by Hester Young
Elijah lifts his head. He pauses, seems to judge the distance to the convenience store, assessing the danger that the stocky boy presents. His calculations come to a halt, however, when two more boys stand up beside the first. The trio approaches him, slow but menacing.
Get out of there! I think, but Elijah doesn’t move, paralyzed perhaps, or else the kind of kid who just won’t cut and run.
Led by the stocky kid, the three boys form an aggressive cluster around their prey. “You got some balls showing up here, Yoon,” one says. “I’ll give you that.” Another shoves him, sends him sprawling to the pavement.
“Not this again,” Marvel grumbles, and she flies away from us, diving right into the group without a second thought.
I brace myself for the sight of a seventy-year-old woman getting slugged, but the boys fall back at her arrival. Like angry dogs suddenly tethered, they await their cue.
“Back to school,” Marvel orders them as Elijah stands and dusts himself off. “Go on, go on! You want me to tell your principal you’re out here making trouble, Garrett? Come on, now!” She shoos the three away, ignoring their baleful stares and the collective gaze of a dozen other high school kids. When she comes to Elijah, her expression turns to one of exasperation. “And you! What did I tell you? You can’t keep coming ’round here. It’s not safe for you anymore.” She nudges him toward the road. “Go on home.”
Elijah brushes a swoop of dark hair from his eyes and says nothing, but from the sullen line of his mouth, he is less than grateful for Marvel’s intervention. Shoulders hunched, he sets out for the main road.
“So that’s Elijah Yoon,” Rae observes when Marvel returns to us.
She purses her lips. “He should know better than to show up here, what with all these little vigilantes running around. You go looking for trouble, you’ll always find it.”
I watch Elijah go, a solitary form plodding along the curving road. “His family lives at Wakea Ranch, right? We’re staying next door to him. Maybe we should give him a ride.”
“Ah, you’re at Koa House,” Marvel says. “No, no, don’t you worry about Elijah. He’s in no hurry to get home. Probably best to let that family keep to themselves.” She changes the subject quickly. “You said you were looking for some lunch?” She points at the convenience store. “They’ve got sandwiches over there, nothing fancy.”
“That’s the only option?” Premade sandwiches that have been sitting in a fridge for days are not my top choice of meals.
“It’s that or the Rainbow Drive-In, a few miles down the road,” Marvel says. “You see how we need Ono Place? The kids have nowhere to go.” She surveys the bands of teenagers, who all seem newly animated by the Elijah spectacle. “Well. I’d better get back to the shop.” She pats Rae’s shoulder. “I’ll you see tomorrow then. Eleven o’ clock, yes?”
“Fantastic! I can’t wait!”
“Good, good.” Marvel takes a few steps toward her store and then stops in her tracks. She peers back at me and without prompting offers her counsel. “You’re not going to make a connection with Elijah Yoon, if that’s what you’re after,” she says, as though all my hopes were tattooed plainly across my face. “He doesn’t trust adults.”
I’m so startled, I don’t know what to say. Am I really so transparent? Maybe this woman really does have a gift.
I barely hear her parting words, spoken to herself as much as me: “If you want to help, you’ll need to come at it from another angle.”
nine
Victor and Suzumi Nakagawa live in a modest blue house about a mile from the center of town. Though the jungle hovers at the edge of their property, their yard has been completely cleared and filled with chunks of ugly black cinder. A single, extra-wide paved walkway leads from the carport to the house. I’m so taken aback by the lack of landscaping—Noah would disapprove—that I don’t think twice about the ramp up to the front door. Then Victor’s wife appears to usher us inside, and the low-maintenance yard makes more sense.
She’s in a wheelchair.
“Sue Nakagawa.” She tucks the bottle of wine that I brought into her lap and gives me a curt handshake. “You must be Charlotte, and you, of course, are Rae. Come in. Victor so enjoyed meeting you two this morning.” She doesn’t appear to share in his enthusiasm.
