The Islands at the End of the World Read online

  Regional Events Scrapped

  “It’s two in the morning back east,” Mom says. “We’ll get the full scoop come morning.”

  My phone chimes again:

  Totally ONO! Yummy. Ha ha! Have a fun week.

  Lots of pics from the north shore yeah?

  Pics of PROS. Not you. LMAO.

  I reply:

  Fo real.

  “Pizza’s ready,” Dad calls.

  Kai cartwheels into the dining room and lands squarely on his chair. “Great. But what are you all going to eat?”

  Mom comes to the table and glances over at our luggage in the corner. “What’s in those bags, you guys? Are you going to O`ahu or running off to the Peace Corps?”

  Two big backpacks and a couple of carry-ons lean against each other near the front door, stuffed to the gills with gear. Dad wants to camp at least one night and then climb O`ahu’s Stairway to Heaven in the Koolau Range. I saw a stretch of the Stairway once from the highway. It looks like Frodo’s climb into Mordor.

  My parents have mellowed a little since I was forced to quit gymnastics. They want me to have a normal life—as long as I wear a vest, and Dad is watching, they allow me to surf, even though the doctor doesn’t approve. Climbing the Stairway to Heaven is another example of how lax they can be. We’ll have gear, of course. Ropes and harnesses.

  Now if I can just get the doctor to finally let me drive …

  “There’re duffel bags stuffed in, too,” Dad says. “We hardly ever get over there. Might as well do some shopping.”

  “Kai.” Mom is setting the table. “Go into the garden, dear, and pick us a salad?”

  The ubiquitous sound of the coqui frogs grows louder when he opens the door. Ubiquitous is one of Dad’s words. It means “everywhere.” Dad actually studies coquis. They’re not supposed to be on the Hawaiian Islands at all. They’re an invasive species. A few years back, the Hawaiian night sounded completely different. Then a Hilo big-box store garden center accidentally brought them to the island. Because they have no natural predators, you can now find three frogs for every square meter of rain forest. They drown out all other critters. “Coqui? Coqui?” Everyone’s waiting for the tipping point, wondering when the ecosystem will crash. Well, not everyone, I guess. Maybe just my parents and their geekiest friends.

  Kai returns with a bowl of greens. “Kau kau time!” We sit at the table and my parents pour themselves wine. We divide up the pizza and practice our traditional moment of silence. Grandpa knocks on the door just as we dig in.

  “Tūtū!” Kai shouts, running to the door. He pulls Grandpa to the table.

  “Hi, Dad,” Mom says. “Trip wen good?”

  Mom’s pidgin, the local Hawaiian slang, bubbles up whenever Grandpa’s around. I understand pidgin pretty well, but I hardly use it. Speak it wrong around a local and you’ll get laughed out of town.

  Grandpa shrugs. “All good. Construction delays.”

  “Pizza?” Dad asks.

  Grandpa shakes his head. “House calls on the way. Everyone offered food.”

  “Tending to the flock,” Dad says.

  Grandpa’s become our kahuna, or spiritual counselor. He’s big on keeping old ways alive in the new world. Even keeps a blog about it. He’s tall and thin with gray hair, and is strong, calm, and thoughtful. He served in the navy, and he remains a great swimmer and paddler. After the navy he was a cop on Maui.

  He turns to me. “Evening, Mo`opuna. You set?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Ho! Nervous, ah?”

  Grandpa sees everything. There’s no point in trying to hide it. “Yeah.”

  “Well, no worries. You been doing great, yeah?”

  “Been doing.” I had my first big seizure—a grand mal—when I was twelve. We were at a baseball game in San Francisco; I fell out of my seat and my whole body shook for three minutes. I don’t remember any of it. We learned that I had also been having little episodes—petits mals—for years. I would often just blank out and stare off into space. My parents wrote it off as “intense daydreaming.” The seizures became frequent when I was thirteen. Then, just before we moved, I started taking a new medicine, which cut both kinds of seizure to only a couple a year.

  Mom gives me a comforting squeeze. “I know the tests won’t be fun, but keep your eye on the prize: one pill a day instead of two, and—maybe—your driver’s license.”

