grandmother parlez-vous’ed some more gibberish and showed me the top of the pineapple she cut off, with its crown of prickly grey-green leaves. As she held it out to me, I smiled. I tugged on one of the leaves from the very center. It pulled out with a quick snap, a minimum amount of pressure. The spectrum of green on the plucked leaf melted down into a pale, pale shade at its base, like the inside of the inner stalks of celery. “I remember,” I said. “That’s how you tell when a pineapple is ripe and ready to eat.”
Halmoni nodded and either said “not that,” which would have made no sense, or something along the lines of crazy haole as she filled up my cup again.
Again with tea? I was kind of getting used to the taste, though. “Thank you, Halmoni.”
I tried the mangos and even the papaya, which I never really liked before either. They were also as delicious as they looked. I munched on the fruit loudly, sounding like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. The stress of the day seeped out of me. I relaxed into my chair and thought I saw a quick flash over my grandmother’s shoulder, but nothing was there. My nervous system must have been operating on overtime. Boy, I was tired. I drank my tea and ate more fruit and began to feel better and better. I was starting to Maui mellow.
Halmoni motioned for me to go upstairs to my room, the same one I stayed in with my sister when we were young. Halmoni may not have been the best housekeeper, “She sweeps the room with a glance,” my mom always used to say, but the bedroom was tidy. The twin beds snuggled under the same worn Hawaiian cotton quilts that my grandmother made. The wooden floor offered up its trail of faded yellow and orange throw rugs scattered like stepping-stones to the beds. An oval mirror studded in seashells hung above the rickety dresser whose drawers still screeched when you tugged them open, just like they did when I used to play MaryAnn to my sister’s Ginger. I sank down on the bed near the window and could see the sun dip toward the ocean in the far distance. I was so sleepy. I should call my parents, I thought, but it was too late. It was the middle of the night back in Ohio. That was the last thing I remembered thinking before my cell phone rang.
Chapter 4
Adios
“Hello?” I fumbled with my cell phone.
What time was it? I wondered. It was dark outside my window. I cleared my throat and tried to pretend I was wide-awake. “What? Who is this?” Oh. Oh, no. “What?”
“A freak summer thunderstorm swamps San Diego, and you tell people to get out and enjoy the sunshine?” It was my news director. Screaming through the phone. “Don’t forget the sunscreen?” He paused for more breath. “This is the most irresponsible weather forecasting I have ever seen. How did you get to work? You had to have driven through flooded streets to get to the studio. Well, you did make the San Diego Union Tribune and now our station is the laughing stock of the city. Are you a complete moron?”
“Oh, Fred, I’m so sorry. You see, I—”
“You what?” I could feel his rage through the phone as my stomach cramped up, just like it did before I went on the air. He wasn’t finished. “I don’t know how Barry could have produced such a train wreck. I’ll get to him next. We led with the weather, ‘Batten down the hatches, it’s pouring in San Diego’ and ten minutes later there you are, all Polly Perky, ‘Did you enjoy all the sunshine today?’”
“Sir, I am so sorry. I can explain. I had an emergency—”
“I could give a rat’s ass about your emergency. This is the news business, and I’m afraid you are yesterday’s news.”
“I’ll come in on my days off and work.” My mind scrambled. I couldn’t get back there until tomorrow even though I wasn’t scheduled to work until Wednesday. “I’ll do anything. I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see. I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Exactly. You never have any idea, do you? We may not have much to talk about in terms of weather in San Diego, but guess what? We all talk about it, all the time. You are no longer credible or believable and a reporter’s reputation is key. I don’t want to see your face back here again. You are terminated. Save yourself some embarrassment and don’t even think about trying for a job at any of the other stations in town, even the cable channels, because it’s not going to happen.”
“Please. Fred, won’t you let me explain?”
“I don’t care if you have a brain tumor or split personality, one that was frolicking in the sunshine yesterday when you did your weather report, there is no excuse. You cannot go on the air and make a mistake like that.”
“Well, now that’s just mean,” I said, sitting up in my bed. “It was an honest mistake, if you’d just listen to me. It’s not like I killed anybody.”
“So now you’re telling me the news business? It is a big deal, young lady.” He took a breath and I could hear his blood pressure rise.
“Listen, I am so sorry. My grandmother was in trouble and needed me. She was in jail and I had to bail her out—”
“Sorry for your troubles, Jaswinder, but I’m afraid it’s not going to work out. You acted unprofessionally and you betrayed your public. You lied to them. In essence, you lied to us. You made the station look bad, you made the network look bad. I’ll have HR send you your final check.” He paused for a split second, and then, as if it killed him to do so, wished me well. “Good luck.” I heard him hang up on me.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I hugged my knees to my chest and rocked back and forth. Tears streaked down my cheeks as I said goodbye to my dream job. I could never quite believe my luck in actually being on the air in San Diego, one of the top television markets.
I worked so hard to try to break into the industry. When I was younger, in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I used to practice broadcasting in the mirror. I used my chartreuse hairbrush as a microphone, its black bristles scraping my lips. “Josephine Park, age 14, died in a tragic bicycle accident today.” I used to pretend I was swiping her blood off the wall as I did my report. “Her much prettier sister, Jaswinder, was nowhere near the scene.” Of course, Josephine would run and tattle on me.
Maybe it was all that practicing, maybe it was blind dumb luck, or maybe just a good guardian angel after all, but after paying my dues interning at a local TV station in Columbus, Ohio, I finally broke into television news as an associate producer. In spite of the main anchorman, Stephen Zaputa, (whom everyone knew was havi
ng a secret affair with the morning news girl, Lupita Sanchez, which would have made her Lupita Zaputa should they ever marry) (which they did not) who once screamed at me, “I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” I persevered.
One day, several years later, it paid off. I got to do the weather on Christmas day, when no one else was available, to an audience of two (my parents). I was awful. I was so nervous it was painful to watch. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Hyperventilating Weather Girl shows up on the internet.
My news director told me if trying hard was a talent, I would be a superstar. He reluctantly offered me the weekend weather spot because A. I was available, B. Believe it or not, there were worse candidates, and C. But, none who would work so cheaply.
I backwards bowed out of his office before he could change his mind. He barely noticed. “Jaswinder. Jesus.” He threw my resume away.
I fought my nerves, took voice lessons, watched Katie Couric, my idol, and practiced, practiced, practiced, trying to get better. I served my time in the Midwest, before eventually landing in paradise in San Diego. As God is my witness, I’ll never be cold again.
“At least your name sounds like a weather girl,” the west coast managing editor who hired me said. “And you aren’t as hideous as the last chick.” With those glowing recommendations, what was to stop me?
I loved my job, even though it freaked me out. I was always stressed about going on air, live—with no do-overs. Anything can happen, including that time I burped. Then there was the time my nose ran for the last thirty seconds of a live shot on the Mission Beach boardwalk. I thought maybe no one would notice. It was just a clear little slow drip, the totally unexpected instantaneous kind that sends out a glistening welcome mat, “Well, hello, it’s chilly out here today, let me fire up my nasal membranes and get this party started.” A trick of lighting made me look like an orphaned ragamuffin Sarah McLachlan would enjoy singing about.
Haole Wood Page 2
