Strong Like the Sea, стр. 17
When the patter of rain on the roof finally stops, I grab my oilskin hat and head for Auntie’s house.
There are nine hundred and eighteen steps between our house and Auntie’s. I know because Mom counts them under her breath every time we walk. Once, I counted how many mailboxes, cars, and driveways there are between our house and the roundabout near Hukilau Beach and wrote it all down so she would know the counts already. I thought maybe one less thing for her to worry about might make more space for me.
Mom thanked me but didn’t stop counting things on her own. I guess her numbers sound better than mine.
Snuggled between Kamehameha Highway and the beach, Auntie and Uncle Tanaka’s house sits behind a stone wall with gnarled Hau trees twisting up around the gate. Dad says the solid metal gate was Uncle’s idea, and the person-sized door to the side was Auntie’s.
Weathered hinges creak as I swing the heavy wood door open, slip inside, and close out all the traffic behind me. Lush trees, flowers, and bushes line the edges of the walls from decades of Uncle’s and Auntie’s gentle gardening. Colored stones border the flower beds in patterns from when Mom used to spend her afternoons here, before she had to work all the time. The first message I ever figured out says “I love you” in Morse code, with sky blue for dashes, yellow for dots, and green for spaces.
Out of habit, I steer clear of the stinky fruit under the noni tree and hop over another of Mom’s patterns laid into the bricks of the pathway; a pigpen cipher that spells “Ohana”—family.
Cracks between the bricks glisten where rain had kissed each nook and cranny during the storm. It won’t stay wet long, though. Already, patches of blue sky push the clouds aside, and sunshine warms my skin as it peeks through the holes to chase the last of the mist away.
I ignore the front door and head for the lanai on the side where three Hala trees stand guard over the pathway. With their shaggy heads and towering roots rising out of the ground like legs, they seem to perch on the tips of their toes, waiting for the right moment to run across the yard and find a new spot—but of course they never do.
Tucked under the lanai, a half-full basket of long, slender lauhala leaves waits to be woven into mats, baskets, hats, or maybe something else for PCC. Part of their mission is to preserve Polynesian traditions like Auntie’s weaving, so she teaches Polynesian university students how to do that or make purple poi paste from taro roots if they don’t know how already.
Auntie’s tried to teach me, but I’m not great at weaving, and patience isn’t my strongest thing. But I do love to hear her play the ipu gourd while others dance the hula. She’s amazing.
“Aloha, Auntie!” I call through the screen door, and wait for permission to enter.
“Over here!” Auntie calls from the backyard.
I jog around the side of the house to the open grass that slopes down to the sea. About halfway between, Auntie sits on a log in the shade of coconut trees while Uncle works on his boat in his red Kahuku T-shirt, cutoff jeans, and slippers. He’s shorter than Dad, and maybe a little more wiry, but he’s just as strong from a lifetime of hiking shorelines and riding waves. He used to run, too.
“So, what’s this you found?” Auntie pats the towel draped over the log beside her.
Treading across the lawn, I pull the glass bottle with the stopper from my shorts pocket. “I found a glass stopper behind the picture of you and Uncle in the boat, and it fits in the bottle. Did you know it was there? I thought maybe—”
A deep bark rumbles over the sound of the waves as a furry mountain rises up from the firepit behind Auntie and glares at me.
I slow, but Auntie turns and nudges the enormous dog aside with one hand. “Hey, you behave. Get. Alex is ohana, and don’t you forget it.”
“Hi, Sarge.” I flutter a few fingers at the mammoth Newfoundland, but he ignores me like always and lumbers over between us and Uncle before flopping down on the grass. Sand clings to the tips of his long white and brown hair where it dried into crusty icicles. Strings of drool swing from his jowls and splatter slobber-drops across the grass as he huffs once in my direction and lays his head on his paws.
Auntie clucks her tongue. “What? You think she’ll take Uncle’s time from you? He has plenty time to share.”
“I do not. Haven’t got one thing done all day.” With his back to us, the sun shines bright on every white strand that speckles his long black hair.
“You’ve worked plenty. And when’s the last time you visited with our Alex, eh?”
Wiping his hands on a rag, Uncle glances my way and gives me the tiniest of smiles—so quick it barely moves his wispy beard and mustache before it’s gone again. “Good to see you, Alex.”
“She’s got something from Elizabeth,” Auntie says. “One of those hidden messages. Come look.”
“You go ahead. I hear fine from over here.”
“Shame; is that the best welcome you can do? Why not just show her the door?” Auntie shakes a finger. “You keep pushing everyone away and someday you’ll find no one there when you need it most.”
“I don’t push them away; they go on their own.” Uncle pushes his copper glasses up with the back of his wrist and turns back to his work.
“Pfft. And the wind doesn’t blow. Fo’ reals!
“They do what they want! The day I invite people in for more trouble is the day