The Descendants (10 page)

“I’ve got some in my backpack,” she says.

That damn backpack has everything in it. It’s pretty much stocked to get us through the next ten years.

“They’ve got some good candy, I bet,” Dr. Johnston says. He takes a plastic hospital card out of his coat. “Here. Use this.” His mood seems upbeat, positively optimistic.

“I’m full,” she says and sits down. “I’ll stay here. I want to hear about Mom.”

Dr. Johnston makes eye contact with me. He suddenly seems stunned and exhausted. His shoulders are rounded, and his chart hangs by his side—it almost seems as though he’s going to drop it.

I look at him and slowly shake my head. Scottie sits on the chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, waiting.

“Well, then.” He straightens his posture. “As you know, her scores have been okay, but they have gotten lower this week. Some very low-scoring individuals have achieved excellent recoveries, just as higher-scoring patients sometimes show no improvement at all, but in this case, we…we—”

“Scottie. I need to talk to Dr. Johnston alone.”

“No, thank you,” she says.

“Well, we should have a greater indication later as to…how much longer…she’ll be in this unit at this point in time,” he says.

“So it’s good, then?” Scottie says.

“What’s good to know is that if a patient in a coma survives the first seven to ten days following the injury to the brain, then long-term survival can be expected, but—”

“Mom has been here longer than that! Way longer than seven.”

“No, Scottie,” I say.

“She can survive, but the quality of that survival will be poor,” the doctor says.

“She won’t be able to do the things she could once do,” I say. I look at Dr. Johnston to see if I’m right. “No motorcycles. No boats.”

“Then she won’t get hurt,” Scottie says.

“Let’s go, sport. Let’s go to the beach.”

I look at Dr. Johnston, his unruly eyebrows, his grooved and spotted hands. I remember him at our many gatherings in Hanalei, the families getting together for Christmas break in the old plantation homes with their creaky floors and poor lighting, mosquito nets and ghosts. Dr. J’s face was hidden most of the time behind a cowboy hat, and he’d spend the days fishing or playing guitar, something my father couldn’t do; it lured us kids in, placated us. My dad would always go fishing out in the deep sea, one time bringing in a marlin, its swordlike nose pointing like an accusation. Most of the time he’d bring in tuna, and in a reversal of roles, the men would clutter the kitchen, fussing over sauces and getting the barbecue to the perfect temperature.

I’m wondering if he’s remembering these times as well, me as a young boy watching openmouthed as he strummed his guitar. This must be hard for him and strange. He has known me since I was one hour old, raw and slippery. He writes something down on his chart. I have the urge to put my arms around him and tell him I don’t know how to do any of this and to help me. Tell me exactly what’s going to happen. Play me a song. Get me out of here.

“So, Mom’s okay,” Scottie says. Dr. Johnston doesn’t say anything, and I still don’t know what’s going on except that it’s something unfavorable. Scottie gathers her things, and when she is turned away, he puts his hand on my back. His stoic expression frightens me.

“Can you come back later?” he asks. “We need to talk privately.”

“Of course.”

He walks out of the room, and when he turns to walk down the hall, I can see his profile, which looks determined and almost angry.

“Beach!” Scottie says, walking out of the room, not even glancing at her mother. I silently apologize to my wife for leaving her here, for her low scores, and for not knowing what they mean, for going to the beach and possibly enjoying ourselves. Will she be paralyzed? Will she not know the ABCs? I kiss her on the forehead and tell her I’ll take care of her. Whatever happens, I will be there for her. I tell her I love her, because I do.

10

AT THE CLUB
the shrubs are covered with surfboards. There has been a south swell, but the waves are blown out from the strong wind. We walk on the sandy walkway alongside the dining room, an open terrace with coral pillars and ceiling fans. My cousin’s grandfather, a lover of water sports, was the founder of this club one hundred years ago. He leased the beach-front property from the estate of the queen for ten dollars a year. In the lobby next to a picture of Duke Kahanamoku, a plaque reads,
LET THIS BE A PLACE WHERE MAN MAY COMMUNE WITH SUN AND SAND AND SEA, WHERE GOOD FELLOWSHIP AND ALOHA PREVAIL, AND WHERE THE SPORTS OF OLD HAWAI’I SHALL ALWAYS HAVE A HOME
. Today anyone can commune with sun and sand and sea at a starting price of fifteen thousand dollars, monthly dues, and an initiation process that tends to blackball those with unfavorable pedigrees. I tried to explain this to Scottie when her friend’s father wasn’t accepted. Board members believed he had ties to the Yakuza. She didn’t understand.

“Unfavorable pedigrees?” she asked. “Like a Pekingese?”

We all hate those little dogs.

“Sort of. Well. No. It’s not a good process, sweetie.” I liked her friend’s dad. He was quiet. So many people I know gab your ear off, but whenever I happened to come across him, we never ventured into the land of small talk, and our brief exchanges always managed to be comfortable. The rumors that he was connected to the Japanese mafia made me like him even more. I mean, everyone wants a friend in the mafia.

