by Hester Young
Maybe I’ll have a few days’ peace, some time to enjoy Micky and Tasha and Noah. Life won’t be normal exactly—they’re out there, all these stories about me, still out there for anyone to see—but given time, surely I will fade into obscurity. I just have to stay out of trouble . . . which, knowing me, may be a tall order.
I’m halfway up the drive when I hear someone call my name. “Charlotte? Charlotte Cates?” The blond woman stands nervously by her car, door open, not sure she has the right house. She’s five or ten years my junior, and her vehicle has Colorado plates.
My eyes narrow. “If you’re writing an article, I have no comment.”
“An article?” She runs a hand through her hair as if confused by the suggestion. “No. I’m not writing anything. I just . . .” She pauses, and then, seeming to make her decision, scurries across the pavement toward me. “Please. I need to talk to you.”
I stand in the middle of my driveway, moving neither toward nor away from her. “About what?”
“I saw you on TV,” she says. “I thought that maybe you could help me.”
“Help you?” My words are hollow, a faint echo of her own. I see what’s coming, see the choice that I must make. Why did I ever think that normalcy would be an option?
“My son,” she says hoarsely. “I have to find my son.”
I don’t reply. I know, in this minute, that everything hangs upon my answer. Not just her future, and perhaps her child’s, but my own.
If I agree to help her, some stranger I have never met, a desperate woman who saw me on television and hoped that maybe I was the one, her salvation—if I agree to do this, I can’t go back. I can’t live a quiet life, pretending to be the woman I have always been. If I help her, it will never end. There will always be another parent, drawing me into their pain, drawing me into their loss. Sometimes, perhaps, I will help them. Find their child, like I did Alex Rocío, and provide them with that perfect reunion. But there will be other times, as with the Nakagawa family, when I can offer only answers. Answers that might be worse than the questions themselves.
“I could pay you,” the woman says. “I don’t have much, but . . . whatever I have . . . I would pay.”
“It’s not about money,” I say. “This isn’t . . . a decision based on dollars.”
I search the eyes of this despairing mother, unsure whether my involvement would offer her comfort or pain. Unsure whether exposing my abilities over and over to the world would offer myself comfort or pain. Twenty years ago, I chose journalism as my career because I believed in truth. But the truth is far messier than I ever imagined, and confronting my own truth is the hardest of all.
You see things most people don’t, Charlotte, and that’s a fact, Grandma told me when I agonized about my so-called gift. Maybe it’s time to stop worrying over it and just . . . settle into your own skin.
Perhaps that’s the real question. Can I settle into my own skin? Can I live my life as I am? Not as the person that I wish I was, but as my true and twisted self, one hand in darkness, one hand in light. Unafraid. No longer hiding.
I reach for the woman’s hand, press her thick, callused fingers between my own two hands. There’s a crackling in my skin, a small jolt, and I do as Marvel told me. I catch that wave. Feel the wind, snowflakes biting my face, and know that her son is somewhere north. An icy branch. A baseball cap dangling from the tip, navy blue, an N and Y in familiar white stitching.
“Is your son a Yankees fan?” I ask, and the woman’s bottom lip drops open, a perfect little O of astonishment.
“Yes,” she says. “His father lives in New York. They go to games together in the summer.” She stares at me, scarcely daring to breathe. “Is he alive? Do you see him alive?”
I don’t know if I can learn to harness my visions, if I can be the woman that Marvel is, surfing, selecting the right waves and riding them all the way to the shore. But I can feel this woman’s son buzzing at my fingertips, ready to speak, ready to show me things. If I don’t listen, then who will?
I think of my grandmother, a lifetime spent concealing her abilities. And I think of my girls, the women I hope they’ll grow to be: confident, courageous, tough.
I can’t settle for a life in the shadows.
I put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, feel her quaking, afraid of what I might reveal. “Come inside.” I lead her gently to my door. “We’ll talk about your son. I don’t know if I can help, but . . . I’d like to try.”
acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to the folks who made this book possible. I fully own all factual errors, inaccuracies, or oversimplifications.
Don Swanson at the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory offered his invaluable expertise both in person and in email. I’m so grateful for all the information and inspiration that he provided. The work he’s done connecting ancient Hawaiian chants to actual geological events—which Victor alludes to in this book—represents a beautiful marriage of culture and science that so befits this magical island. And the Hiʻiaka and Pele myth he shared with me shaped this novel in important ways.
Ingrid Johanson from the HVO was also generous enough to speak with me about research, fieldwork, and the life of a geologist on Hawai‘i. I so appreciate her time.
My gratitude to Clifford Lim, who helped me with my pidgin while caring for his new baby and rocking his job as an elementary school teacher. Jenny Stulck and Charles Wu provided a small window into their Puna world. I admire their adventurous lives and trusting spirits. Woody Musson taught me much about the day-to-day challenges of life in Puna. I will wash my fruit carefully forevermore.
To my alma mater, the University of Hawaiʻi: thank you for allowing this haole girl to expand her horizons and get a little taste of Pacific literature. Passionate and knowledgeable professors coupled with an interesting and diverse student body made my grad school years one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, and taught me much about the hard legacies of colonialism that Hawaiʻi and its native people continue to face. I will do my best to share the fruits of my education with others.
I owe so much to Kerri Kolen, who first sent me on this journey with Charlie. Our own lives have evolved so much over the course of these three books. Kerri, I wish you all kinds of success and happiness as a mom and book wizard. It has been a pleasure to work with Danielle and all the great folks at Putnam and Cornerstone. Their commitment to books and authors brings so much joy to readers and writers alike. My agent, Esmond, also remains a valued guide.
Much love to my mama, Deb, for sharing a very special Big Island camping trip with me. Your patience and support—even when faced with some wild plans over the years—have been a great blessing. And I knew I could count on my dad, John, to explain the intricacies of walk-in freezers. He didn’t disappoint.
Spencer Wise listened to my ideas, begged for new chapters, and never let me succumb to self-doubt. His enthusiasm and willingness to travel have made my writing life possible. Finally, a big thank-you to Paxton and Lyra for reminding me that, while I have the coolest job in the world, a job should never be what matters most. I’m honored to have a role in your stories.
about the author
Hester Young is the author of The Gates of Evangeline and The Shimmering Road. She holds a master's degree in English with a creative writing concentration from the University of Hawaii at Manoa, and her work has been published in literary magazines such as The Hawaii Review. Before turning to writing full-time, she worked as a teacher in Arizona and New Hampshire. Young lives with her husband and two children in New Jersey.
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