“Nice to meet you, Sue,” I say. “Thanks for having us on such short notice.” I try to meet her gaze with a friendly smile, although my mind is racing to accommodate her pale, unmoving legs. This is no temporary injury, not if they’ve got a ramp, and the island does not strike me as an easy place to negotiate in a wheelchair. How has Sue managed to raise two children while disabled? Parenting is hard enough without adding physical obstacles to the mix.
Rae notices the stack of shoes by the front door and scrambles to remove her flip-flops.
“You can leave your slippers on if you like,” Sue says. “My chair tracks muck around the house, so you can’t expect much of our floors, unfortunately.”
It’s hard to guess her age. Her short, stylish black hair frames a plain, square face without makeup. Still, there’s something about her that makes me want to keep looking, a quick intelligence, a knowing twist to her mouth as she sizes me up.
She moves briskly through a space that the Nakagawas have made wheelchair-accessible with unusually low light switches, wide doorways, and large pathways between furniture. No high shelving or cabinets—all the storage is within Sue’s reach. Even the photos are hung relatively low, as if Victor couldn’t be bothered and left Sue to it. All these subtle alterations to the home only serve to highlight the difficulties Sue must face the moment she leaves it.
“Victor’s out on the lanai lighting the grill,” she says, wheeling across the tiled living room. “I should warn you, though. Once he gets talking, it’s hard to make him stop.”
I ready my notebook and pen with a laugh. “I can see how that might be annoying for his wife, but for a journalist, it’s gravy.”
I pause on the way out, taking notes on the house and inspecting pictures on the walls. Unlike Victor’s strangely anonymous office, the Nakagawa home boasts an array of personal photographs— and all appear to be of Lise. I recognize her school photo from the newspaper article I read earlier, but Lise’s face is distinctive in the others, too. Even as a little girl, she had those same thick brows, that thin nose. I wonder how Jocelyn feels about this, if her sister’s pictures have always monopolized these walls or if they serve as a reminder in Lise’s absence—an eerie memorial meant to call her back home.
Only one picture tells a different story: a wedding photo in a bamboo frame that sits atop a bookshelf. In it, a long-haired Sue poses in a simple white dress, while Victor stands behind her in a tuxedo, hand placed stiffly on her shoulder. I’m struck not by their youth or the Glamour Shots–style soft lens used, but by Sue’s confident posture. She’s standing. Whatever might’ve happened in the intervening years, back then, she could walk.
“Doesn’t even look like me, does it?” Sue’s sharp gaze follows mine. “The years have not been kind.”
I have no idea what she means by that, but I’m afraid to bring up her daughter or her injury. Am I supposed to express sympathy? Marvel at her indomitable spirit, her strength? I fumble for something polite, something innocuous. “You were a lovely bride. How long have you and Victor been married?”
“Too long.”
A joke or an uncomfortable truth? I can’t help but think of Naomi Yoon and wonder about her role in this marriage.
Out on the lanai, Victor mans the grill and pours wine, which I decline. He seems more relaxed at home than at work, though he proclaims the house “an estrogen den” and describes himself as “a slave to the shifting whims of women.”
Sue’s hackles go up. “The way I see it, you can use a little shifting now and then,” she says. “You’re too set in your ways, old man.”
&nbs
p; “My husband’s the same way.” Rae sighs. “He won’t try anything new. Food, music, clothing—nope. I’m lucky I have Charlie here, because there’s no way I’d coax him out to the Big Island. He likes to know exactly what he’s getting, no surprises.”
“Sounds like we married the same man.” Sue wraps a hand around her wineglass without taking a sip. “Victor has his routine, and God forbid anyone ask him to change it.”
“Because I know what works.” Victor flips the meat on the grill with a flourish. “I know how things should be done.”
“Oh yes, he takes a firm stand on some very important issues.” Sue rolls her eyes. “For example, if you make the man a cup of coffee, you’d better put the cream in first.”
“Cream first?” Rae turns to Victor, mystified. “Why?”
“It slows the rise in temperature,” he explains. “That reduces the chance of curdling. Ask any good barista. If you see someone putting in the coffee first—you are dealing with an amateur. Don’t drink it.”
