The Girl at the Center of the World

by Austin Aslan

  Marcus looks confused. “Okay.”

  Keali`i calls out from the water. He already sounds distant. “What’s the holdup?”

  “Thank you! For everything, Leilani,” Marcus says. “Good luck getting those meds. We’re lucky to have met you.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “For rescuing us. For helping Tami. A hui hou.” I set the mask over my eyes and lean overboard.

  Keali`i and I head for Richardson’s Beach at the very end of the bay. We advance slowly, come ashore on the small bar of black sand, and remove our flippers. For the next forty minutes we carefully walk through the darkness of Keaukaha. Once we reach our bikes, stashed near the start of the breakwater last night, the final half mile to Keali`i’s house goes more quickly.

  Keali`i tows Tami’s bike alongside his own as we pedal inland through tall jungle trees and curtains of ivy with leaves as broad as medieval shields. It’s very dark; only our wheel reflectors dimly shine in loops in the black light. He’s been so patient through all this. I’m pretty sure I know why. “Hey,” I call over. “You like Tami?”

  I hear him chuckle. We pedal along. “What’s it to you?” More silence. I wait.

  “She’s good kine, Keali`i.”

  “Who says I’m looking? Ever think of that?”

  Whatevah, I think. What was I expecting, a confession of undying love?

  I approach his ramshackle bungalow with an air of reverence. His parents died here. In the tsunami. I can’t begin to comprehend. It could just be my imagination, but I think the wood of the porch and even the walls is still wet. I shiver as we creak up the steps with only the distant glow of the baby Star Flower to guide our eyes. An old gum wrapper lodged between planks burns white. It’s always so eerie on moonless nights when the baby glows without the mother drowning out the UV. Eerier now than ever on this rickety lanai.

  He hurries through the dark hallway, locking doors. He drags a cot into the empty den. “You take this. My bed,” he says. “Just stay out here, okay?”

  “You sure? What’ll you sleep on?”

  “I got a hammock.”

  “What’s in those rooms?”

  “Just…rubbish. Half of it waterlogged. It’s embarrassing, okay? I was never consulted on this plan. Stay out of my stuff.”

  “Sorry.”

  He retreats into the darkness. I call after him. “Keali`i?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for doing that today.”

  “Hey, it worked out fine, yeah? Glad Tami’s doing better. Those two were all right. Hope they make a good go of it out there.”

  “Keali`i?”

  “What?”

  “What were their names? Your parents.”

  He sighs. Hesitates. “Never There and Name Your Price.”

  “Keali`i!” I glower at him.

  His face falls. “Sorry. They were rough, but they don’t deserve that. Ernie. Loretta.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  He disappears into the back. I fall onto the creaky cot, still in my damp swimsuit, and sleep. I see dark brown and black clouds everywhere my dreams turn. And then I’m no longer dreaming but floating, boundless, the Earth beside me, a womb of vivid breath and heat and mist.

  Brighten.

  Dim.

  I flex my new muscles. It’s slow. Awkward. Tiring. It’ll be a while before I can do this quickly enough that the right people will recognize and understand. And Dad’s right: don’t practice in plain sight of half the globe. I turn, steer. Antarctica drifts into prominence. I draw closer.

  Brighten.

  Dim.

  I will practice until I can walk, then run, then leap. I have to make it work. We cannot lose more Ernies and Lorettas and the hopes of all those who flee across oceans in search of something to replace a home they should never have had to leave behind.

  CHAPTER 9

  In the morning, I see the sheriff of Hana.

  I’m biking with Keali`i toward town, zooming past a trickle of pedestrians. An approaching caravan of ancient civilian pickup trucks and military Humvees takes up both lanes and pushes us off the shoulder. Keali`i curses, but I yank his arm. “Quiet!” Gunmen stand in the truck beds, firepower at the ready. I shrink into the ferns, pulling Keali`i down with me as the vehicles pass. I grow shaky when I recognize the muscular old Hawaiian sitting stiffly in the passenger seat of the central Humvee.

