Instead, Makani scrolled through her phone. She no longer hoped for a text or message or email from Jasmine, her former best friend. And she no longer hoped that, for some miraculous and unlikely reason, everything would go back to the way it had been before. Those hopes had perished a long time ago. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment, though perhaps it began when she’d signed the official government document that changed her surname from Kanekalau to Young.
She hadn’t taken her mother’s maiden name because of the impending divorce. She’d taken it because it wasn’t safe to be the easily Google-able Makani Kanekalau anymore, and she’d needed a fresh start in Nebraska.
Still . . . Makani checked her phone.
As usual, there was no word from back home. At least the messages of hate had long stopped. No one there was looking for her, and the only people who still cared about it—the incident, as she self-censored that night on the beach—were people like Jasmine. The only people who mattered. Makani would have never guessed that her friends’ permanent silence would be infinitely more painful than those weeks when thousands of uninformed, condescending, misogynistic strangers had spewed vitriol at her. It was.
Even without the repeat of their most frequent fight, Grandma Young’s voice turned disapproving. “You left the kitchen cabinets open again this morning.”
Makani stared harder at her phone. “I’m not the one leaving them open.”
“My memory is fine, hon. You’d already left for school when I got out of bed. It’s basic manners to tidy up after yourself. I’m not asking for much.”
“I didn’t even have breakfast this morning.” Makani couldn’t conceal the swell of her frustration. “Have you called your doctor? Like I asked you to?”
“As you’re well aware, I haven’t had an episode in almost a year.”
Makani looked up, and Grandma Young immediately lowered her gaze. It was hard for her grandmother to discuss her weaknesses . . . or have anyone question her version of the truth. They shared this trait. Grandma Young snapped two puzzle pieces together in a way that signaled the end of it as Makani kept staring, wishing that she could push the discussion while recognizing the depths of her own hypocrisy.
Her grandmother was taller than most women of her generation. She had short hair that she had allowed to age, gray with white speckles. It looked beautiful, like the negative of a snowy owl. Makani’s paternal grandmother, back in Hawaii, still dyed her hair black. Grandma Kanekalau even used the same color and brand as Alex.
Grandma Young wasn’t so harsh. She had soft dark brown skin, a soft figure, and a soft voice, but she spoke with the firmness of a commanding authority. She used to teach American history at the high school. She’d been retired for half a decade, and though Makani was thankful that she would never be subjected to a class taught by her own grandmother, she imagined she’d probably been a good teacher.
Grandma and Granddaddy Young had always been kind in a way that the rest of her family was not. They asked questions. They were attentive. Even before the divorce proceedings began, Makani’s parents had been selfish. As a child, Makani had wanted a sibling to keep her company, to adore her, to care about her, but it was for the best that her parents had never had another child. They would have ignored him or her, too.
But Makani’s banishment to Osborne wasn’t just because of her own unspeakable mistake. Grandma Young had also done something bad. Last Thanksgiving, her neighbor caught her sleep-pruning his walnut tree at three in the morning, and when he’d tried to rouse her, she’d lopped off the tip of his nose. She’d been having trouble with sleepwalking since the unexpected death of Makani’s grandfather the summer before. Doctors were able to reattach the fleshy nub, and the neighbor didn’t sue, but the escalation had alarmed Makani’s mother, who persuaded her father that the best solution—to all their problems—would be to dispatch their daughter to watch over Grandma Young.
Makani’s parents couldn’t agree on anything, but they had agreed to send her here. They probably believed the lopping had been serendipitous.
For the most part, Makani didn’t think her grandmother needed a babysitter. Not a single hazardous episode had occurred since Makani’s arrival. Only in the last few months with the return of these mundane, low-key episodes—open cabinets, misplaced tools, unlocked doors—had Makani realized that she was, indeed, needed.
Usually, it felt good to be needed.
It had backfired only once.
She’d been needed in July. The heat that afternoon had been stifling, the kind of oppressive humidity that lends itself to tank tops, short shorts, and bad decisions.
Makani already had all three covered.
It was the first anniversary of Granddaddy Young’s death, and her grandmother wanted to spend the day alone. It was also Wednesday, double-coupon day, so Makani offered to do the weekly shopping in her stead. Greeley’s Foods was less than two miles away, on Main Street. It was as plain and boxy as the high school, but with the added charm of lower ceilings and cramped aisles.
Makani couldn’t understand why these places didn’t expand their premises. There was plenty of room to do it. Unlike coastal Hawaii, rural Nebraska had an abundance of land. It had nothing but land. It was a completely different country.
She entered the store with a handwritten list and a recycled envelope stuffed with coupons. They noticed each other right away. He was wearing the green Greeley’s apron and restocking the plum tomatoes. Only Ollie Larsson could make an apron look sexy.
Makani wanted to say something. By the way he stared back, she knew he wanted to say something. Neither of them said anything.
She wheeled around a rickety cart and filled it with healthy food. Her grandfather had died of a heart attack, so her grandmother had been recently consumed by the gospel of nutrition. As Makani hunted down boxes of steel-cut oats and bags of dried beans, she prickled with the knowledge of Ollie’s movements throughout the store. When he switched from stocking the tomatoes to the squash. When he hustled over to aisle five to clean up a broken jar of sweet relish. When he drifted back to produce.
They had never spoken in school. They’d had several classes together, but he kept to himself. Makani wasn’t even positive that he’d been aware of her existence before that afternoon. She’d hoped he might switch to working one of the store’s three registers, but as she headed toward the checkout lanes, he vanished into the back room.
She couldn’t help it. She felt disappointed.
Makani was piling grocery sacks into Grandma Young’s early-nineties gold Taurus wagon when she heard the laugh—singular and derisive. She slammed the trunk closed angrily, already knowing that it had something to do with her.
Ollie stared at her from the alleyway beside the store. He was perched on a plastic milk crate, giving all the appearance of a smoke break, except instead of a cigarette, he was holding a book loosely between his fingers.
“You think my grandma’s car is funny?” she asked.