Claire Cook

by Seven Year Switch (v5)

  “Aloha,” I responded.

  “No, no, it’s a question. Can you tell me if it’s true that aloha means both ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’?”

  “It does indeed,” I said. “And it can also mean ‘I love you.’”

  “Really? But, what if you meet some guy in Hawaii and you think he’s saying I love you, and he’s really telling you good-bye. I mean, doesn’t that get confusing?”

  I looked over at the clock on my living room wall. I pictured the pointy arms circling around and around in slow motion until today’s endless shift was over. I couldn’t believe this was my life.

  I flopped across the couch and put my feet up on the old trunk that served as a coffee table. “Not really,” I said. “You just have to pay attention to the tone of voice and the context.”

  What I was really thinking was that if you couldn’t tell if the guy you were with was about to say I love you or good-bye, you should probably find another guy. But who was I to give advice about love in any language.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s part of the beauty of the Hawaiian culture. Aloha is a way of showing affection, compassion, and kindness—essentially the elements that make up the culture of the Hawaiian Islands. It’s a very accepting, inclusive place, partly because there are so many influences and ethnicities—Chinese, Filipino, Japanese, Korean, Portuguese, Samoan, Puerto Rican, Vietnamese, Thai. Hawaii is a great reminder that the world is a melting pot, and we’re all pretty much a bunch of mutts.”

  A call beeped in. “Excuse me,” I said. “Let me just put another call on hold. I’ll be right back.”

  I clicked the Call button. “Great Girlfriend Geta—”

  “Hi, it’s Joni.”

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got a potential group on the line. I’ll call you right back, okay?”

  “Can you stop by the office when you get a chance?”

  I looked at the clock. If I left now and didn’t stay for more than an hour, I could make it back for the bus.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

  I clicked back to the other call and picked up the pace. “We have two GGG trips to the Hawaiian islands, one to the big island and one to Maui. Would you like me to see that you get some information?”

  “Can we all take hula lessons?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “They’re actually included in both tours. You’ve just missed the Merrie Monarch Festival, which is Hawaii’s biggest hula competition, but you can still get there in time for Lei Day.”

  “Ooh, that sounds good.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I admitted.

  I sighed. I took a final gulp of my tea and walked the cup over to my kitchen sink. “Oh, and you have to take the side trip to the Kilauea Volcano. Legend has it Madame Pele, the powerful volcano goddess, makes her home in the Halemaunau firepit there. But be careful, if you try to take a souvenir rock from her volcano, she’ll hunt you down and plague you forever with bad luck.”

  “Sounds like my sister-in-law. But it’s kind of a family reunion, so we have to take her with us.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time anyway.”

  I took down her mailing info. “Okay. I guess that’s aloha then.”

  “Aloha.” She giggled. “And I totally get which kind.”

  “My work here is done,” I said.

  JONI WAS SITTING in the middle of the floor surrounded by cartons of paperwork.

  I opened the glass door, and she looked up at the sound of the bell.

  “Aloha,” I said.

  Joni smiled. “Aloha yourself.” She shook her head. “Geez Loueez, how could I let things pile up like this?”

  “Easy to do,” I said as I leaned over to give her a kiss on the top of her head. “Here, let me help.”

  “There isn’t enough help in the world.”

  Something in her voice got my attention.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “Sit,” she said.

  I slid a cardboard carton out of the way and sat down on the floor across from her. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt that exactly matched her hair.

  “I’m thinking about selling,” she said.

  “The company?”

  Joni rubbed her scalp with the fingers of both hands. “If I can even find a buyer in this economy. I’d probably be lucky to give it away right now.”

  “You can’t sell,” I said.

  She smiled. “You’ll be fine. Anastasia’s getting older. It wouldn’t hurt you to find a job where you had to leave the house.”

  “I leave the house,” I said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Joni leaned over and put her hands on my knees. “Jill. Honey. I’m old and tired, and you’re young and stuck. It’s time.”