I follow Scottie past the big open windows with the wooden jalousies. She walks to the outer terrace and up the steps to the dining room, which is relatively empty. Everyone is outdoors, engaging in the sports of old Hawaii and the sports of new Hawaii—the club is also credited with the invention of beach volleyball, and balls are constantly being lobbed out of the courts and onto the heads of unsuspecting sunbathers.

“We can’t leave until something funny, sad, or horrible happens to me,” Scottie says.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh. I’ll stay out of your way, but I’m not leaving you alone.”

“That’s not fair. That’s so embarrassing.” She looks around.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” I say. “It’s nonnegotiable. All your friends are in school anyway.” I should just put her back in. I could work, she could learn. I don’t know why I need her in my constant sight all of a sudden.

Scottie points to the tables on the perimeter of the dining room and tells me I can sit over there. There are a few ladies playing cards at one of these tables. I like these ladies. They’re around eighty years old, and they wear tennis skirts, even though I can’t imagine they still play tennis.

Scottie heads to the bar. The bartender, Jerry, nods at me. I watch Scottie climb onto a bar stool, and Jerry makes her a virgin daiquiri, then lets her try out a few of his own concoctions. “The guava one is good,” I hear her say, “but the lime makes me feverish.”

I read the paper that I borrowed from one of the ladies. I’ve moved to a table that’s a little closer to the bar so I can listen and watch.

“How’s your mom?” Jerry asks.

“Still sleeping.” Scottie twists atop her stool. Her legs don’t reach the metal footrest, so she crosses them on the seat and balances.

“Well, you tell her I say hi. You tell her we’re all waiting for her.”

I watch Scottie as she considers this. “I don’t talk to her,” she says to Jerry, and her honesty surprises me.

Jerry sprays a swirl of whipped cream into her drink. She takes a gulp of her daiquiri and rubs her head. She does it again. She spins around on the stool. She snaps a picture of Jerry and then begins to sing: “Everybody loves me, but my husband ignores me, guess I’ll have to eat the worm. Give me a shot of Cuervo Gold, Jerry baby.”

Jerry cleans the bottles of liquor, trying to make noise.

I wonder how often Joanie sang this little song. If it’s her standard way of asking for tequila.

“Give me two of everything,” Scottie yells, caught in the fantasy of being her mother. I want to relieve Jerry, but I don’t. I let him deal with the discomfort because I can’t right now.

“What other songs do you like?” he asks. “Maybe sing another one.”

I watch the ceiling fans shuffle the air. The sun hits the right side of my body and makes me sink a little farther into my chair. I zero in on the paper I have been pretending to read and look at the weekly feature called “Creighton Koshiro’s Kidz.” The column highlights the lives of the island’s children—those who embody the aloha spirit and have a good GPA, those who have done something remarkable like run a marathon with no left leg, or something charitable like donate all their Bratz to girls in Zimbabwe. I don’t like this feature in the same way that I don’t like bumper stickers that boast an honor student is on board. Neither of my girls will ever be one of these Kidz.

I hear Scottie’s voice and lower the paper and see her looking over her shoulder at her butt, which she’s shaking back and forth. She’s singing, “I like it like that. Keep working that fat.”

That’s it. I start to get up, but then I see Troy walking toward the bar. Big, magnanimous, golden Troy. I quickly pick up the paper again and hide behind it. My daughter is suddenly silent. Troy has killed her buzz. I’m sure he hesitated when he saw her, but it’s too late to turn around.

“Hey, Scottie,” I hear him say. “Look at you.”

“Look at you,” she says, and her voice sounds strange. Almost unrecognizable. “You look awake. Smile.” I hear the sound of the camera.

“Uh, thanks, Scottie.”

Uh, thanks, Scottie. Troy is so slow. His great-grandfather invented the shopping cart, and this has left little for Troy to do except sleep with lots of women and put my wife in a coma. It’s not his fault, but he wasn’t hurt. It was an annual race Joanie competed in with Troy. They raced a forty-foot Skater catamaran and Joanie was the only woman on the circuit. Troy told me that on turn #8, they were right on the tail of another boat, and he tried to make a pass. He ran out of room and had to quickly move left to maintain course.

“What do you mean
you
tried to pass?” I asked Troy.

“I was driving,” he said. “Joanie was the throttle man this time. I just really wanted to drive.”

Rounding a mile marker while Troy tried again to pass the other boat, they launched off a wave, spun out, and Joanie was ejected. She wasn’t breathing when rescue divers got her out of the water. When Troy came in from the race, he kept saying, “Lots of chop and holes. Lots of chop and holes.” It was his first time driving. Joanie always drives.

“Have you visited her?” Scottie asks.

“Yes. Your dad was there.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her the boat was in good shape. I said it was ready for her. I told her she’s brave.”

What a Neanderthal. I hate when people say how brave someone is when really they’re just surviving. Joanie would hate it, too.

“Her hand moved, Scottie. I really think she heard me.”

Troy isn’t wearing a shirt. He never wears shirts. The man has muscles I didn’t even know existed. He’s athletic, rich, and dumb, with eyes the color of a hotel swimming pool. The exact kind of person Joanie befriends.

I’m about to lower the paper until I hear my daughter say, “The body has natural reactions. When you cut off a chicken’s head, its body runs around, but it’s still a dead chicken.”