  The clinical trial will go like this: When we get to O`ahu, I’ll stop my meds. The next day my trial dosage starts, a stronger medication that’s not on the market yet. I won’t know if it’s the real deal or a placebo. But if I have a grand mal, the trial will stop and I’ll resume my current meds. I’m super nervous about the potential of ending up on a placebo—I’d effectively be off meds altogether!—but I’m trying to ignore it and focus on the fact that Dad and I are staying in a nice Waikīkī hotel for free the whole week.

  “I know.” I try to look excited.

  “Well, there’s no shame if the new meds aren’t for you,” Grandpa says. “Pele’s your guardian spirit, yeah? Goddess of lightning.”

  I smile. The goddess of lightning and lava and volcanoes. “Yeah. Goddess of the lightning in my head.”

  The food disappears. Kai cartwheels away to his room to play video games.

  Dad clears the table and settles in at his computer. I help Mom and Grandpa with the dishes, but Mom says, “Lei, you should call it a night. You’ll need plenny energy for the week ahead.”

  “You sure?” I glance from Mom to Grandpa.

  Grandpa nods. “It’s past my bedtime. I’m going right to sleep.”

  “Thanks for coming.” I give him a little hug and lean against him.

  “I had to see you off.” He strokes my hair. “I’m very proud of you, Mo`opuna.”

  “Thanks, Tūtū.”

  I hug Mom, kiss Dad, and head upstairs. I like to read my Hawaiiana book before bed. But my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off.

  CHAPTER 2

  Most nights, rain falls long and hard, pelting our metal roof. Tonight it wakes me. All the buildings on the Hilo side have aluminum roofing, and during a good cloudburst the town sounds like a radio set on static.

  My heart sighs as I listen to the rain. I’m only half Hawaiian, but I want to belong. I can feel the warmth of their akua—the Hawaiian gods and family guardians. When I’m hiking in the high forest with Dad, Kāne, the creator, is in the ohia trees, watching me. And Grandpa’s right: Pele speaks to me—not only when I’m visiting the glowing caldera of Kilauea volcano, but when I’m walking over her ropy black fields of lava, or surfing. I get light-headed and peaceful.

  The island itself—it feels like home.

  Still, I’ve only lived here for three years, and most Hawaiians around Hilo are slow to accept newcomers. My mind replays the stink-eye I got from Aleka and that other tita on the bluff. Tita. Mean girl. They think I’m a trespasser.

  Tami has it worse than I do. She’s full haole, with blond hair and blue eyes. She and her mom moved to the Big Island five years ago. They don’t have any roots here at all.

  I envy Kai’s dark complexion: he can pass for Hawaiian. But it’s not the hapa thing that gets in the way so much as the fact that I grew up on the mainland. Too many folks come and go from these islands, taking, taking, taking. The locals are right to be wary.

  Still, I hate it when people try to take that feeling of home away from me.

  I only talk to Grandpa and Tami about it. The last time Grandpa and I spoke, he said, “You are kama`āina. Child of the land. No one can take that away.”

  “Try telling the titas at my school. They say I don’t count, because I grew up in California.”

  I studied his eyes, the deep wrinkles of his kukui-nut-colored face. So wise, so kind. He returned to the Big Island and discovered his spiritual side when my grandma became sick. Tūtū Lili`u has been gone ten years now. She looked like Mom; I loved to be with her when we flew out for visits, cuddling, cooking, polis
hing kukui nuts, and making leis with her.

  “You can take the child from the `āina,” Grandpa told me, “But the `āina from the child? Hawai`i’s in your blood. Don’t listen to those titas. You know, I left the force because of that rubbish. It was big even on Maui. Sovereign Nation people who want pure Hawaiian rule—it’s always been a part of our culture. The seizure of Hawaii by the U.S. military was a despicable act. The loss of our lands … But should you and your father be kicked out? No! Your dad’s just as Hawaiian as I am. `Ohana. Family. `Ohana nui. Place is very strong in us, but `ohana is always stronger.”

  My dreams often center on the mo`olelo, the stories I read in my Hawaiian class. Sometimes I’m ali`i nui, a great chief. I walk over cooled lava, my attendants beside me. Sometimes I’m the inventor of surfing, catching the world’s first wave. The gods always whisper in my ears—from the trees, the `a`a, or the sea. I never catch the words, though; same as trying to read in a dream.

