Strong Like the Sea, стр. 54
Should I have counted?
“Twenty-seven years ago, I saw a flipper waving out there like this”—Uncle wiggles two fingers in a quick up-down wave—“from a floating pile of wood and netting. I paddled out and found her all tangled up with net around her neck and fins. I thought I’d cut her loose and let her go like usual, but when I pulled her up onto my kayak, she had this plastic ring cemented into her shell all the way around.”
“A diving ring?” I’ve played with them in pools before, but never in the ocean.
“No, it was a Frisbee ring, the kind people throw for dogs to catch. She must’ve swam through it and got stuck. By the time I found her, she’d carried it for so long, her shell had started growing around it.”
Uncle watches Saisei as if seeing her as she was back then: small, caught, and helpless, but still struggling to live. “A turtle’s shell isn’t like stone. It’s alive and grows with them with blood flow and nerves from the bones of a turtle’s ribs and spine, which fuse to make up their shells. I’m sure she felt pain when it dug in, but she survived—at least until she got tangled in the net.”
Auntie slides her arm around Uncle’s waist and leans her head on his shoulder. “It was all he could talk about. The turtle this, turtle that—we named her Saisei because she’s reborn.”
“What color was it?” I ask.
He glances at Auntie. “I think the net was green.”
“No, I mean the Frisbee ring.”
“Ah, it was sun-bleached, but it used to be red—remember I said they like red? We had to surgically remove the embedded plastic and treat a stubborn infection where the Frisbee cut deep. Healing was a slow process, but eventually we released her right here.”
“And here she’s stayed.” Auntie smiles softly. “She has good taste.”
Waves wash over Saisei’s misshapen shell as she pushes forward and slips into the sea, her awkward, dragging gait giving way to grace as the ocean welcomes her home and gives her wings. A regular turtle living a regular life. If it weren’t for the scars, you’d never know anything was ever wrong.
Uncle drains the last of his cup and sighs, “She’s lucky to be alive. I’ve seen studies of a few others who’ve survived more shell damage than her, but haven’t seen them in person. There’s a red-eared slider who was stuck in a six-pack wrapper that shaped her shell like a peanut—so that’s what they named her. And I believe there’s a snapping turtle they called Mae West because she crawled through a tiny milk jug ring when she was a baby and got stuck halfway through. Think of how small that is—a ring of a milk jug. Cinched tight around her waist, it gave her an extreme hourglass figure as she grew everywhere except in that one spot still bound by that little ring. It’s a miracle it didn’t sever her spine.”
I push my cat-eye glasses up and squint at the water, trying to catch one last glimpse of Saisei, but she’s already gone to wherever turtles go under the waves.
Uncle gives Auntie’s shoulders a squeeze and steps away from the shore. “You want to stay for dinner? When does your dad get home?”
“Um . . .” Did Dad have time for dinner on the schedule? I can’t remember. “I don’t know.”
“Ask him when’s the best time, and let us know.” Uncle nods and walks toward the house. “It’s been too long since we’ve had company.”
I blink and watch him go. “Did Uncle just invite us for dinner?
Auntie pats my back and murmurs, “Fo’ real, seems pigs can fly.”
Dad doesn’t answer his phone, so Auntie takes me to pick up grindz at Laie Chop Suey before bringing me home. She’s putting on a strong face, but after spending all day at the doctor’s with Uncle, I think she’s even more tired than I am. I don’t want to pry, but she says something about Uncle’s tremors messing with his blood pressure, and when he didn’t take his medicine and got all upset, it made everything worse.
“Ask your dad about dinner, yeah?” Auntie echoes Uncle’s words as I step out of the car.
“Okay!” I kick off my slippers at the screen door, set the Chop Suey bags on the table, and check the wall calendar.
Dad’s schedule has him on a dive today, tomorrow, the next day . . .
I scowl and run a finger along the week. Every single day? Even if Uncle invites us again, it’ll have to be only me, because Dad’s too busy to do anything at all. And what’s with the extra red lines under my parts of the schedule? The report is underlined twice, and Mom’s challenge is underlined three times. A few stars even sprinkle the lines on the weekend—whatever that means. He colored it without me. Not cool.
I shouldn’t feel disappointed. I mean, I know he’s worried about money and Mom. That’s why he added lots of jobs this week. He’s doing his best, but it’d be nice to go do something together because we want to, not because he scheduled it ahead of time.
The pot stickers cool off long before Dad gets home, but he swirls a pot sticker in shoyu sauce with chopsticks and pops it into his mouth anyway. “Aren’t you glad you were there to help and not off in Kailua on a goose chase?”
Goose chase? I set my chopsticks across my plate and fold my arms. He’s the one who keeps underlining my schedule like I’m running out of time. How am I supposed to solve anything if I don’t go find the next clue?
“I’m glad I could help Uncle and everything, but if I’d gone to Kailua, I coulda been back already with the new clue. I woulda gone if Malia hadn’t missed the bus.