  We looked at each other. I tried to think of something positive to say, maybe wish her well, thank her for all the years she’d been there for me, ask her what she was planning to do with all her free time once she sold. Tai chi on the beach? That Photo-shop class she could never fit in?

  “But, what am I going to do?” was all that came out of my mouth. I bit down on my lower lip so I wouldn’t cry.

  As soon as Joni wrapped her arms around my shoulders, I started to sob. She patted my back, rocking me back and forth the way I’d rocked Anastasia a thousand times.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “Nothing’s going to happen right away.”

  I lifted my head off her shoulder and looked around for a tissue.

  “Desk,” Joni said. “Back right corner.”

  After I finished blowing my nose, I sat on the edge of Joni’s desk. I was still rocking, I noticed.

  “What if I started doing more work?” I said. “You know, take most of the load off your shoulders? Or maybe you could scale things back, just keep the trips that are consistently filling up. I could put together a list of recommendations for you….”

  Joni pushed herself up off the floor. “I think the best thing for me would be a clean break. But don’t worry, when and if I find a new owner, there’ll be plenty of time for us to get in there and pitch you and your ideas, if you decide that’s what you want to do.”

  “Seth is back,” I said, as if it might somehow make a difference, as if for some crazy reason Joni might say, Oh, Seth is back? Well, of course, now that I know that, I wouldn’t even consider selling. It would be far too much stress for you to have to deal with both at once.

  Joni shook her head. “Men. You can’t even count on them to run away reliably.”

  “Ha,” I said.

  Joni’s watery blue eyes held mine. “How’s it going?”

  I rocked back and forth while I thought about it. “I don’t know. I mean, I know how much having a dad in her life would mean to Anastasia, but I’m just not sure I can get past wanting to kill him for what he did to us. All those years of nothing. No letters, no phone calls. No money.”

  “How long has it been now?”

  I shook my head and reached for another tissue. “Seven years. And now he thinks he can waltz right back into our lives, all good intentions, like he’s never been gone.”

  “Well, you’d certainly be within your rights to kill him, but it’s messy, and the cops always go after the deserted wives first.” Joni opened the little office refrigerator. She took out two bottled waters and handed me one. “So maybe your best bet is to let him waltz. Just make sure you lead.”

  “Thanks.” I opened my water and took a long, parched gulp. “But what if he does it again? I mean, Anastasia would be devastated.”

  Joni took a sip and screwed the top back on her bottle. “You can’t control that. If he takes off again, you and Anastasia will be there for each other, just like you were the first time around.”

  I guzzled some more water. “And the other thing is the money. I mean, how do I get past that? Do you know what I could do with seven years of child support?”

  Joni smiled. “Buy me out?”

&n
bsp; “Exactly,” I said, even though I wasn’t completely sure that would be the way I’d go. Somewhere behind a towering mountain of anxiety, a whisper of a voice was telling me maybe Joni was right—I was stuck, and it was time to move on to something else. With seven years of child support I’d have the incredible luxury of shifting out of survival mode and getting to a place where I could actually think about what I wanted to do.

  “Let it go,” Joni said.

  “Let it go?” I repeated.

  Joni nodded. “And I quote: ‘At the end of every seven years you shall grant a release of debts.’”

  “That’s ridiculous. Where did you even get that?”

  Joni grinned. “The Internet, of course. Where does everybody get everything these days? But it’s from the Bible—Deuteronomy, I think. The next part goes something like, ‘Every creditor who has lent anything to his neighbor shall release it….’”

  “I don’t think it applies to this situation. Seth wasn’t a neighbor.” I slid off the edge of Joni’s desk and walked over to look out the window. “He was a husband and a father. Is. Was. What ever.”

  Joni waited until I turned around. “It’s not about him,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s about you. Honey, if you don’t forgive him, it’ll eat you alive.”