  Grandpa’s old partner on Maui, the sheriff of Hana himself, who now goes by the name of the Hawaiian chieftain who slew Hawai`i’s first European explorer, Captain Cook: Kana`ina. I haven’t seen him since he allowed Dad and me to jump off his boat near our house. He may have just arrived. I barely glimpse his face, and horrible memories shudder through me. Kana`ina had pressed a gun against Dad’s head, was about to pull the trigger, when I had a massive seizure. I remember the veins in his hand as he clenched the handle of the gun. Rain pouring, rattling the house. One of his men pulling my hair so hard my scalp bled. A hundred sensations I had no time to experience in that moment now hit me.

  And then he’s gone.

  I wait in the ferns for several minutes before getting on my bike.

  “Lei, you all right? Look like you seen a ghost.”

  I shake my head. “Not a ghost. A monster.”

  As we ride, I shove every memory back behind the door that was supposed to wall them off. Why do they keep pushing through? I want to forget that Maui kitchen forever.

  We skirt the Heaps as we turn into town. Everything between here and the airport is a sea of tsunami debris. People have been dumping rubbish here, forming a labyrinth of passageways twice as high as my head. Most of the Tribes have operations in there. It has grown into Hilo’s biggest black market, with a code that I know nothing about. I’d get steamrolled if I went in there, desperate for medication, with nothing to trade. Keali`i wants to try to find meds there, but I promised Dad that I’d stay out of the Heaps no matter what.

  We bike to a clinic half the distance to the hospital. It’s packed but quiet. I feel like I’ve interrupted a wake. A mother comforts a whimpering child with a broken arm. Another woman holds a sleeping girl with red lumps all over her face and arms. Keali`i and I speak to a lady with the word VOLUNTEER pinned to her blouse.

  “What brings you here, sweetheart?” she asks.

  “I’m looking for antibiotics for my friend, who cut her leg.”

  “Neosporin?”

  I shake my head. “Real stuff.” I unfold the note that Marcus wrote. “Cefazolin? Brand name Ancef or Kefzol? Plus some vancomycin and Flagyl.”

  “Oh, honey, those are IV combinations.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re just a ghost unit here, running on fumes. Haven’t had those meds since the first weeks after Arrival.”

  “Um,” I say, looking down at my note. My heart pounds. It’s not what she’s saying but how she says it. Such compassion. “He also said we could try oral Keflex, with clindamycin? Or penicillin plus Flagyl, if we were really desperate?”

  “The hospital may have penicillin and Flagyl. They’ve been refrigerating supplies on propane. Best try there. This sounds serious. Wish you the best.”

  “Thank you,” I croak.

  I stride out of the clinic over to the bikes. My hands are shaking as I unlock the chain. “Let’s get over there.”

  The hospital in Hilo was built along the cliff edges of the Wailuku River, just above Rainbow Falls. We have to walk the bikes up some of the steeper roads. I never had to think about the grade of the slope before the Star Flowers arrived. I would just stare absently out the window as my parents pressed the gas a little harder.

  I’m dripping sweat as we coast through the near-empty hospital parking lot. We chain our bikes to the end of a crowded bike rack and trot into the ER. The doors are propped open. The humidity inside is intolerable. No draft.

  The ER waiting room is cavernous, dark around the edges. A few people stroll to and fro in the dim hallways. I accost someone. “Can you hel
p us? We need some antibiotics for a friend who’s recovering from a bad injury.”

  “Wait here,” the man says. “I’ll get a doctor.”

  Keali`i and I sit in the waiting area. He attempts to make small talk, but I’m too tense. That volunteer. Something about her kindness seemed so…terminal.

  A haole man with a trimmed black beard approaches. “I’m Dr. Madsen. If your friend has an infection, she should be here.”

  “Well, we were told she needed some Ancef, or Kefzol? Or also some vancomycin and Flagyl—”

  He cuts me off. “What happened to her?”

  “She tore her thigh on some rebar along the breakwater. A doctor already helped her. Something called debridement? He didn’t stitch her up. Said it needed to heal open. Then he left us with benaline-soaked gauze, I think. Like iodine?”

  “Betadine. How big is the cut? Debridement is serious.”

  “Few inches long. Pretty deep.”

