“Da-di-da, da-di-da.”
I started to worry. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. My guardian angel appeared behind my grandmother. “Honey-Girl,” he said, sounding like a cool breeze. “All you need to understand is that your grandmother needs you, and you are where you are supposed to be.”
“That and $3.50 will get me some Hawaiian shave ice,” I said. After the prison guards, who genuinely seemed to care about my grandmother led her away with assurances that they would keep an extra-special eye on her, I grabbed my sunshmina.
My grandmother turned back and smiled at me, giving a little wave. Armed with a tremulous connection to a grandmother I would never understand and a nebulous link to an other-weirdly being, how could I go wrong? Let me count the ways.
Chapter 15
Sew What
As soon as I returned to Halmoni’s house, I headed into the back bedroom and opened the closet door. I pulled out ten bolts of the shiny, shimmery, slippery fabric in green and gold, pink and bronze, blue with silver shot through it, and my favorite, red with ruby highlights that gleamed in the afternoon sun. I thought I’d start with the green, just like my grandmother did, because that’s what the woman from the hotel saw, and liked. I unrolled the bolt of fabric and laid my sunshmina over it. I picked up the scissors and started humming. The first cut is the deepest. I was as scared as if I had been cutting my own bangs. Which I had done before, and therefore had good reason to be scared.
I’ve just got to go for it, I thought, visions of poor Mr. Abraham trying to put a contact lens in his eye, and TV live shots gone bad dancing through my head. Which led me to reminisce about the amount of money I owed my parents, divided by my pride, times my own dwindling bank account. “Kwik-kwik,” the scissors snipped through the material, zipping a fairly straight line across the entire length. Now what? I figured I’d sew it up first and then worry about cooking it in the kukui nut oil brew later. A stitch in time may save nine, but skipping a few steps would save even more time, right? I noticed that my grandmother just made up a rectangular pattern then sewed it together. I went to the sewing machine. The thread was the same pale green that my grandmother used on mine. Good call on the color choice, I congratulated myself.
I sat down and turned on the machine. Maybe I should put pins in the fabric first. I shrugged. My grandmother didn’t. I was sure I could follow along. I’d seen enough home improvement shows where total buffoons were able to sew up curtains and pillows and stuff. I even managed to hem up a pair of pants or two, without using tape. I placed the fabric under the silver guide piece of the sewing machine. Just as I watched my grandmother do, I released the little lever that pushed the guide onto the fabric. “Eh, voila!” I said, feeling very crafty. My big toe gently nudged the foot pedal to bring the machine to life. Nothing happened. I applied a little more pressure. Nothing. I decided to give it some gas and the machine roared into life, tearing off down the fabric like a Maserati, zero to sixty in under six seconds, taking hairpin curves on a closed course that should have come superimposed with a warning about not trying this at home.
The fabric bunched up behind the footplate as the needle hungrily gathered up fresh new threads under its vicious point. My hands tried to pull in a losing tug of war. The pungent smell of burning rubber helped get the frantic message from my brain that had to bypass both of my grasping hands before reaching my foot to get it off the pedal. I looked at the pretty, billowing fabric, bundled together in a crazy seam, trapped behind the sewing machine. I lifted the little silver lever on the sewing machine and worked the fabric out to examine the damage.
I shook out the length and had this been a second grade art project it never would have made my mother’s refrigerator. Come to think of it, I don’t think my mom saved any of my art projects. “Oh, angels we have heard on high,” I tried on a half prayer, half Christmas carol, suitable for the half-assed version of my so-called spiritual representation. Where was he, anyhow? I took a deep breath and remembered my creative history. As if I were drowning, a color catalogue of mishaps flashed before my eyes, from the homemade purse I tried to make out of a shrunken wool sweater, which looked like a balled-up shrunken wool sweater with handles, to the time I tried to learn to crochet. Life is too short to try to learn to crochet. And if by some miracle I ever did manage to learn it, what in the world would I actually make? In theory, it’s cool, in reality, I couldn’t think of one single crocheted item I needed. Or wanted. Damn you, Pinterest. A whole site dedicated to taunting me with clothes I’ll never wear, cool pictures of places I’ll never visit, recipes I’m too lazy to make and projects I’d never be able to replicate.