  13

  NOW I KNEW WHY JAMES TAYLOR WROTE THAT SONG about going to Carolina in his mind. I was trying to stay calm by going to Hawaii in mine, while I sat cross-legged on the floor of my imaginary lanai overlooking the ocean. Over the years, Anastasia and I had made leis with everything from hyacinths to dandelions, but I’d always dreamed of the incredible extravagance of using fresh orchids. So that’s what I was pretending to do.

  It takes fifty orchid blossoms to make each single-strand lei. I was using imaginary pinkish purple and white dendrobium orchids, which are not only beautiful, but also resilient and long-lived. In fact, if I could be an orchid, I’d probably want to be a pinkish purple and white dendrobium.

  And if I could be anywhere, it would be anywhere but here. I pushed myself off the floor of my ordinary bedroom. I closed my closet door and tried to slow my breathing. I resisted the urge to climb back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

  I willed myself back to Hawaii. The kui method of lei making involves stringing the flowers together by passing a long needle and thread through the center of each flower. There’s also a braiding method called haku, which includes ti leaves, the same leaves used to make hula skirts, as well as a twining method called wili. I decided to go with the kui.

  If I were planning one of GGG’s Hawaii trips, our first activity would be to take a lei-making class. The act of creating beauty through repetitive motion was soothing, calming, a zen experience really. It might well end up being the highlight of our entire trip.

  I stood up again. Before I thought to look away, I caught myself in the mirror over my dresser. “So much for the zen of imaginary lei making,” I whispered to my worried face.

  “Aloha,” Anastasia said when I walked into the living room. She was wearing her grass skirt, part of her Halloween costume from last year, over a pink leotard and tights. Her pink headband held a faux silk orchid in place behind one ear. The orange flower made her hazel eyes look almost jade green. Her long dark hair was freshly washed and shiny.

  She took my breath away.

  “Aloha,” I said.

  Anastasia looked up from the poster she was coloring and wrinkled her nose. “Change your clothes, okay, Mom?”

  I looked down at my favorite jeans. “Why?”

  “Mom, it’s a luau.”

  It wasn’t worth fighting about, so I traded the jeans for a unky old flowered skirt that had kind of an island feel, if you didn’t get too literal about it. The Hawaiian theme for Seth’s welcome home party had been my idea. I thought “aloha” would be a good operating principle, since the way I saw it, this hello was still essentially a good-bye, and I’d need all the ompassion and kindness I could muster just to get through it.

  The fact that I was getting a jump start on my prep for tomorrow’s Lunch Around the World class made me feel a little bit better about actually cooking for a man I would probably just as soon feed rat poison. But what could I do? Anastasia was only ten. It wasn’t as if I could hand her the car keys and wish her happy shopping.

  I walked back into the living room and executed an exaggerated model’s turn on bare feet. My skirt circled out around me. “Better?” I asked.

  Anastasia looked me up and down, every inch the ten-year-old critic. “A little makeup might help,” she said finally.

  I ignored her. I was trying my hardest not to ruin this day for Anastasia. Sharing her excitement was beyond me, but I was hoping I was a good enough mother that I could at least be a blank slate for her happiness to bounce off. I’d contribute a little cleaning and cooking to the cause. And while I was dying to take off to Hawaii for real the minute Seth showed up, I’d force myself to stay, to be there for my daughter, to make sure Seth didn’t screw things up.

  Anastasia had been practically airborne since she’d talked to Seth. She’d spent her time before and after school twirling through the house, her long hair whipping around behind her. She hopped ten times on one foot, ten on the other, then nine and nine, eight and eight, working her way down to one, then back up to ten again. She went out to our postage stamp backyard and turned cartwheel after cartwheel after cartwheel.

  And the whole time I kept thinking: If he breaks her heart, I’ll kill him.

  Anastasia held up the poster she’d made. It was covered with red hearts and pink daisies. WELCOME HOME DADDY floated across the top in purple balloon letters, and under that a smiling trio of hula dancers held hands. I looked a little closer. Mama hula dancer, papa hula dancer, and baby daughter hula dancer smiled back at me.