  “Rebar? In the bay? Listen carefully. You need to get your friend to me. Our supplies were cleaned out at gunpoint. Lost three guards in the attack. We have oral antibiotics, but I can’t hand those out. Your friend’s injury could be nothing, but I’ve lost four patients in the past two weeks, all because of stupid infections.”

  “Huh?” My throat is as dry as cardboard.

  “I need to see her ASAP. We’re running out of time to amputate if we need to.”

  I buckle. Keali`i and the doctor prop me up. “It’s just a cut.” The words are raspy.

  “Modern times are over. Bring her in.”

  “Wait,” says Keali`i. “You just said you don’t have the right meds.”

  “Well, neither do you. Get her in here, and we’ll worry about the rest later.”

  “Can you drive us back to her? I live out past Papaikou. We’re just on bikes.”

  The doctor gives me the same look as the woman at the clinic. “I’m sorry. I have patients here. We don’t have resources like that. Do what you can. I’ll see her right away.”

  “Thank you.” My voice is quiet. I wander outside and stare at the bike rack. I’ve forgotten which bike is mine. Keali`i rests a hand on my shoulder.

  I see my bike, fish it out of the rack. “Okay. My house.” I jump on and flee down Wainuenue to the bay. Downhill is the easy part.

  I hear Keali`i far behind me, “Lei! Slow down!”

  I reach the bottom and fly through the intersection, then slow as I reach the bridge that takes me onto the highway. I slow, putting all my energy into the uphill climb. Keali`i is on my tail like a bad private eye. I just keep pumping and pumping.

  The shoulders of the highway are overtaken by grasses and twisted vines and far-reaching ferns. The jungle has won. It’s taking everything back. It might even take my friend’s leg. I’m agonizing over the distance I still have to go when an oncoming truck comes into view. I wobble to a halt. I know it’s ours by the padlock looped onto the gas cap. I wave frantically. Dad’s driving. The truck is full of goods for market. He veers across the empty road and meets me on the shoulder. Paul is in the passenger seat, a shotgun propped up between his legs.

  “We have to get Tami to the hospital now.”

  “Did you find meds?”

  I explain what Dr. Madsen said.

  “We’ll go back and get her. You ride back to town, and we’ll meet at the hospital.” He leans in close. “On your way back, try the library for Morse code books.”

  Good idea. The library’s a perfect rest stop on the way back up the hill. I nod. Keali`i pulls up, out of breath.

  “Thank you, Dad. I know we don’t have the gasoline to be doing this.”

  He shrugs. “If we’re not using our gas for emergencies, then what are we saving it for?” I hug him through the truck window.

  Paul tips his ball cap as Dad turns around.

  Keali`i tells me, “You head back to the hospital, let them know Tami’s on her way. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. I’m going to see what I can do.”

  He peddles up the road—away from town—before I can ask him to explain.

  Alone on the highway, I hear my heart pounding, birds calling. The solitude is stifling. I leap onto my bike and flee.

  * * *

  I’m curbside at the hospital, idly rocking myself back and forth in a wheelchair. The library was a bust. Ransacked. Most books missing. No card catalog; the library used computer files. I searched and searched, never spotted anything that had to do with alternative types of communication. Not even smoke signals.

  The red truck materializes through the pouring rain and pulls up to the covered foyer. I spring out of my seat and push the wheelchair right up to the passenger door. Grandpa steps out and helps to set Tami in the chair. I wheel her over to reception.

  “I was enjoying the Waikoloa resort,” Tami says. “What’s this all about?”

  I’ve run it over and over in my mind, and I have no idea how I would tell her that she might lose her leg. I’m glad I’m behind her; my fake smile is twitching at the corners. “This doctor can take better care of your leg here.”

  A volunteer helps Tami into a bed. Dr. Madsen undoes Mom’s wrappings and inspects Tami’s wound.

  “She’s running a fever,” the volunteer says. “Pulse and BP are okay.”

  Dr. Madsen nods. “I’m glad you’re here, Tami. I’m going to keep an eye on this through tomorrow. Your doctor friend knew what he was doing, but you have a fever, and there’s more redness than I would like.”

  “What do you mean?” Tami asks.

  Dr. Madsen says, “Tami, this is a big cut, and we don’t have the right meds these days to make the infection go away. There’s a chance we may have to take your leg.”

