“Already, you’re better than I was, keiki, but you try too hard.” She nodded toward the pots of fermenting bark. “You’re like the unformed cloth, Leia. There is much beauty and power hidden inside you. I grow tired of seeing you shrink back when you should be taking your place in the world. Look forward, keiki, not backward.” Ipo put her deformed right hand over Leia’s smooth brown one.
“I’m finding my way, T?t?. I’m finally doing something I love. No more inhaling antiseptic for me.” Leia gave her grandmother a coaxing smile. “I love it here—the quiet that’s so profound it’s almost a sound, the scent of the sea, the strobe of the lighthouse on the point.” Kalaupapa, a small peninsula that jutted off the northern coast of Moloka’i, could be reached only by plane, mule, boat, or a long, strenuous hike down the mountain, but Leia liked it that way. She wasn’t hiding here at all, not really. “Besides, I’m needed here. The residents are eager to try my natural remedies.”
“It’s a good place for those of us who don’t want to face the stares of curious strangers. But you deserve more than a dying town filled with aging lepers.” Her grandmother caressed Leia’s hand with gnarled fingers.
“Like what—breathing smog in San Francisco? Besides, you’re wise, not old. Old is just a state of mind. When I watch you, I see the young girl inside,” Leia said. Today was going to be a good day. There was no sign of the dementia that often rolled in and took her grandmother away from her. Leia touched the tiny scar on her own lip. “I just want to learn more about making kapa from you. I like feeling an important part of this little community.”
She turned and looked toward the sea. Her nose twitched as the aroma of the ocean blew in to shore. Smells ministered to her soul—the scent of brine, the rich perfume of the mass of ginger and plumeria outside her clinic, the sharp bite of the ink for the kapa she made. Sometimes she wished she could guide herself through life by scent alone. Her garden had been taken over by her hobby. Lengths of kapa covered the rocks and tree stumps in the yard, and the wooden shelves attached to the back of the building bowed under the weight of supplies.
She stood and stretched. Usually by this time, her friend Pete Kone had arrived with a dozen teenagers to learn the process of making the bark cloth from her. The art had recently been revived in the Hawaiian community, and Leia taught a cultural class to eager young Hawaiians. “Where is everyone? It’s nearly eleven, and no one has come in.”
“Pete must be running late again.” Her grandmother stood and went to the corner of the cottage, where she peered across the street to the beach. “Just look at your sister. Your mother is going to have a fit when she sees her clothes. She’ll have sand all through them.”
Leia’s cat, Hina, entwined herself around her ankles, then nipped at the speckled polish on her toes. Completely black except for a white spot at her throat, Hina was named after a Hawaiian goddess of the moon, and she carried the attitude of her name-sake—she thought she ruled the family. She roamed the Kalaupapa Peninsula like a small panther. Leia moved her feet out of temptation’s way and picked up the cat. She joined her grandmother at the side of the building.
On the beach, Eva lay on her stomach on the sand with her nose nearly touching a honu, the Hawaiian green sea turtle. Leia watched her sister mimic the turtle’s slow blink and neck roll. Twenty-year-old Eva often took Leia’s breath away with her sheer beauty. Her blonde hair, bleached almost white by the sun, topped a face that looked at the world through the almond-shaped eyes of Down syndrome.
“I’ll get her.” Leia stepped around the side of the building and hurried across the hot sand. Hina clutched her shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Time to come in, Eva.” She touched her sister’s silky blonde hair. Lost in a world where she was one with the turtle, Eva didn’t respond until Leia took her hand. Her lopsided smile radiated a charm that few could resist. Leia didn’t even try.
She helped Eva to her feet, then linked arms with her and turned toward the cottage. The noise of a plane’s engines overhead rose over the sound of the surf. Leia squinted against the brilliant sunshine. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed at the plane. It surged and rose, then fell once more before rising on the wind again. The engine made a laboring sound, sputtered and whined. A plume of smoke trailed from the engines, then a flash of light superimposed itself on Leia’s eyes, and she flinched. Eva shrieked and clapped her hands over her eyes. She began to moan.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Leia said, patting her arm. Hina yowled, dug her claws into Leia’s arm, and shivered. Leia, riveted, watched the plane.
The aircraft began to spiral in a death dance toward the sea. The silver bird separated from a small form that jettisoned from the cockpit. The puff of a parachute and the sight of the lone survivor floating toward the water galvanized Leia into action. She raced to her shop and picked up the phone. Dead again. The phone service in this part of the island was spotty. She stepped outside again and ran toward the boat.