Speaking of letters I never found, you never left me one.
Never sent me one. Never left me a note or a sign.
As I boxed and gave away your clothes and packed up the apartment.
I kept thinking I would find something. All last fall
My breath arrived each day with the mail.
- Taylor Mali, For the Life of Me
The State of Grace
I feel like I'm dancing on dynamite as I move through the house. Dad and Steve watch my every move, every grade, every text, every breath. They are afraid I'll be like her and they will miss a sign or a clue. Every morning I rush out the door, avoiding eye-contact with either of them and run full tilt the six blocks to catch a public bus to school. I would rather wedge myself into a crowd of caffeine crazed commuters and sunscreen drenched tourists than ride alone in a car with my dad. The volume on my iPod doesn't go up loud enough to drown out the unspoken accusations and questions his expression screams at me across the silent space between us. The conversations we need to have just cannot be contained in 20 minutes between home and school .
Today waves of diesel exhaust wash over me with the sea air through an open window on the bus. It is marginally better than drowning in the cologne of the corpulent businessman standing over me in the aisle. The squirrelly kid behind me keeps bouncing his legs and kicking the back of my seat while his mom talks on her cell phone, voice raised to project over the ambient noise, to someone named Carolyn about poopy diapers and vomit and diarrhea in all too graphic terms. The sensory overload presses in on me closer than tropical humidity before a rain. The major-grade test waiting for me in third period AP English has the tide of nausea rising bitterly in my throat. It is almost enough to make me wish I had ridden with dad. Almost.
There is a familiar tingle along the scar on my left thigh reminding me of the razor blade I keep wrapped in a panty liner in my backpack with a few other toiletries. No security guard will search too thoroughly through a woman's feminine hygiene products looking for a weapon, as least not at this high school. The blade is my back-up plan. If the day gets to be too much pain helps me cope. Sounds bad, I know, but it works. I'm not her. I don't want to die I just don't know any other way to live.
It is easier to blend in at public high school than the private schools my step-dad sent me to. I don't miss it, or him either. Here I can pass off sophomoric crap as an English essay or argue revisionist fascist nonsense in World History and still get an A. Here there are no uniforms, no dress code. I wear long sleeved t-shirts and board shorts. No one asks me why. They assume I'm a surfer. My naturally dark brown hair has bleached blonde streaks in it from the year-round sun so the persona fits if you don't look at me too closely. And they don't.
The bottom line is: I'm still a ha'ole. My dad is still a cop. And my mom killed herself.
Most kids in my grade just leave me alone.
I was the one who found her. Opened the bathroom door and looked right into my mother's vacant eyes staring up at me through bloody bathwater. I met Dad in the doorway of the apartment, covered in her blood, just minutes before the paramedics arrived. He thought I was bleeding, thought I was dying. And in a way I was; he was too. Maybe we still are. Death is like divorce, but this time Mom left us both. Permanently. This time it was Dad's partner who provided the six-pack of beer and talked him off the metaphorical ledge night after night, while I went to therapy twice a week. We packed up the apartment and moved the rest of my stuff in with him and Steve.
My step-dad is probably still in Indonesia or Malaysia somewhere inexplicably lobbying to build five star hotels for Eco-tourists. Haven't heard from him since the funeral. I was twelve when they divorced and blamed myself for it. Now I know among other things Mom was lonely. Stan treated marriage like a designer suit he wanted to wear only on special occasions when the clients came around. These days I blame him, if he wasn't such a shallow sonofabitch she might still be alive.
Fat guy gets off the bus at next to last stop. By the time we get to school I can breathe.
Laoshi zaoshanghao. Good Morning Teacher. First period Mandarin. Check.
Second period, Economics. "Review the Arab Spring of 2011 and its affect on the global economy, specifically the development of alternative energy technology in America." I should not have let Dad and Steve talk me into this impossible class schedule. Maybe I don't want to go to the Naval Academy after all. Maybe I'll just stay here, sell shave ice and go to community college.