I crumbled the soft green ruined fabric in my hands. My old friend, Shame of the Gurgling Stomach, middle name, Failure, came a-calling. I had been so sure I could make it work. I used to watch Project Runway. And who didn’t play Grecian robes at bath time? I always used to pretend I was a sexy movie star in funky bath towel creations. This was nothing much more than an elongated rectangle for Pete’s sake. I slid my hand over my grandmother’s sunshmina, which was a work of art. It was a brilliant idea, and I knew it had so much potential. I knew people would want it, and want to buy it. I looked back at my bunched up mess and sighed. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a decent enough imagination, I just always seemed to lose in the execution.
Surely this was the moment when a good guardian angel would rise to the occasion and raise their magic wand or do their voodoo and help untangle the uneven snarls of a poor girl’s life? “Anything?” I called loudly. “Yoo-hoo? Anybody out there? Hello?” I pulled the fabric away from the sewing machine. “I just wish I could sew a straight line.”
I heard a deep, melodious voice cadenced as if in a Gregorian chant: “As ye sew, sew shall ye reap.” I even heard the gong of a bell.
I turned. Mr. Beef-a-Roni plopped on the couch behind me. “That’s what you show up with? That’s the sort of help you were put on this earth to provide? Sounding like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur? I am not asking for bible verses. I wish you were just a hair more sophisticated. That was not an official wish. Take it back. I want another try.”
“Honey-Girl, I am not a genie and you do not get three wishes. It does not work like that,” he said, still laughing, apparently at his dramatic ability. “For You-Know-Who’s-Sake, lighten up. You are in Maui. How bad can things really be?”
“Aren’t you a spirit or something? What difference does it possibly make where we are?”
“I am highly-evolved energy source, susceptible to temperature fluctuation. I highly recommend Maui.”
“So, where have you been? And for once, can you please help me out? Look, I’m trying to be productive here. I have no money left. I can’t even buy nail polish.” I flashed him my hands. “I’ve got to get these sunshminas sewn, so I can sell them to that tourist. I need to make this happen.” I kicked at the fabric that had fallen to the floor. “Sewing is just about as hard as teaching someone how to insert contact lenses.”
I turned toward my guardian angel, who pinched his thick chin, as if in deep thought. I pushed my luck, thinking maybe he would help me. “I’m freaking out about my grandmother I can’t find any leads. As each day goes by, I feel like it’s another nail in Halmoni’s coffin. If the police think she’s guilty, which they do, they won’t be looking for the real killer. You and I both know, she didn’t do it.” I waited. “Right?”
He waved his hand, carving an infinity sign through the air.
“What the hell? Give me some clues. Where should I be looking? Do you know who did it?”
“I know who did not.”
“Gee, thanks, I know that,” I said. I sighed. “Plus, there’s the little problem of me running out of money. You know I can’t go to my parents again, I already owe them so much. You also probably know I have no future in TV anymore.”
“Thank the good Lord above.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Trust in whatev
er the universe bequeaths. Have you not yet considered it may not be your destiny to march in front of cameras?”
That hurt. “Being on TV has only been my lifelong dream,” I stared at him, trying to make him feel guilty. “And I was living that dream in San Diego. Some guardian angel you are to shoot that down.” I paused. “And just for the record, I never marched.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders and I thought I heard him mutter something about “Calling them as he sees them.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, knowing he wouldn’t respond. I rubbed my eyes and thought I’d make one last plea, one last deal. Maybe I was doing something wrong, or asking for the wrong thing, or not praying right. I folded my hands and looked up. He was gone, of course. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going. That’s right, run away, abandon me.” I shook my fist in the air. My gaze traveled down to the couch and I watched as his large imprint slowly faded from the old cushions. Shoved in the corner was a snorkel mask with flippers.
