The Islands at the End of the World (3 page)

“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.

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, polishing 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.

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. Dad 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.