  Grandpa says I have a strong spirit, that I’m particularly attuned to the akua around me. It’s true that sometimes the dreams seem real, even after I wake. I just think my brain is overactive.

  In my dreamscapes, I am home.

  I’m lulled to sleep by the rain.

  * * *

  It’s still dark when Dad nudges me awake. Mom already has eggs in the skillet. I jump up and dress. Downstairs, Grandpa’s eating a Spam musubi and a bowl of cornflakes. I wave at him, and he smiles.

  “We’re a little behind,” Mom says.

  “What, the airport doesn’t keep Hawaiian time?” I ask.

  “Eat quick.”

  “I’m not supposed to eat before the tests.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “More for me,” Dad says.

  He plops a still-sleeping Kai down on his chair. Kai resettles with his head on the table. Black hair fans out around his head.

  “Mike, just let him sleep,” Mom says. “Grandpa will watch him while we go.”

  I rub my hand through Kai’s hair. “Take care, kid,” I say softly.

  He looks up, stretching awake. “Laters,” he says. “Good luck.”

  “I want to see a full backflip by the time I get back.”

  Dad picks up Kai and carries him back to bed.

  We file out to the car, load the packs. I take a deep breath. Now or never. I dart into the carport, emerge with my surfboard, place it atop the hybrid with authority. No eye contact with anyone.

  “Lei.”

  I start with the tie-downs, humming.

  “Lei, what are you doing?” Dad.

  “What does it look like?”

  “We’ve been over this, hon. Please don’t—”

  “The drug company’s paying the baggage fees. Why not?”

  “Lei, we’re running late.” Mom is not amused. I work the straps as fast as I can.

  Dad opens his door, gets out. “Enough.”

  “You get to bring all your climbing gear. Why can’t I—”

  “Drag your longboard everywhere? We surf all the time. And all of this depends on how the trial goes, Lei. We may not get around to any of it.”

  Grandpa helps Dad undo my knots.

  I get in the car, slam my door, cross my arms, and watch my feet.

  Grandpa taps on my window. I hear a muffled “A hui hou!”

  Until we meet again.

  I glance up at him and offer a half smile as we pull out.

  “Bye.”

  We drive in silence. “See any tsunami damage?” Dad asks once we’re along the coast.

  “Just terrific surf,” I grumble. Unusual five-footers roll in. Surfing was invented in Hawai`i, probably not in Hilo. But on a morning like this, I can imagine my Big Islander ancestors gliding free as spirits over the waters. I want to have what they had. How nice it must have been for them—these small islands surrounded by sea the only world they ever knew, with their gorgeous sunrises and perfect temperatures. Paradise.

  I sigh.

  Mom’s driving, which means we go fast and screech up to the airport curb. Cutting it close, a Milton family tradition. Dad and I spring out and retrieve our packs. I can hear the radio through the window.

  “The president’s whereabouts remain a mystery. Markets are in sharp decline. The press secretary will address reporters any moment; we’ll bring you live coverage.”

  Dad frowns. “What’s this about?”

  “Huh,” Mom says. “I hope he’s all right.”

  “Dad, we’re gonna miss our flight,” I say.

  “Whose fault is that?” Dad leans in through Mom’s window to kiss her.

  I wave at her from the curb.

  “Come here.” Mom looks at me.

  I drag my feet over. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a week.”

  “I know.”

  Someone on the radio says, “The president may have fallen ill, but let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “But where’s Air Force One?” Another voice. “His plane is missing.”

  Mom turns the radio off. “Enough. Let’s video chat tonight, ’kay?” She pulls me close and kisses my cheek.

  “Sure.” I jump back to the curb and wave as our car hums quietly away. I follow Dad, who has our bags slung over his shoulders.

  Security’s a cinch. Twenty minutes later, we’re boarding.

  “Mind if I take the window?” Dad asks. He loves to gawk at the Big Island from high up.

  “Whatevah.”

  I put my earbuds in, hit shuffle on my favorite surfing playlist on my phone, and close my eyes.

  The flight to O`ahu is a forty-minute hop over the stepping-stones of Maui, Lāna`i, and Moloka`i, the tall waves and rough seas nothing but a puddle. And then straight to the clinic.