I decided to take a break from the sewing and give myself a time out. I needed to relax and pull myself together, before trying again. If soaking in the tub makes me feel better, just imagine what the Pacific Ocean could do. My sunburn looked pretty good, if you can call huge sheets of opaque skin sloughing off both my face and shoulders, looking good. I popped my Hula grill t-shirt on over my bathing suit and grabbed my favorite towel.
I drove back up to Ka’anapali, the resort area, and drove around until I could find a free parking spot right outside of the landscaped grounds. I jumped out of the Jeep, toting my snorkel gear. I was pretty excited. I hadn’t snorkeled in years. Waters off the coast in San Diego were just too cold. I cut through Whaler’s Village, the local shopping mall, passing by the ABC Store—Hawaii’s answer to 7/11 and Target stores, compressed into a tourist treasure chest.
I headed toward the ocean, hitting the sidewalk that fronted the large hotels and condos. To my right, Black Rock, the rocky mass of black lava, jutted out from a little protected cove right in front of the Sheraton hotel. It had some of the island’s best snorkeling. My grandmother used to take my sister and me there, so long ago, and I remembered being yelled at for trying to bring one of the rocks home. Halmoni flipped out. My dad had to explain that it was bad juju to take rocks home because Black Rock was considered a sacred place for ancient Hawaiians. They called it Pu’u Keka’a, the jumping off point for spirits, uhane, when they left this world. Each island had its own point where Hawaiians’ souls would leave this life and join their ancestors forever. Some spirits, legend said, would stick around. They clung to rocks and caused trouble.
I put my flippers on and backed into the bathwater warm waves, adjusting my mask. I hadn’t snorkeled in so long, I hope I remembered how. I bobbed with a wave. While I wasn’t the world’s most graceful swimmer, at least I was a little better off than the poor woman wearing a bright yellow banana life vest strapped around her waist, who nearly crashed into me. I leaned back, allowing a large swell to catch me as I dunked my head under the water. I fit my mouthpiece in and blew it clear, taking another deep breath before submerging.
The water swallowed me in an undulating embrace. Without being able to smell, and with the pressure on my ears muting sounds to the dull blub-blub of the bubbles, I felt my world grow even more beautiful. The cartoon-looking blue beneath the water refracted the suns rays and prismed into a periwinkle sheen against the dark lava. Amazingly bright yellow and orange fish darted in random patterns. Blue and black striped fish swam in synchronicity ten feet in front of my face before skittering off as if at some unknown warning. In the buoyant water I languidly kicked my flippers, feeling my heartbeat and thoughts slow down. I surfaced to catch a normal breath before returning to the safe cocoon of the ocean. I pushed myself deeper, trying to get a closer look at the pink and purple coral, swaying in the current.
I went back up, and treaded water before heading out past the point of Black Rock. “Here turtle, turtle,” my thoughts sang. I always liked turtles. I remember how when I was little, Halmoni, via dad’s translation, told a story about the two turtles that lived inside everyone. Of course, I had taken her literally and freaked out, clutching my stomach and crying. It took bribes of ice cream, a trip to the ABC store for anything I wanted, and a lengthy explanation to calm me down.
“She just means the two turtles are different parts of our personality,” my mom tried to explain.
“Like she even has a personality to know what one is,” my sister Josephine taunted me.
My mom tried hard to make me understand. “You know how you are sometimes shy?” I could see the image of my small, round-eyed face nodding solemnly, as I rubbed my roly-poly tummy in fear.
I even remembered my grandmother in the background, clicking her teeth and wringing her hands, “Not that, not that.”
My sister kept elongating her neck, pulling it up and then back, sinking deep into her shoulders. Tears dripped off my face, and my mother wiped them away. “You know how your sister Josephine can be . . .” My mom hesitated.
“Mean?” My little voice wobbled. I thought I saw my mother swallow her smile.
“Well, she likes to know all the answers, doesn’t she?”
