His guests did as they were told. Ruth was struck by the peace and tranquility of this little time-lost valley; all she heard was the sound of water flowing over stones, the trilling of birds, and the distant lapping of waves on the beach, as she might have heard a hundred years ago.
“In the old days,” George said, “this was called an ahupua'a: a pie-slice of land stretching from the mountains to the sea. That pie-slice provided a family with everything they needed to live: water; earth to grow taro and other food; and the ocean, to fish from. We repaid that debt with aloha. Aloha 'āina—that means to be devoted to the land, to nurture it.”
Don quoted, “‘The land is the chief, man is its servant.’”
George smiled. “That’s right. Nurture the land and the land nurtures you. Your tūtū tell you that?”
Don nodded. “It’s why I do what I do today. I’m an oceanographer. I study—learn from—try to preserve—the oceans.”
“And that’s one big part of what being Hawaiian means,” George said.
“'Ohana is another part,” Rachel said, “and Ruth, you have the strongest sense of 'ohana of anyone I know. Maybe because you so longed for one when you were little. I wish that could have been otherwise. But it’s shaped you into a loving daughter, a loyal sister, and a wonderful mother.
“And in your love for animals, you see the living spirit in all the creatures of the 'āina. It’s what I most love about you.”
Ruth was touched beyond words.
“And Peggy,” Rachel said, turning to her granddaughter, “your love for animals has led you to become a healer, like Haleola. I know that somewhere she’s as proud of you as I am.”
There were tears in Peggy’s eyes.
Don went to Rachel, wrapped his arms around her, and said, “I love you, tūtū. We all do. Mahalo for everything you’ve given us.”
“It’s just a fraction of what you’ve given me, mo'opuna.”
“I like your 'ohana, Rachel,” George said, smiling. He turned to Frank. “Frank—it gets dark way early here, and trust me, you don’t want to drive that road to Wailuku at night. Stay for supper—I’ll have my sons and their 'ohana come up from the village, we’ll talk story about Haleola, you can stay the night and get a fresh start tomorrow morning.”
Frank didn’t hesitate in speaking for his family. “We’d be honored.”
* * *
It was a glorious night: George’s sons and their wives put together a feast of grilled ono, vegetables, poi, fish pokē, and more. One son brought a guitar and strummed beautiful Hawaiian meles. Rachel spoke devotedly of Haleola and the love she had lavished on a little girl cast up on the lonely shores of Kalaupapa. George spoke to Ruth about their people’s history, loss of sovereignty, and traditions sacred to Hawaiians, as Don and Peggy raptly listened along with her. When the Haradas at last retired to their bedrooms it began to rain outside, and Ruth drifted asleep to the comforting staccato of raindrops on the tin roof.
Sometime during the night, a sound awoke her. At first she thought it was raining harder, because the plink-plink-plink on the tin roof was now sounding more like the beating of a kettle drum. She sat up—Frank was fast asleep after a long day—and glanced out the window.
With a shiver Ruth realized that the drumming was not coming from the roof but from farther away. The percussion was distant but distinct, with an irregular rhythm she intuitively knew was made by human hands.
Or perhaps … not quite human?
“Mom?”
Peggy, lying on thick quilting on the floor, spoke but made no move to get up. “I hear it too,” she whispered. “Should we go to the window?”
Ruth listened to the distant beating of drums but did not move. “You first,” she whispered back.
“Hell no. You know how much I hated being in a marching band.”
They lay there, suspended in the magic and mystery of the moment, until the drumbeats faded at last into the deep recesses of the valley.
Ruth was beginning to suspect that there might be more to the universe than any one religion could explain.
“Never tell your father about this,” she whispered. “He’d think we’re lolo.”
Peggy smiled and closed her eyes.
Ruth lay back, listening to a silence more eloquent than words, feeling connected to the 'āina of her birth in a way she could never have imagined.
Chapter 21
1969–1970
At eighty-three, Rachel had expected to live with some aches and pains. But she had not anticipated the constant discomfort—muscle cramps, aching joints—that kept slumber at bay despite the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed. She woke today before dawn after only a few hours of sleep, feeling like a bell that had been rung all night long. These were the kind of pains she had experienced twenty-three years before, when she had lain abed at Kalaupapa, dying of Hansen’s disease—until miraculously she was granted a reprieve by the sulfa drugs that reversed her condition and reduced the bacilli to noncontagious levels. But it was not Hansen’s that was inflicting these pains on her now; it was the very thing that had saved her life and granted her freedom.
As it turned out, there was a high price to be paid for that freedom.
She lay in bed a moment, dreading what would be required of her today. She glanced over at Sarah’s bed, where her sister still slept soundly. Quietly Rachel got up and padded into the kitchen. She put on a pot of coffee—her only defense against the fatigue that ruthlessly stalked her each day. Everything she ate had a metallic taste to it now, and her stomach was easily upset. She set about making Sarah’s breakfast: bacon, eggs, and toast. Cooking it was torture, especially the smell of bacon sizzling in the pan, but she had to restrict her protein consumption as well.
She slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate beside the toast and took it into the bedroom.
“Sarah? Time to wake up. Breakfast.”
Sarah’s eyes opened. “Oh.” She pulled herself up to a sitting position as Rachel placed a tray in her lap. “But I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat. You’re going on a trip today. To see Ellie.”
“I am?”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to get you washed and dressed.”
Sarah thought a moment and asked, “Why?”
“Because you’re going on a trip.”
“No—why do you do all this for me?” Sarah asked, a fog in her eyes. “I don’t even know you. Who are you?”
The question wounded Rachel as deeply as ever. But she answered it the same way she had for the past year: “Someone who loves you very much.”
That made Sarah smile, as it always did.
For Rachel, getting dressed had never been easy with only one functional hand, but now the fingers of her left hand, her good hand, were plagued with a tingly numbness not unlike the neuritis of Hansen’s itself. This, too, was part of the price she had to pay. An hour later, Ellie—Sarah’s oldest daughter, who was sixty-two—arrived. Rachel met her at the curb. Her pretty, scarcely lined face broke into a smile. “Hi, Auntie.” She greeted Rachel with a hug. “Is Mom ready?”
“Yes, though I’m not sure she understands what’s happening.”
“It doesn’t matter. She loves Makawao, she’ll be happy there. I’ll do my best to take as good care of her as you have.”
“I know you will.” Rachel’s voice grew soft. “But I’ll miss her.”
“Auntie, the offer is still good for you too. With the keiki gone, we have two extra bedrooms. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said, touched. “But I’ll get by. I appreciate your letting me stay here in the house as long as I need to.”
“That’s no problem at all. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve gone four rounds with Muhammad Ali,” Rachel quipped. “But that’s better than yesterday, when I felt like I’d gone five rounds.”
Ellie laughed.
Ellie packed her mother’s bags and placed them in the car. Before Sarah herself got in, Rachel hugged her sister, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I’ll see you soon, Sarah. I’ll come upcountry for a visit when I get back from Christmas in California. I love you very much.”
Sarah smiled, her eyes showing not a glimmer of recognition. But she said, “I love you too,” as if she remembered the shape of love, if not its face.
As soon as they were out of sight, Rachel finally allowed herself to weep.
* * *