Strong Like the Sea, стр. 59

Near the other side of the yard, I peek under the cover of the catchment, which looks sort of like a round aluminum kiddy pool, but is really for collecting rainwater. And behind that, an isle of coconut trees stands tall, surrounded by thick foliage with wide, glossy leaves. But I’m pretty sure Dad’s favorite plant will be the banana tree with its long, dark purple stem that drips like a strange elephant trunk tipped with a violet flower.

Someone worked really hard to make the yard beautiful with fruits and flowers all over, but my favorite plant is a weed. Sure, sleepy grass has thorny seedpods and stems that are murder on bare feet, but when I blow on their thin branches, the leaves fold up super quick, like a hundred tiny doors slamming shut to hide from giant-sized me. Probably I shouldn’t play with it, but it’s just so cool.

I help Dad put the rest of our stuff away while telling him about the backyard—and I’m right about the banana tree. He loves it.

Once groceries are put away, Dad pulls a poster-sized photocopy of a new, more detailed schedule from his bag and spreads it over the table. “Okay, we’ve got a lot to see in a few days.”

“Wait. You brought the schedule?” My lip curls almost as much as Elvis’s, and I wipe my mouth to hide the grimace.

“There’s so many places your mom likes to visit here, and I’m not sure which ones she wanted you to see, so we’re going to hit as many of them as we can and hope we got it right. You’re gonna love it.” Dad pats my shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll hit the Hilo Farmer’s Market early, pick the Tanakas up from the airport, and head to Rainbow Falls.”

Dad lists destination after destination, but there’s so many, they feel more like assignments to check off than adventures.

“. . . Picnic lunch at Laupahoehoe park, and a quick trip over to ‘Akaka Falls before we head back down to the Rainforest Zoo. The next day we’ll. . . .”

“Co-qui!” I turn my face to the window screen as the first coqui frog begins his song. “Co-qui! Co-qui!”

“But you’ll have to wait and see where the last destination is. I’m positive Mom would want us to save it for last just in case she can make the grand finale for your special trip.”

My head snaps up. “Wait, Mom’s meeting us there?”

Dad leans back in his chair, lifts both hands, and lets them fall in his lap. “That was the plan. She was supposed to meet us here when we first arrived, or at least before the last stop of the trip, but I still haven’t had any word that she’s off the sub.”

So weird, having “Mom’s special trip” without Mom here at all. I sit up, “Are you sure they’d tell us?”

“Tell us what?”

My fingers tap thumb to finger in sequence as I try to sort the words inside my head. “So, hypothetically, let’s say a submarine was destroyed or captured—would they really tell us?”

He pulls me in for a squeeze. “No one is conspiring to keep her away. I already told you she’ll come home to us safe and sound. All you need to worry about right now is enjoying the adventure she set up for you. She loves you. Never doubt it.”

“I know.”

“So, what do you think of the schedule?”

“Sounds . . . busy.”

“It’s a matter of priorities. It’s like my dad always said, the early bird catches the worm—used to drive me nuts.”

I wrinkle my nose. “But wouldn’t you rather have bacon?”

“We—what?”

“Eggs would be good too, or toast, or strawberry pancakes—really, anything’s better than worms.”

“Haha, funny girl.” His voice is flat, which only tickles me more. “Now get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I kiss his cheek and run get ready for bed, but when I turn the lights out, I leave the window wide open and let the song of the coquis spill into the room.

I try to hear the deep, hollow pulse of the Hawaiian tree cricket, or the higher, tinny chirp of the Uhini iki cricket that should be there, but the night is filled with frogs. “Co-qui! Co-qui!” Unrelenting, their high-pitched call eclipses all other night sounds until the forest rings with their singular plea. An orchestra overwhelmed and silenced by one piercing instrument. So small, and yet such a powerful voice. Demanding, pleading, calling, needing.

As the nightly rain patters on the catchment cover, I drift off wondering who they’re looking for, and whether they’ll finally be satisfied when they’ve found them.

In my dreams, I search the shore for something I need, but I can’t remember what it is, so I pick up everything I find. Rocks, shells, driftwood, and plastic fill my pockets and pile on my back like a hermit crab. Each precious new find presses my steps deeper into the sand as I stagger under the weight of my treasure. But it’s never enough. So I try harder, search longer, as my shell grows big enough to blot out the sky.

When Dad shakes me awake and chases my dreams away, they flee to the edges of memory and hover in that shadowy space between reality and imagination.

Only a thread of the idea remains, enough to remember desperately searching for something, but not enough to remember why.

It haunts me a little as Dad and I walk between booths of every kind at the farmer’s market, like I should pay extra good attention in case I run across . . . something. Under the wide market tents, booths overflow with fruits, baked goods, colors, and creations of all sorts. At one end, I spot Mom’s favorite local artist with his images of reef and waves painted with light, and beside him, strong guys chop coconuts open with machetes. Dad lets me pick out sweet apple bananas, rambutan (yum!), local papaya, mochi, lumpia, buns, lilikoi jam, and a few small gifts besides. We carry our bags