“Wow.” Rae gives Sue a consoling pat. “You have my sympathy.”
Sensing he’s lost the crowd, Victor changes the subject. “Where’s Jocelyn tonight?” he asks his wife. “Shouldn’t she be getting home soon?”
“She’s out with Kai. They’ll come by later.”
Victor frowns. “Is Kai driving? You know I don’t like her riding in a car with him.”
“Oh, calm down,” Sue says, as if this is a topic she finds tiresome. “He’s a perfectly good driver.” She sets down her wineglass and casts him a shrewd look. “I think you’re less concerned about what happens when that car is moving than what happens after they park.”
It takes Victor a few seconds to understand what she’s getting at, and then he flushes. “We don’t have to worry about that,” he says, more to Rae and me than his wife. “I had a talk with Jocelyn the other day, and . . . she’s a strong-minded young lady. She wouldn’t let Kai pressure her.”
“No, he wouldn’t pressure her,” Sue agrees. “Jocelyn’s got him wrapped around her finger. Whatever happens between them is entirely consensual, I’m sure.”
Victor’s mouth and eye twitch upward. He does not want to be having this discussion in front of guests, and Sue knows it. “I spoke to Jocelyn about the risks,” he tells Rae and me. “I told her, forty percent of sexually active adolescent girls contract STDs. Those are not good odds.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, trying not to cringe as I imagine the awkward, data-driven sex talk he and his daughter must have had.
“Jocelyn does not take unnecessary risks,” Victor tells his wife. “She’s not like Lise. She makes good decisions.”
Sue laughs sardonically. “Well, I haven’t found marijuana in her drawer yet, if that’s what you mean. But I wouldn’t, would I? Jocelyn cares enough to cover her tracks.” She glances at the notebook in my lap. “That’s off the record.”
“Of course.” Now that the Nakagawas have finally begun to discuss their children, the last thing I want to do is put them on their guard. “I have two girls myself. Give me a few years, and I’ll be in the same boat, worrying about sex and drugs and—”
“I don’t worry about Jocelyn,” Victor insists. “She’s a good girl.”
Sue folds her arms across her chest, disgusted. “Oh no, you’re not going to do the Good Girl, Bad Girl thing. Come on, Victor. It’s time to join the twenty-first century. Smoking pot and having sex does not make a young woman bad. Curious, maybe, and imprudent, given all the risk factors. But I think we can avoid moral judgments.”
Though I admire Sue’s defense of her daughters, I highly doubt that Victor has kept his opinions a secret from his children. They must know where they stand with him. What was that like for Lise, I wonder, being the “bad” daughter, the foil for her “good” sister?
It’s time to address the elephant in the room. “So Lise,” I begin. “Is she out tonight as well?”
Sue bites her lower lip and watches Victor, waiting to see how he’ll field this. His face turns sullen.
“I wouldn’t know,” he says flatly. “We haven’t seen Lise in weeks.”
“What? Weeks?” Rae does an admirable job at conveying shock.
“She ran away,” Victor says. “This isn’t the first time, just the longest.”
“But . . . why would she do that?”
Victor answers with unsettling composure. “Sue and I do not share Lise’s vision for the future. We’ve had some disagreements. She’s chosen to associate with some troubled people and missed a lot of opportunities as a result.”
“You think she’s all right, though?” I ask.
“Of course,” Victor snaps, shutting down any further conversation on the matter. “At some point she’ll get tired of rebelling, and she’ll come home.” He returns to the grill, poking at the meat with his tongs and then placing each cut on a plate. “These turned out well. Give me five minutes in the kitchen, and I’ll have dinner on the table.”
His absence does little to alleviate the tension that now permeates the air. Having remained silent throughout her husband’s account, Sue now seems depleted. Her shoulders sag; her head is bowed in private thought. I can’t tell if she concurs with Victor’s version of events or not, but the subject is clearly an upsetting one for her.
Rae tries to steer the conversation to more neutral waters. “Did I hear you’re a professor, Sue?”
“Over in Hilo, yes.” Sue barely looks up.