The dreaded English exam involves analyzing sections of Burnt Norton from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets in which he dissects the nature of time. "The still point of the turning world," of my turning world, to borrow his phrase, is the day my mom offed herself in our bathtub. That is the point which never changes for me. The counselors say she would want me to move on, to go on living. She didn't want to go on living herself why the fuck would she tell me to do the same? I can't seem to move past it or move around it. I will always be defined by "it" I have no answers for that essay question because the one who coud tell me the answers is gone "Humankind cannot bear very much reality" Eliot got that part right.
Focus, Gracie. You can do this. Write the essay the teacher wants to read. The one about Eliot blending Christian theology with allusions to Western literature and Eastern texts. "Garlic and sapphires in the mud," my ass.
My life resembles its own ecosystem or the global economy. I credit the Buddha or my beginner's understanding of Quantum Physics or even T. S. Eliot for this awareness. Whatever. Whomever. I just know I have to hold it together because if I don't my dad will freak. If he goes off the deep end, Steve will dive right off after him. And so on it goes into ever expanding concentric circles. Like the butterfly in the Amazon whose wings set off a hurricane on the other side of the world, my life is chaos theory in action. I'm the butterfly. There are a lot of people counting on me to be strong.
Fourth period Calculus. Numbers. Equations. Logic. Formulas. No emotion. Just reason. Compute the derivative of y = f(x) with respect to z. Sixteen problems in 50 minutes. Piece of cake.
"Ms. Williams. You are needed in the counselors office. Take your things with you."
There is a pointedness to my math teacher's sotto voce tone that stabs directly into my gut and a forboding behind his eyes that makes my palms sweat.
This isn't about skipping school day before yesterday.
This is Something Else.
Nodding but not asking questions, I grab my backpack to I do as I'm told.
Coming around the corner to the school counselors office, my heart skips a beat and senses move to high alert. I'm a little surprised to see it is Kono not Dad or Steve waiting to pull me out of school. Threat assessment is a survival skill I learned from Danno that applies just as well to adolescence as to police work. Officer Kalakaua's shoulders are relaxed yet her overall stance is tense. Hair and clothes slightly askew as if she rushed to get here; her expression serious but not grave. One of my dads is in trouble, hurt possibly but not dead. Put on the emotional flak vest, Grace.
"Hi Kono. What up?" Keep the tone light, don't assume anything.
"Hey Gracie." Kono hugs me just a little too long and a bit too tightly. "There's been an accident – ."
Steady, girl. Breathe.
"- Your dad was on his way to meet us for lunch when an SUV blew through a red light and plowed into him. One of the LEO's recognized tags on what's left of the car and called 5-0. The new guy took Steve to the scene and I came to get you."
"What's left of the car? Is Dad ok? "
"He's a mess, but he's alive. We won't know anymore than until we get to the hospital. You good to go, honey? Got all your stuff?"
"Yeah. Sure. I got it. Let's go."
The closer we get to the hospital the more everything seems to happen in slow-motion, but without the sound distortion. I remember feeling this way when I was seven years old stumbling down the concourse at Newark International Airport through a torrent of heartbroken tears with Mom and Stan, away from Danno. Again when I was twelve and sniffling at my disheveled reflection in the side-mirror of the U-Haul as Mom drives us away from the big house to the apartment. And then at a week shy of fifteen, dry-eyed and numb as I watched the ambulance disappear down the block carrying the body of my mother.
"You know, Kono, you really can't call Detective Goshi 'the new guy' anymore. Its been years." She doesn't respond to my attempts at nervous small talk
Kono's phone beeps. I can see by the caller-ID that it's Steve. She transfers the call to her headset before I can hear what he has to say. The air is punctuated with a series of uh-huh's and all-right's. Bad must have just gone to worse because Kono steps on the accelerator. Panic wraps itself around me like the winter parka I wore as a little girl in New Jersey. Fight or flight instinct kicks in. I try focusing on the red and white Kukui High Marching Band button on the strap of the backpack nestled on the floor between my feet. Trumpeters do it with Brass
Flight wins. "Kono. Stop. I left my horn at school. We need to go back and get it. Now. Turn around."
