So any federally funded development would have to get EPA approval to make sure it doesn’t pollute the aquifer. This would be huge for keeping Moloka’i Moloka’i.
The Chair calls for the first testifier. Auntie Hannah. She and Auntie Lani are the main activists fighting to protect the island’s water. I think of them as Moloka’i’s dynamic duo. The Salt-N-Pepa of water activism because first, Auntie Hannah is white and Auntie Lani is a brown Native Hawaiian and second, because they’ve got mad verbal skills. Watching them testify at public forums is the most inspiring thing I’ve ever seen.
There’s buzzing in the audience as Auntie Hannah walks to the mic. The Chair calls for silence and Auntie Hannah introduces herself. Pono and I exchange ecstatic glances. He puts his left arm around the back of my chair. His fingers barely graze my arm. I do my best to listen to Auntie Hannah’s testimony and ignore my urge to leap out of my chair and jump on Pono’s lap.
Then I hear a familiar voice.
Oh no.
No. No. No.
I pivot a bit to the left and see my dad weaving through the chairs to a couple of empty ones near the front. Freakin’ Wendy’s behind him. Dad and I make eye contact, but he looks away before I can make out his expression.
So this is what it’s come to. My dad is willing to fight for the water of Moloka’i. Willing to fight for Wendy. But he won’t fight for our family. For Mom. For me.
My eyes don’t release my panic yet. First I feel my heart shaking. Literally. Then my entire body. My eyes eventually release salty fluid almost as an afterthought. The secondary tears drip onto my lips and into my mouth.
I feel Pono’s hand on my back. “What’s wrong, Rani?” I turn to face him. His eyebrows are lifted and his eyes wide.
“I don’t feel so good,” I say, my eyes shifting to my dad and Wendy. Pono’s eyes follow mine, then return to me. Suddenly, it’s like someone shoved plugs into my ear canals. I see Pono’s lips moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying. And I can’t see him clearly because it’s as if someone put an opaque plastic bag over my head and tied it at the neck.
Air. I need air. Help!
Next thing I know I’m near my truck. Trying to catch my breath.
Dad’s home for the first time in I don’t even know how long. It’s strange having all three of us in the house at the same time. It’s like Dad’s a guest, a visiting raja from a faraway kingdom—with a new foreign rani—who stops by unannounced. In the spirit of hospitality, we all sit down for the gourmet meal his old kam vaari prepared. It makes me miss the days of our previous family dysfunction when our roles were well defined.
Mom serves us the food. A million questions spring up in my mind, slow at first, then faster and faster. Like microwave popcorn.
Why is he here tonight?
How can he leave us?
If I’m not his rani anymore, what am I?
If Mom’s still working her butt off, but Dad’s not around, is she still his kam vaari?
I watch Dad tear off a piece of bakhri, wrap it around some vegetable korma, and put the unsealed dumpling in his mouth.
It’s freakin’ delicious, right? Bet Wendy the slut can’t cook up anything half as delectable.
I have this powerful urge to slap the food out of his hand and grab the plate away from him.
Selfish bastard. You don’t deserve Mom’s cooking. Go back to Wendy and let her try to cook something this good.
He takes another bite. His eyes are focused on my head. Midchew he says, “I always wanted a boy.” His words and amused expression stun me, but my lips are wired shut and my vocal cords are paralyzed. He snickers and finishes chewing. I used to think he said the funniest things. Not right now. Right now, I’m irritated. I run my left hand over my head. I’m surprised by the bit of stubble I feel.
We finish our meal in silence, heads down. The quiet is unbearable, making my motoring thoughts louder. I swear I’m about to burst like a huge Hubba Bubba bubble some little kid blew. I keep my eyes on my plate and focus on each bite to keep myself in one piece.
After dinner, Mom and I clean up. I dry the last of the dishes. The tension is thick, like Mom’s homemade paneer. I wade through it and head back to my room. Before I make it halfway down the hall, I hear Dad’s booming voice.
“Rani. Meera. I want to talk to you. Come sit at the table.”
Finally. He’s realized what a terrible mistake he’s made. That he loves us so much. That he’s going to leave Wendy and things will go back to our normal with me and Dad. Dad and me. Raja and rani.
Hopeful, I sit down at the dining room table, my back straight. I press my quivering hands under my thighs. I glance at Mom. As usual, I can’t read her expression. I look at Dad and smile.
Dad clears his throat and adjusts himself in his chair, like he’s getting ready for a long flight. “Wendy’s going to move in with us. It’s best for everyone,” he announces.
My mouth is too shocked to curve down. I sit there like a ventriloquist puppet with a painted-on permanent smile.
“I’ve asked her to move in this weekend,” he continues.
The reality of what he’s saying strikes me. Like a mallet. That’s when my mouth drops. I contort my face in disbelief.
“Wh-what?”
I flash a pleading look at Mom, but she doesn’t notice. She’s sitting with her hands folded, staring at the table.
“Mom, say something! Come on.” She doesn’t utter one word.
Panic. Dad’s talking nonsense and Mom’s not doing anything. It’s the opposite of their usual fight. What the heck do I do?
“It’s the most logical solution for all of us,” Dad continues.
“How!?”
I shove my chair back and vault up. I pace. My breath becomes rapid. Instead of a peacemaker, I become a prosecutor. I question the defendant. “Protecting the water of Moloka’i from the Ranch is pointless if you break apart your family. They’re using up the water and destroying the land, but you’re using us and destroying our family. How are you any different from the Ranch?”
“Don’t question me, Rani. Sit down.”
He’s never talked to me like this before. Is this how Mom feels when he bosses her around? Does she feel hopeless and worthless when she does whatever he demands, even if she doesn’t agree? I shake my head and the tears start. “You made Mom move to Moloka’i. All she does is work,” I wail. “You broke her, and now you’ve left her.”
Dad’s eyes are on the table. He lifts
