“I’m okay,” she whispers, as if her mom is here and she doesn’t want her to hear. “I handled it. I didn’t really fall.”
“What do you mean? Are these pen marks?”
“Yes?”
I look closer. I press on the marks.
“Ow,” she says and pulls her hand back. “They’re not pen marks. They’re real.”
“Why did you lie just now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t lie that much. I didn’t really fall.”
“So the urchin just jumped up and attacked you?”
“No,” she says.
“Well?”
“I slammed my hand into it. But I’m not telling Mom that part.”
“What? What do you mean you slammed your hand into it? Scottie. Answer me. Did Reina have something to do with this?”
She seems surprised and afraid of my anger. “I wanted to have a good story.” She points her foot out in front of her and tilts her head to the side.
“Don’t do that cute thing,” I say. “That’s not working right now.”
She brings her foot back.
“Didn’t it hurt?” I imagine the spines expanding, the blood, the salt in the wounds. This is psychotic, I’m tempted to say. This is disturbed.
“It didn’t hurt that much.”
“Balls, Scottie. It killed. I’m floored right now. Completely floored. Where was Esther?”
“Do you want to hear the rest?” she asks.
I push my short fingernails into my palm just to try to get a taste of the sting she felt. I shake my head. “I guess.”
“Okay. Pretend you’re Mom. You can’t interrupt.”
“I can’t believe you did this to yourself. What made you—”
“You can’t speak! Be quiet or you won’t hear the rest.”
Scottie goes on to tell me her tale, and it has all the elements of a good story: visuals, crisis, mystery, violence. She tells me about the needles jutting from her hand and how she climbed back on the rock pier like a crab with a missing claw. Before she returned to shore, Scottie looked out across the ocean and watched the swimmers do laps around the catamarans. She says that the ones with white swimming caps looked like runaway buoys.
I don’t believe her. I’m sure she didn’t stop to gaze at the sea. She probably ran right to Esther or the club’s medic. She’s inventing the details, setting the stage, making a better story for her mother. Alexandra had to do the same thing—knock herself out to get some attention from Joanie. Or perhaps to take the attention away from Joanie. I guess Scottie is realizing what needs to be done.
“Because of Dad’s boring ocean lectures, I knew these weren’t needles in my hand but more like sharp bones—calcitic plates, which vinegar would help dissolve.”
I smile. Good girl.
“Dad, this isn’t boring, is it?”
“‘Boring’ is not the word I’d use. ‘Boring’ is the last thing that comes to mind.”
“Okay. You’re Mom again, so shut up. Then, Mom, I thought of going to the club’s first aid.”
“Good girl.”
“Sshh,” she says. “But instead, I went to the cute boy and asked him to pee on my hand.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, Mom. That’s exactly what I said to him. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. I told him I hurt myself. He said, ‘Uh-oh. You okay?’ like I was an eight-year-old.”
“Wait,” I say. “Time out. I am not your mother.”
“He didn’t understand,” Scottie continues, “so I placed my hand on the counter.”
“Scottie. I said time out. What is going on here? Are you lying right now? Tell me you’ve made this up. Tell me you’re just a very creative, imaginative, and remarkable young lady and that you’ve made this up.”
I’ve read about children starting to lie a lot around this age. I’m supposed to tell the child that lying can hurt people. “Listen,” I say. “This is a great yarn. We’ll tell it to Mom, but between you and me, are you telling the truth?”
“Yes,” she says, and unfortunately, I believe her. I don’t say anything. I just shake my head.
Scottie continues, cautiously at first, but then she plunges right back into her disaster. “He swore like a maniac. I won’t repeat what he said, and then he told me to go to the hospital. ‘Or are you a member of that club?’ he asked. He told me he’d take me there, which was totally sweet of him. He went out through the back of his stand, and I walked around to meet him. I told him what he needed to do, what would get the spines out, and he blinked a thousand times and used more curse words in all sorts of combinations. There was a piece of lint or something in his eyelash, and I almost pulled it out. He kept looking around for help, but we were all alone, and I repeated what he needed to do—you know. Pee. But then he said he saw something on Baywatch where a lifeguard sucked the poison out of a woman’s inner thigh. ‘But then she had this seizure,’ he said. ‘Her body was just bucking on the sand!’”