"What? No, we'll go back later."
"Now, Kono. I really have to get my instrument. Please."
"Sweetie, they are prepping your dad for surgery. We should hurry." Kono does not take her eyes off the road.
"I need my trumpet." I need my Danno.
I didn't say goodbye to him this morning. I ducked out the door. I raged at him last night when he was hounding me about homework. What if the last thing I ever say to my father is not "I love you" but "Why can't you leave me the fuck alone?"
Come to think of it, the last thing my mother ever said to me actually was "I love you."
I know for a fact love does not conquer all, does not make up for all the blood, does not excuse her ducking out of my life forever with out leaving so much as a note. It has been almost two years I still want to scream at her "Why the fuck did you leave me?" At least I'm not alone.
Let it go, Grace. Focus on Danno, not Mom. The remainder of the drive to Queens Medical is spent convincing the part of me that wants to freak out or scream or cut to stand down while the rest of me repeats incessantly an inarticulate prayer.
He's got to be ok. Please let Daddy be ok
Chin intercepts us at the walkway between the hospital entrance and the parking garage.
"Steve called me. Canceled my classes and drove right over."
Makes perfect sense. Chin Ho Kelly may be teaching in Waipahu at the Academy these days but he is still 5-0, still ohana. He updates Kono and me on what is known: Danno has already been taken in to surgery;. The family waiting room is on the third floor but it is going to be a while; Side-curtain airbag deployed properly; Probably saved him; No head injury; His pelvis is crushed. Some internal bleeding and organ damage. Hospital staff has asked us to give blood for him. And directs us toward the lab.
Chin's wife is already there in a recliner, hooked up to tubes as a bag of blood fills at her side. Her hospital is on the other side of town. She must have flown or hit all the lights just right to get here before me and Kono. I suddenly have a Manga image in my head of Dr. Malia Kelly, Medical Superhero, white lab coat hooked about her neck as a cape, soaring above Oahu to resue the broken.
I'm seventeen, a minor, and don't have the "express written permission of a parent or guardian" to give blood. The nurse seriously tries to push this paperwork technicality on me when my father is upstairs fighting for his life. Dad and Steve's "immunity and means" in Hawaii apparently does not extend to the workings of the hospital blood bank. Clutching the backpack to my chest for stability like a life vest in case of water landing, I explain to the nurse as reasonably and calmly as I'm able that I've given blood before at school therefore there is precedent for parental permission. She is unimpressed.
"Please let her do this to help her dad." Kono attempts to intercede for me from where she is now bleeding out into a bag as well.
Just as I am about to burst from the pressure building up inside me, there are strong heavy hands on my shoulders. Exhaling breath I did not know I held I lean back into the arms of my surrogate father. Chin must have called for back up.
"You ok, Grace?" Steve strokes my arms and shoulders in soothing motion and kisses the crown of my head.
"Sign the form, please. They won't let me give blood for Danno." My voice is thin, barely above a whisper. I sound like I'm five. My chin even starts to quiver. Steve has always been able to walk right through any personal barriers I might put up like he is freaking Superman, not a retired Navy SEAL.
"Sure, Monkey." In one smooth motion Steve has me turned around and dropped my bag to the floor. I bury my face in his chest and hang on for dear life, willing the tears not to come. Over my head he instructs the nurses to give him the consent forms and set me up to give blood. "Its gonna be ok, Gracie. No matter what. He's going to be ok. Remember Danno loves you. I love you."
"But what if –?"
"Hush, baby. One thing at a time, you know that. You and Kono stay here and I'll go call your grandparents. Let them know what is going on. When you're done we'll go up to the third floor and wait for your dad together. All of us." Nodding in the direction of Chin and Malia who was now eating graham crackers and sipping on orange juice. "If there is any change, any news at all, I have the hospital pager. They will let us know right away."
"Wait! Wait, Steve. You are giving blood too, right? Stay with me. We gotta to do this together, for Danno."
"No, sweetie. I can't."
"I don't understand"
"It is against the rules for someone like me or your dad to give blood."
"What? Why? Because you're gay?"