“It’s a state school, right? What are the students like?”
Sue massages her temples. “The undergrads are a mixed bag. Some are incredibly bright, some are not, and some are just woefully ill prepared by our failing public schools.”
“The local schools aren’t up to par?”
“No.” She makes a face. “There are a few decent charters from what I hear, but private education is by far the best option. In Puna, definitely, but statewide, too. If there were strong public schools, I wouldn’t be shelling out tuition money to Free Thought, believe me. But of course we want the best for our children.”
I don’t reveal that I’m the product of an unexceptional public school system myself. Her snobbery, though, does not go unnoticed. “So you sent your girls to the School for Free Thought? How have you liked it?”
Sue shrugs. “Expensive but sufficient.”
“Do you know Thom Marcus over at Koa House?” Rae asks. “He used to teach there.”
“Thom Marcus . . .” Sue turns to Victor, who has returned to gather his wineglass. “Thom and his partner bought that place over by Naomi’s, didn’t they?”
At the mention of Naomi, Victor’s face remains impassive. If this woman is a source of contention between him and his wife, he’s not about to let on.
“Yes, that’s the place,” he says. “Thom and David did a solid job with their renovations. They seem to be doing well with it.”
Nobody mentions Naomi again. And nobody mentions Lise.
* * *
• • •
AFTER A SUPERLATIVE BARBECUE DINNER, Victor and Rae move on to a second bottle of wine. Lips stained purple, they converse with Sue about the ethics of building a new telescope on sacred Hawaiian land. I don’t understand the Nakagawas, can’t read the vibe in the room. Victor seems content to expound upon local politics while ignoring his own family drama. Sue reluctantly follows his lead, but there’s obviously more on her mind. Throughout the evening, I’ve caught her looking at me, her gaze intense but inscrutable. Is she trying to tell me something? Is she warning me against delving too deep? I don’t know, but I’m glad when my bladder gives me a pretext to get away.
Inside the bathroom, I can’t resist nosing around, peering into the medicine cabinet and under the sink for some evidence of the girls. I discover allergy medicine, eye drops, and a whole lot of extra toilet paper, but nothing t
o indicate a teenager’s presence. Jocelyn and Lise must have their own bathroom.
From the hallway, I can hear Victor mansplaining out on the lanai, his words slower and sloshier than they were during this morning’s scientific ramblings. Rae laughs, although I can’t tell whether it’s with him or at him. I should join them, listen to his stories, poke good-natured fun at him, be a gracious guest, and yet I hesitate.
My eyes fall upon a pair of closed doors to my left. They can only lead to bedrooms, and I’m pretty sure the swimsuit dangling from the nearest door handle does not belong to Victor or Sue. If ever there were a chance to go sneaking around, it’s now.
I weigh the alternatives. Prowling through someone’s house? Bad. Failing to find Lise? Potentially worse. Perhaps if I enter her space, I’ll sense her, see something more than that uncomfortable scene in the woods.
I open the door.
It’s dark inside, but when I flip on the light, I find evidence of both sisters. The small, purple room has just enough space for two beds, two dressers, and a plush white rug Sue would be hard-pressed to navigate in her wheelchair.
As I look around, it’s clear where one girl’s space ends and the other begins. One side of the bedroom is sparse and impersonal, with white bedding and hanging bookshelves. I glance at the reading material: Stephen Hawking, Carl Sagan, Margaret Mead, Jared Diamond, Maxine Hong Kingston, Malala Yousafzai. Has to be Jocelyn’s, I think. Does she actually read this stuff, or just keep it around to look smart?
Lise’s half of the room has no such pretensions. Her dresser is littered with knickknacks: hair elastics, bottles of black and blue glitter nail polish, an iPod Shuffle with earbuds, a pack of tarot cards, and a collection of polished stones and crystals. Piles of clothes spill out from under the bed, and an orange bra dangles from her bedpost. I’m irrationally bothered by the bra. It must have been like this for weeks, Lise’s undergarment out there for anyone to see. I resist the impulse to toss it in the laundry hamper.