  My playlist keeps resetting. I look down at my hand. I’m clutching the phone, tapping it against my armrest. Stop. I tuck the phone under my leg and close my eyes again.

  Let the adventures begin.

  CHAPTER 3

  MONDAY, APRIL 27

  We rent a car at the Honolulu airport and zip away, shielding our eyes from the rising sun reflecting off the windows of endless skyscrapers. O`ahu is Hawai`i’s most populous island. It’s about forty miles long and twenty-five miles across. Nearly a million people live here. Fifty thousand tourists scour it for adventure every day. O`ahu is peppered with beaches, hotels, and dramatic emerald slopes.

  It’s also swarming with military—at least ten percent of the islanders work in the armed forces.

  Steep mountain ridges cut the island in two. Honolulu, which contains Waikīkī, is on the southern half. So is Pearl Harbor. The other half is mostly just a big Marine Corps base and white sandy beaches.

  On the radio we learn that a press conference happened during our flight. The president is recovering from emergency surgery for appendicitis. Glad he’s okay. Hope he recovers well. I know what it’s like to wake up and feel like the whole world is watching you.

  I just want to be normal. Is that too much to ask? I don’t want to be such a burden to my parents. I want more than one friend. I want to surf without constant supervision. I want the grand mal seizures to stop. Forever.

  I’m suddenly there again:

  August.

  It’s my third day of ninth grade, and I’m in the cafeteria. We’ve only lived in Hilo since June. No seizures since moving. I’m excited to be at school, even though I’m eating lunch alone, trying to appear confident. But I had a musubi rice sandwich for breakfast and didn’t realize the sauce contained aspartame—fake sugar—which can trigger my fits.

  And then I feel something rising up, gripping my skull. No, I think. Lights flash from the backs of my eyes, but I’m in a cafeteria full of strangers, and there’s nothing I can do.

  Now, my cheeks are hot. I push the memory away.

  Epilepsy can get better as you get older—it can even go away. Mine should, the doctors say.

  Hope they’re right.

  * * *

  We arrive at the clinic. Da
d collects the intake forms and calls Mom to ask questions as he fills out the paperwork. I shrink into a corner chair, telling myself, Today is the easy part: a bunch of baseline electrographs. No experiments until tomorrow.

  An older man in a lab coat walks us into his office. “I’m Dr. Makani. Welcome, Leilani, Dr. Milton.”

  “Call me Mike,” Dad says as we sit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

  “Thank you so much, Leilani,” the doctor says, “for taking part in our study. It’s a long way from the Big Island, but you’re a perfect match.”

  We talk about the trial. Control groups, placebos. An adjustment period once I’m back on my regular meds, during which I may continue to have seizures for a while. Dad reveals his plan to scale the Stairway to Heaven, and the doctor says, “Save that for another trip. The Stairway’s asking for trouble. Seizures can be induced by stress. Sorry, Leilani, but you need to avoid any adventures for a couple of weeks.”

  “Should have brought my longboard instead,” I mumble.

  The doctor’s eyes widen. “You surf?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not a good idea for the next several weeks. Promise me you’ll give it a break.”

  I take a deep breath. Dad squeezes my shoulder and then leans over and signs the permission forms.

  We follow Dr. Makani down the hall toward the MRI room. I’m not scared, I realize. It’s shame. I know it’s silly—I didn’t do anything to earn my disorder—but as I approach the machines that will pry into my mind and uncover what I desperately want to keep secret, I feel like a criminal being shuffled into solitary confinement.

  “Avoid any adventures for a couple of weeks.”

  I play absently with my medical bracelet.

  I’m waiting for Dad to say I told you so. But he only takes my hand and squeezes tightly. This brings me more comfort than he can know.

  * * *

  Later, I fall asleep during the EKG. Go figure. A little nap is good for the baseline, I’m told, but they also need me awake to monitor my brain activity. Dad grades exams by my side and casts me soothing smiles. I’m grateful.

  A technician is talking to the nurse clipping electrodes on me. He says, “They just shut down the stock exchange—an hour early. Dow was down over two thousand points and still plummeting when they hit the switch.”