For him, it’s been the perfect “fuck you” to the Ranch for “fucking with him.”
Anyway, Dad’s in line at Moana’s. He turned his head and dug around in his front left pocket for his wallet before realizing it was in his back pocket all along. That’s when I spotted his new beard. So George Michael. Short boxed, closely trimmed. I inhaled sharply. In the two weeks that I hadn’t seen him, he let his five o’clock shadow grow. He never allowed himself to keep any kind of facial hair before. Come on now, the guy used to ridicule guys with hair.
Rani, what do you call a man with a beard?
I don’t know, Dad. What?
Unemployed.
Oh the irony.
I snuck up behind him and tapped him lightly on his shoulder. “Hey, Dad!”
He spun around. The gigantic bouquet brushed my face. “Oh, hi Rani. What’re you doing here?” he asked, pretending to be unphased.
“Pono and I are ordering some lei for school. Who are the roses for?” I asked, my fingertips touching the red velvet band that held the stems together. I tried to sound calm though my heart was pounding.
Dad didn’t skip a beat. “Your mom, of course,” he said, then gave me a self-righteous smile.
Yeah right.
How could he straight up lie to me—with absolutely no hesitation? After he left, I paraded back and forth in front of Moana’s, debating. I decided a call to Mom was in order. I rushed to a nearby pay phone and dialed. Like a sportscaster, I laid out a play-by-play and wrapped it up with my hunch about Dad’s two-timing.
Mom refused to believe my girl’s intuition.
The roses were on the kitchen counter when we got home from work later that evening. Duh. Obviously he had to drop them off. He’d even scribbled a fake ass card.
To: Meera. From: Pradip.
Pathetic. No “Love, Pradip,” of course. Mom didn’t say a word. Her face remained impassive as she filled a tall, crystal vase with water and added an aspirin.
I pushed the mop faster. The scowl on my face grew as I thought about the smug look on Dad’s face as he held the bouquet that day. For me the roses were the penultimate piece of the puzzle. B.R. (Before Roses), I was skeptical. Seriously, since when do activist meetings run all night? A.R. (After Roses), I was completely done falling for it. But I had no clue that the final piece of the puzzle would be revealed in less than two hours.
Mopping done. Moping, not so much. I rinsed out the mop and bucket and propped them against each other on the floor to air dry. Mom was wiping down the sinks. She wrung out the towel and hung it, then sat on the rusty metal chair in the corner.
“I’m starving, Mom. Time for Kanemitsu’s. You want anything?” I asked, smiling, trying to be cheerful.
“No, I’m tired.” Her face was sour like amchoor. I watched her massage her swollen left ankle.
She had twisted her ankle here three weeks ago running around as both cook and waitress. Time to rest and heal her ankle? Ha! That’s a luxury Mom hasn’t had since we moved to Moloka’i five years ago.
Mom yawned. “I’m going home. I’ll eat the leftover shaak and bhatt.” Her eyes were vacant, as if she were peering through the paneled wall.
By then it was 10:30 p.m. It was the earliest we’d ever been pau on a Saturday. We locked the back door and headed down the ramshackle stairs to the unpaved parking lot shared with the Big Wind Kite Factory and the Maunaloa Post Office. Besides those two businesses, a gas station down the road, a Moloka’i Ranch office, and our store and restaurant, there aren’t any other shops or offices in Maunaloa. My eyes adjusted to the night. I saw a thick, eight-inch centipede zip past my mom’s feet and make its way under the raised restaurant building.
She didn’t notice. I walked more cautiously, deliberately lifting my kicks a few inches higher than normal. Didn’t want any centipede guts on my Adidas beauties. I climbed into our green 4runner. My waterworks started when I saw Mom lift her ankle into our dusty Cressida so carefully. I cried in the darkness. My mind went straight to that summer day in ‘87 when we still lived in Connecticut, the day Dad came home from work and dropped a bomb.
“I’m moving to Moloka’i. Come if you want.”
He left the next day. That’s exactly how it happened. Without telling Mom or 12-year-old me, Dad had purchased Maunaloa General Store and West End Café, leasing the buildings they were in from the Ranch. And, despite every fiber of her being rejecting the idea of leaving the East Coast and her Gujju social network, the strong Indian subservience flowing through my mom’s veins took over. On her own, she packed everything, sold the house, and said her tearful goodbyes. Dutifully she and I boarded one of the first of several planes, setting out on our journey to the remote Hawaiian island we still couldn’t properly pronounce.
Ever since then, the three of us have been living in cultural isolation on Moloka’i. No other Indians here, let alone Gujaratis. I’ve had five years to stew about all this. It’s clear to me that the wheels of our severe family dysfunction had already been in motion on the East Coast, but they went into cruise control on our time capsule-island-of-turmoil—Dad’s ego stroked and inflated by his increased ability to do whatever he wanted without the meddling and gossip of our Gujju friends and relatives, Mom cut off from her protective Gujju connections. And me, fully dependent on Dad’s attention for any semblance of worthiness. A self-sustaining state of disarray. Our family roles became carved in volcanic stone. Dad—raja, the king. Mom—kam vaari, his servant. Me—rani, his queen.
But, slowly and steadily, the trade winds of seclusion have been eroding our rocky foundation. And Dad’s deceit started a landslide.
I rubbed my eyes. Must. Not. Cry. After all, I’d been looking forward to Kanemitsu’s all week. Couldn’t show up puffy-eyed. I cranked the stereo cassette player. Queen Latifah was rapping about the Evil That Men Do, a track I’d had on rewind for a couple of weeks. As I listened, I pretended she was the big sis I never had. Her supreme vocal presence soothed me.
Womaned up, I pulled out of the gravel parking lot.
The single lane “highway” between Maunaloa and Kaunakakai was pitch black—nothing new because there aren’t any street lamps. No stop signs or traffic lights either. Nothing to break the tedium of the twenty-five minute drive. Most nights I don’t pass any cars.
A while back, Pono told me something that still kinda freaks me out every time I’m driving back from Maunaloa. He said that at sunset or sunrise I should be wary of huaka’i po, particularly near the sacred Kapuaiwa Coconut Grove that’s one mile before Kaunakakai. Makai of the highway. When I’m driving alone in the dark, even if it’s way past sunset, I get scared I’ll hear the drums of the ‘oi’o. And they’ll be chanting and marching near me. If you look the ghosts of the departed warriors in the eye, you’ll die. No thanks!
But thankfully my rumbling tummy directed my attention to images that weren’t frightening: Kanemitsu’s famous hot bread slathered with melting, gooey cream cheese and sweet and tart liliko’i jelly. Wiping the drool