I nodded, starting to get it.
“Halmoni says that the two turtles inside us fight each other. Do you know why?”
A shake of my head, it hadn’t been completely clear.
“One turtle is fear and greed,” my mom said. “The other turtle is love and integrity. I know that’s a big word, but it means doing the right thing. Do you understand, baby?”
I had a vision of seven year old me nodding, wondering how in the world I would ever be able to poop out two turtles.
“The two turtles fight each other,” my mom continued.
“Who wins?” I asked, noticing that Josephine stretched out her neck and listened hard for our mother’s answer. My mom looked over at Halmoni, who spoke rapidly, waving her hands. “Da-di-da, da-di-da.” We all swiveled to face my dad.
“The one you feed,” he translated, trying to explain. “Whatever you give the turtle, that’s what will grow.”
It took me a long time to figure out what that meant. I even stopped eating for a couple of days—but I never forgot about it.
I paddled around, loving the push of the waves rocking me like a big baby in an aquatic cradle. I dove again, relishing the pressure that tightened all over my body, making me feel safe and sound. I let my mind go blank, watching the underwater tableau.
In the next second, I saw a turtle. He was as big as my own torso and I felt I could hear him plodding along, da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, slowly and steadily winning his race. His large mossy gray shell had scratches and a chip on the back right side. We came face-to-face and I swear he smiled at me. Great. Meet my friends. A big, fat naked guardian angel and a smiling turtle. I surfaced again and couldn’t stop smiling myself. I had a plan.
Chapter 16
Hell’s Angel
I paddled back to shore and gathered my things. I wrapped my towel low on my waist and started walking back toward Whaler’s Village. As I neared Leilani’s Restaurant, I heard amazing music. I slowed to listen as the lead singer, a beautiful woman with long, blue-black hair, finished her song. The crowd went wild. She must be a local favorite, I thought. I got closer and realized she was. It was Jac’s lovely Lana. She turned and looked right at me. I smiled. She didn’t. She turned back to her adoring fans, as the keyboardist announced that Maui’s very own Lana Ho would be performing later that evening. Copies of her CD, The Magic of Maui, were on sale and Lana would be available to autograph them.
What must her life be like? I wondered. To look like that and to sing like that and to be loved like that must be intoxicating. I felt Mr. Fear Turtle come a-knocking. I straightened my shoulders and kept walking. I had some sunshmina arse to kick, and I had to get going.
After some cottage cheese and ketchup back at my grandmother’s place, I tried to recla
im my peaceful underwater feeling following my commune with the turtle, which I took as a sign. I returned to the back bedroom and picked up the tumbled fabric. I sat on the couch and painstakingly picked out each stitch from the ruined fabric caught in the crazed sewing machine episode. Next, I ironed the fabric and then pinned it together. I was going to take my time and sew this by hand. If I could reattach buttons and whip out a simple blanket stitch, I could do this. I threaded a needle and settled back in to make the tiny, even stitches needed to recreate the beautiful wrap my grandmother made. I planned on finishing them both that night.
At midnight, I conceded defeat. My neat hand-stitching lasted for about two inches before becoming jagged and uneven. I stood up and fluffed the fabric, horrified at the limp, pulling of material and uneven twists of the threads. It looked nothing like my grandmother’s handiwork. Now what?
I sprawled out on the couch, face down, too tired to sleep, too frustrated to cry.
“Honey-Girl, what is the matter?” came the deep voice. His heavy touch was surprisingly soothing upon my tender shoulders.
I turned over. Just the guy I was looking for. “Oof. Could you please cover that up?” I held my hands tightly over my face. He was back again. Guava Gut, or whatever his name was. “What is your name, anyway?”
“I do not have a name.”
“What do you mean? How can you not have a name? Everyone has a name. So what’s yours? Lucifer, perhaps?” I asked.
He picked up the fabric and sat in my grandmother’s sewing chair, covering himself with the material. Ew, now I’d have to wash it. He watched me. “You have got to learn to relax.”
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