  “Take my leg?” Tami asks. “Where?”

  I squeeze her hand, fix my eyes on her fingers; I can’t meet her eyes. He says, “Tami. We might have to amputate your leg. I’m hoping we won’t, but—”

  “Oh, my God. What are you talking about? I just scraped myself.”

  “There’s reason to be hopeful. I’m going to keep a close eye.”

  “Oh, my God. This isn’t— No.”

  My eyes fill with tears, and I wipe them away. I lean over, kiss her forehead. Her grip is painful, but I let her squeeze.

  Her eyes are full of fear. “I just bumped my leg on that hole.”

  “I can give you something to help you relax,” Dr. Madsen says. Tami nods.

  The doctor accompanies me into the hallway, where we meet up with Dad and Grandpa. Dr. Madsen explains: “Your friend did a good job cleaning her out, but we need antibiotics. We just don’t have them. Could go either way.”

  “If we brought the right things to you, would you use them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you tried the market yet?” Dad asks me.

  I shake my head. “Just the clinic and here.”

  “Okay,” he says. “We have to drop our stuff off for tomorrow’s market. We’ll ask around while Grandpa unloads.”

  “Mike,” Grandpa says. “Truck’s unattended. We have to get back.”

  “I don’t want her to be alone,” I say. “I should stay with her.”

  “Keali`i?” Dad asks. “Wasn’t he with you?”

  I shake my head. “He said he was going to go do something.”

  Grandpa places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll stay here. You two unload our stuff, search around for meds. Mike, you stay at market while Lei drives back up here. I’ll walk down after that, let you come back up here.”

  “Okay,” Dad agrees. He whispers, “If we haven’t found any meds by that point, I think I might try my hand at the Heaps tonight.”

  “No,” Grandpa says.

  “We’re talking about Tami’s leg!”

  “We’re talking about your life. Something worth as much as those antibiotics…what do you have of value to trade, Mike? It’d cost you the truck. We lose that truck, and our whole community has lost a leg. It’s not yours to bargain with.”

>   “I’m not going to trade away the truck, Lani.”

  “You think you go in there and dictate the terms? No! They see what you have, they take it. If you’re lucky, they give you something back.”

  It hits me: Is that where Keali`i went? It can’t be. He biked away in the wrong direction. Unless he’s going there later.

  Grandpa continues: “I’ll go out there if it comes to that. Don’t be a fool, Mike. I can handle the Manō and Hoku. Even Kana`ina’s boys. Owe them a visit anyway.”

  “You don’t. Stay as far away from them as possible.”

  “Those mokes almost murdered you. Only reason you’re alive is because of me. You stay as far away as possible.”

  “Enough,” I say. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

  “I’ll be at the truck,” Dad says.

  Grandpa and I reenter Tami’s room.

  It’s obvious that she got medicine to relax her. “Hey, Tami. Hang in there. I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “K’den. A hui hou!”

  I run out to the truck. I sit in the passenger seat, nudge the shotgun away from me with my knee.

  “Any luck at the library?” Dad asks.

  “No.”

  “We’ll think of something.” But I can tell that he is all out of ideas.

  The bay front was razed by the tsunami and fires. It’s nothing but moldy foundations and clutter. But the market is back in its original location, and it looks like it always did: blue tarps tightly strung together on iron poles, offering shade. Rotting wooden tables line the aisles. Dad backs into an available stall, and we unload the corn, the kalo, and the apple bananas. “Glad we have a covered spot,” he says as we hastily stack our wares. “Arriving the night before helps.”

  I smile but focus on emptying the truck.

  “Leilani?” The voice comes from beyond the table. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Dad and I look up.

  “Is that you?” the voice asks.

  It’s dim beneath the tarps. I step forward to get a better view. A young man is staring at me. Hawaiian. Tall.

  I drop my armload of corn. “Aukina?”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Leilani. Howzit?”

  I stare at him, mouth open. Soldier Boy. My friend from the military camp on O`ahu. Last person I ever expected to see again. T-shirt. Shorts. His right leg is covered in tattoos, beautiful tribal designs. I never would have recognized him out of uniform.