The way Scottie imitates his voice makes him sound illiterate.
“‘I’m not trained for this,’ he kept saying. ‘I just sell sunscreen, and there’s no way I’m going to piss on your hand,’ but then I told him what you, Mom, always tell Dad when you want him to do something he doesn’t want to do. I said, ‘Stop being a pussy,’ and it did the trick. He told me not to look, and he asked me to say something or whistle.”
“I can’t listen to this,” I say.
“I’m almost done,” Scottie whines. “So. To distract him while he peed, I talked about your boat races, but how you weren’t all dykey, and I told him that you were a model, but you weren’t all prissy, and that every guy at the club was in love with you but you only love Dad.”
“Scottie,” I say. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m done anyway. Wasn’t that hilarious? Was it too long?”
I feel sick. I need to be alone.
“It’s fine. It’s great. Go tell Mom what you told me. Go talk to her.” She can’t hear you anyway, I think. I hope.
I walk down the hall, wishing someone could step in and give me some direction. Scottie shouldn’t have to create these dramas. She shouldn’t have to get hurt. She shouldn’t have to be pissed on, and the thing is, Joanie would think that story was hilarious. I think of her while we were dating. She loved creating dramas that involved pain, men, sex.
“We’re over,” she’d say countless times. “I can’t stay in every night and play house. I think we should see other people.” She never did. She stuck around, and she’d be soaring one moment and critical and miserable the next, but she’d never go. I wonder why she didn’t just go.
9
SCOTTIE IS SITTING on the bed when I enter the room. The sight of her so close to her mother almost frightens me. A Polaroid of Joanie rests on the bed. Joanie with makeup. Her twenty-fourth day. I don’t like the picture. She looks embalmed.
“I don’t like that,” I say, pointing to it.
“I know,” Scottie says. She folds it in half, then crushes it in her hand.
“Did you talk?” I ask.
“I’m going to work on it some more,” Scottie says. “Because if Mom thinks the story is funny, what will she do? What if the laugh circulates around in her lungs or in her brain somewhere since it can’t come out? What if the laugh kills her?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I say, though I have no idea how it works.
“I just thought I’d make it sadder. That way she’ll feel the need to come back.”
“It’s already sad.”
She looks at me, not understanding.
“It shouldn’t be this complicated, Scottie.” I say this sternly.
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“You need to talk.”
“I’ll talk when she wakes up,” Scottie says. “Why are you so mad?”
I can’t tell her I’m angry because I feel like I’m losing control. I can’t tell Scottie that I want
to show her mother how well I handled her, that I’m returning her in better condition. I can’t tell her I don’t know why I feel this desperate need for her to talk to Joanie, as though time is running out.
I sit on the bed and look at my wife: Sleeping Beauty. Her hair seems slippery. It looks the way it did when she gave birth. I put my ear to where her heart is. I bury my face in her gown. This is the most intimate I’ve been with her in a long time. What drives you, Joanie? My wife the racer, the model, the drinker. I think of the note, the blue note.
“You love me,” I say. “We have our way and it works. You’re going to come out of this. Right?”
“What are you doing?” Scottie says.
I lift my head and walk to the window. “Nothing.”
“We need to go,” she says. “I need a new story.”
I tell her we can’t go yet. We have to wait for Dr. Johnston. Just as I say this, he enters the room, looking down at his chart.
“Hey, Scottie,” he says. “Hey, Matthew.” He looks up but doesn’t make eye contact. “I was calling to you yesterday. Did you see me?”
“No,” I say.
“Hi, Dr. J,” Scottie says. “I just told my mom the greatest story.”
Liar. Why is she lying? “Scottie, why don’t you run down to the little store and get some sunscreen for the beach.”
“I’ve got some in my backpack,” she says.