"Something like that, Monkey. Its ok."
"No, it's not ok, it's ridiculous. You're clean. Dad's clean. You've been like old married folks practically since the day you met. What is the fucking big deal?"
"AIDS"
"Well, yeah, duh. Your point? I'm not stupid. Straight people get it too. Everybody's blood is tested for a bazillion things including HIV before they use any of it."
"It is just a regulation that hasn't been changed, baby."
"Well, it should have been! Gah, that is so antiquated." Raising my voice and gesticulating wildly, I am without a doubt my Danno's daughter. Anger and righteous indignation fueled by the already overwhelming emotions of helplessness and fear erupt from within me with volcanic force. "Screening questions are only as useful in weeding out potential bio-hazards as the honesty of the person answering them. The people who process donor blood are already making a humongous leap of faith in handling the blood anyway. And they are delusional if they think the answers to a few stupid questions offer them any real protection. Its not the words that keep them safe. I swear administrators came up with the idea just to cover their assess from lawsuits!"
"Grace. Monkey. Calm down." Again those hands are on my shoulders pulling me back into the moment, "You aren't going to change the world today. Right now we need to focus on Danno." Steve's strong arms envelope me, ground me, "I'll stay with you. Chin or Malia can go call Grandma and Grandpa."
"Ok. You're right. I'm sorry. Its just so wrong." Shoving my sleeve up my right arm I surrender to nurse and needle, "Let's do this."
The needle stings going in. Lying there, watching as blood flows steadily from my arm into the bag, I wonder why mom chose to cut, took the razor blade to her wrists, lengthwise, lying naked in the bathtub. No one could pretend it was an accident, that her hand just slipped while shaving her legs or something. She knew exactly what she was doing.
My head is starting to swim,"Steve, help me. I'm gonna be sick!"
Giving blood after just a cup of coffee and blueberry muffin for breakfast is really dumb. I have done this before. I should know better. At least there isn't much other than bile in my stomach to heave into the trashcan the nurse grabs for me. "Oh God, now the room is spinning. I'm gonna pass out."
"Breathe, Gracie. Focus. Look at me, sweetheart. Eyes open."
"ugh, just let me pass out."
A cool, damp washcloth applied to the nape of my neck pulls back the darkening curtain of unconsciousness. The buzzing sound that filled my ears fades until I'm shaky, but pretty much myself again. The same nurse who was such a stickler for protocol moments ago is now hovering over me like my fat old Hawaiian Auntie.
"You need to eat something, sweetie?"
She pronounces me sufficiently recovered to be plied with juice and snacks
"My lunch wasn't gonna be until after Calculus."
Steve insists that Kono go out to grab me a hamburger and fries.
"Veggie. Burger. Please."
Steve scowls. He and Danno think my being vegetarian is some sort of teenage rebellion. "You need meat, kid. Red meat. Kono, get her a real burger."
"Whatever, Commander." I smirk weakly at them both, "Nothin' with a face, Kono."
Soon the hospital pager in Steve's pocket vibrates like we're waiting at a restaurant on Friday night. Steve returns the call to the OR nurse's station. Steve abruptly strides off in the direction of the elevator without a word before he has even disconnected the call. Suddenly my hands are all thumbs. My cold feet have frozen to the floor. I am unable to pick up my bag or force my feet to follow him.
"GRACE!"
The force of his will alone pulls me toward the open elevator doors.
Steve says nothing but there is a wildness in his eyes that speaks volumes. The muscles in his jaw are clenched and his pulse is rapid in the vein on his temple.
"What – ?"
He raises a hand to silence me.
But I have to know, "He's – ?"
"No"
I slip my hand in his and lean a bit against his arm.
Please let daddy be ok. he has got to be ok. Just let him be ok.
A/N Never before attempted writing a story from first-person perspective. Wonder if it works. Also working on "show don't tell" idea that my writing instructor keeps bringing up. Feedback very much appreciated.
There is a video on YouTube of Taylor Mali performing the poem I quote at the top. He is perhaps most popular for his poem What Teacher's Make. Check him out. His use of words is just magical.