  “Good job, honey,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound quite as strangled as it felt.

  I helped Anastasia tape up her poster over the fireplace, and then we put on the Drew’s Famous Hawaiian Luau Party Music CD Anastasia had picked out at the library. I’d wanted something a little bit more authentic and less like Hawaiian elevator music, but Anastasia’s choice in music turned out to be the perfect touch. How stressed could you be while you were listening to the theme music from Hawaii Five-0?

  Anastasia and I had found fresh pineapples on sale, so we bought two—one for today and one for my class tomorrow. I started peeling and cutting up both of them, while she threaded the big chunks of juicy pineapple onto wooden skewers.

  We moved on to making Huli Huli Chicken to the beat of “Surfin’ USA,” taking a little break to dance around the kitchen—doing the swim, of course. Every couple of strokes we’d hold our nose and bend our knees and pretend to go under water.

  We mixed chicken broth, frozen pineapple juice concentrate, soy sauce, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, and chopped ginger in our biggest Pyrex mixing bowl. It wasn’t a fussy recipe—nothing from Hawaii was ever fussy—so I just guessed on the amounts.

  We soaked some more bamboo skewers in water, which would keep them from burning when the chicken cooked. I opened the jumbo packs of boneless chicken thighs, trimmed off the fat, and cut them into bite-size pieces, then plopped them into the marinade. Anastasia covered the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator while I washed my hands.

  Anastasia and I had been preparing food together since she was old enough to stand up on a chair beside me at the kitchen counter, so we had a nice, easy rhythm. “Kokomo” was playing now, and we sang along, faking the words until we got back to the Aruba, Jamaica part.

  “We have to remember to show my dad all my old report cards,” Anastasia said when “Kokomo” was over. “He’ll like me better if he knows I’m smart.”

  I was holding a clear glass lemonade pitcher that had belonged to my mother. I put it down carefully on the speckled Formica counter.

  “Sweetie…,” I said.


  Anastasia slid the pitcher closer to her and started pouring in the lime juice. “But we should show him pictures first, especially the ones when my soccer team made it to the play-off s.”

  I opened the pineapple juice concentrate slowly. “You don’t have to prove anything to him…,” I said, casually, conversationally, as if my stomach hadn’t just tied itself into a million knots at the realization that my daughter saw today as a tryout. If she did well, Seth would be back in her life. If not, then he’d just go looking for a smarter girl, one who played better soccer, somewhere else.

  Anastasia took the opened can from my hand. She was looking straight ahead, as if she didn’t have a care in the world and didn’t even know I was in the room with her, but I could tell she was waiting for me to finish my sentence, to tell her why she didn’t have to prove anything to the father she hadn’t seen for seven years.

  I wanted to say, Of course he’ll stay in your life. You’re brilliant, sweet, and funny. You’re so incredibly beautiful, inside and out. How could he possibly resist you?

  But the truth sat on the counter between us like a big fat white elephant. What ever the missing secret ingredient, somehow the recipe that included Anastasia and me hadn’t been enough once before.

  “The Tide Is High” was playing now. The perky line about wanting to be your number one was making me wonder if there was a DJ in the sky somewhere with a twisted sense of humor.

  I handed Anastasia a big wooden spoon to stir the Luau Punch. “When your dad left,” I said, “it wasn’t about you. You are the best thing that ever happened to either of us. Nothing about you could be more perfect—you’re smart, you’re kind, you’re talented, you’re pretty, you’re loveable. And you’re loved. What ever happens, I will always love you.”

  The sound of three distinct, evenly spaced knocks came into the kitchen like punctuation. Randomly, I thought of that old song about knocking three times on the ceiling if you want me. I hoped Drew had had the good sense not to include it on this CD.

  “He’s here!” Anastasia yelled. She dropped the wooden spoon and ran.

  Just as she opened the front door, the song changed again.