That damn backpack has everything in it. It’s pretty much stocked to get us through the next ten years.
“They’ve got some good candy, I bet,” Dr. Johnston says. He takes a plastic hospital card out of his coat. “Here. Use this.” His mood seems upbeat, positively optimistic.
“I’m full,” she says and sits down. “I’ll stay here. I want to hear about Mom.”
Dr. Johnston makes eye contact with me. He suddenly seems stunned and exhausted. His shoulders are rounded, and his chart hangs by his side—it almost seems as though he’s going to drop it.
I look at him and slowly shake my head. Scottie sits on the chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, waiting.
“Well, then.” He straightens his posture. “As you know, her scores have been okay, but they have gotten lower this week. Some very low-scoring individuals have achieved excellent recoveries, just as higher-scoring patients sometimes show no improvement at all, but in this case, we…we—”
“Scottie. I need to talk to Dr. Johnston alone.”
“No, thank you,” she says.
“Well, we should have a greater indication later as to…how much longer…she’ll be in this unit at this point in time,” he says.
“So it’s good, then?” Scottie says.
“What’s good to know is that if a patient in a coma survives the first seven to ten days following the injury to the brain, then long-term survival can be expected, but—”
“Mom has been here longer than that! Way longer than seven.”
“No, Scottie,” I say.
“She can survive, but the quality of that survival will be poor,” the doctor says.
“She won’t be able to do the things she could once do,” I say. I look at Dr. Johnston to see if I’m right. “No motorcycles. No boats.”
“Then she won’t get hurt,” Scottie says.
“Let’s go, sport. Let’s go to the beach.”
I look at Dr. Johnston, his unruly eyebrows, his grooved and spotted hands. I remember him at our many gatherings in Hanalei, the families getting together for Christmas break in the old plantation homes with their creaky floors and poor lighting, mosquito nets and ghosts. Dr. J’s face was hidden most of the time behind a cowboy hat, and he’d spend the days fishing or playing guitar, something my father couldn’t do; it lured us kids in, placated us. My dad would always go fishing out in the deep sea, one time bringing in a marlin, its swordlike nose pointing like an accusation. Most of the time he’d bring in tuna, and in a reversal of roles, the men would clutter the kitchen, fussing over sauces and getting the barbecue to the perfect temperature.
I’m wondering if he’s remembering these times as well, me as a young boy watching openmouthed as he strummed his guitar. This must be hard for him and strange. He has known me since I was one hour old, raw and slippery. He writes something down on his chart. I have the urge to put my arms around him and tell him I don’t know how to do any of this and to help me. Tell me exactly what’s going to happen. Play me a song. Get me out of here.
“So, Mom’s okay,” Scottie says. Dr. Johnston doesn’t say anything, and I still don’t know what’s going on except that it’s something unfavorable. Scottie gathers her things, and when she is turned away, he puts his hand on my back. His stoic expression frightens me.
“Can you come back later?” he asks. “We need to talk privately.”
“Of course.”
He walks out of the room, and when he turns to walk down the hall, I can see his profile, which looks determined and almost angry.
“Beach!” Scottie says, walking out of the room, not even glancing at her mother. I silently apologize to my wife for leaving her here, for her low scores, and for not knowing what they mean, for going to the beach and possibly enjoying ourselves. Will she be paralyzed? Will she not know the ABCs? I kiss her on the forehead and tell her I’ll take care of her. Whatever happens, I will be there for her. I tell her I love her, because I do.
10
AT THE CLUB the shrubs are covered with surfboards. There has been a south swell, but the waves are blown out from the strong wind. We walk on the sandy walkway alongside the dining room, an open terrace with coral pillars and ceiling fans. My cousin’s grandfather, a lover of water sports, was the founder of this club one hundred years ago. He leased the beach-front property from the estate of the queen for ten dollars a year. In the lobby next to a picture of Duke Kahanamoku, a plaque reads, LET THIS BE A PLACE WHERE MAN MAY COMMUNE WITH SUN AND SAND AND SEA, WHERE GOOD FELLOWSHIP AND ALOHA PREVAIL, AND WHERE THE SPORTS OF OLD HAWAI’I SHALL ALWAYS HAVE A HOME. Today anyone can commune with sun and sand and sea at a starting price of fifteen thousand dollars, monthly dues, and an initiation process that tends to blackball those with unfavorable pedigrees. I tried to explain this to Scottie when her friend’s father wasn’t accepted. Board members believed he had ties to the Yakuza. She didn’t understand.
“Unfavorable pedigrees?” she asked. “Like a Pekingese?”
We all hate those little dogs.
“Sort of. Well. No. It’s not a good process, sweetie.” I liked her friend’s dad. He was quiet. So many people I know gab your ear off, but whenever I happened to come across him, we never ventured into the land of small talk, and our brief exchanges always managed to be comfortable. The rumors that he was connected to the Japanese mafia made me like him even more. I mean, everyone wants a friend in the mafia.
I follow Scottie past the big open windows with the wooden jalousies. She walks to the outer terrace and up the steps to the dining room, which is relatively empty. Everyone is outdoors, engaging in the sports of old Hawaii and the sports of new Hawaii—the club is also credited with the invention of beach volleyball, and balls are constantly being lobbed out of the courts and onto the heads of unsuspecting sunbathers.
“We can’t leave until something funny, sad, or horrible happens to me,” Scottie says.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Uh-huh. I’ll stay out of your way, but I’m not leaving you alone.”
“That’s not fair. That’s so embarrassing.” She looks around.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” I say. “It’s nonnegotiable. All your friends are in school anyway.” I should just put her back in. I could work, she could learn. I don’t know why I need her in my constant sight all of a sudden.
Scottie points to the tables on the perimeter of the dining room and tells me I can sit over there. There are a few ladies playing cards at one of these tables. I like these ladies. They’re ar
ound eighty years old, and they wear tennis skirts, even though I can’t imagine they still play tennis.
Scottie heads to the bar. The bartender, Jerry, nods at me. I watch Scottie climb onto a bar stool, and Jerry makes her a virgin daiquiri, then lets her try out a few of his own concoctions. “The guava one is good,” I hear her say, “but the lime makes me feverish.”
I read the paper that I borrowed from one of the ladies. I’ve moved to a table that’s a little closer to the bar so I can listen and watch.
“How’s your mom?” Jerry asks.
“Still sleeping.” Scottie twists atop her stool. Her legs don’t reach the metal footrest, so she crosses them on the seat and balances.
“Well, you tell her I say hi. You tell her we’re all waiting for her.”
I watch Scottie as she considers this. “I don’t talk to her,” she says to Jerry, and her honesty surprises me.
Jerry sprays a swirl of whipped cream into her drink. She takes a gulp of her daiquiri and rubs her head. She does it again. She spins around on the stool. She snaps a picture of Jerry and then begins to sing: “Everybody loves me, but my husband ignores me, guess I’ll have to eat the worm. Give me a shot of Cuervo Gold, Jerry baby.”
Jerry cleans the bottles of liquor, trying to make noise.
I wonder how often Joanie sang this little song. If it’s her standard way of asking for tequila.
“Give me two of everything,” Scottie yells, caught in the fantasy of being her mother. I want to relieve Jerry, but I don’t. I let him deal with the discomfort because I can’t right now.
“What other songs do you like?” he asks. “Maybe sing another one.”
I watch the ceiling fans shuffle the air. The sun hits the right side of my body and makes me sink a little farther into my chair. I zero in on the paper I have been pretending to read and look at the weekly feature called “Creighton Koshiro’s Kidz.” The column highlights the lives of the island’s children—those who embody the aloha spirit and have a good GPA, those who have done something remarkable like run a marathon with no left leg, or something charitable like donate all their Bratz to girls in Zimbabwe. I don’t like this feature in the same way that I don’t like bumper stickers that boast an honor student is on board. Neither of my girls will ever be one of these Kidz.
The Descendants Page 6
