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Distant sunlight makes shadows of Lolana and Derek sitting opposite me.
“Welcome back,” Lolana says. “When you want to try sitting up, we have sandwiches. And water.”
My throat is parched. “Water.”
“Take my arm and sit up slowly.”
The world doesn’t spin. My hand finds the dressing at the back of my head and the bandage around my forehead.
“It’s minor,” she says, “but the head always bleeds like you’re dying. The icepack has helped. Don’t panic when you see your shirt.”
Then I remember. Tears threaten. “Where’s Sage? Is she ... OK?”
Given the drama, it’s a lame question but Lolana’s smile says everything. “A small graze on her arm needed a bright purple sticky bandage with ice cream cones on it. Now she’s sleeping it all off with her new toy rabbit, Pebbles.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. When Derek gives me the water bottle, I remember Sage’s bottle with the drawing inside. Pebbles. Did Sage take it into hiding with her? But I’m too tired to think.
Then I notice Derek’s face. “DD, your smile is wobbly, but I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t laugh. “You scared me, Selkie. Don’t do it again, OK?”
“No more rescues of children from abandoned buildings? How am I going to get famous?”
“Your fifteen minutes of fame are just a few yards away. Some journalists are still hanging around out the front, waiting to speak to you. Don’t let them take a photo. Trust me, you look ... ragged.”
The conversation is having a strange effect on me. Even though Derek is urging me to behave in future, it’s not to control my actions. It’s because he cares about me. For my sake. Lolana too.
“Derek means you look authentic. Oh, and Gracie left you this.” She holds up a lacy white shirt with buttons. “She’s still recovering after standing by and trusting you to save her daughter – the woman she banished. Her emotions are pretty confused right now, so Hudson asked me to pass on their gratitude. They’ll catch up with you soon.”
Still banished, but I forgive her. When I was in the moment, I never gave a thought to how Gracie was holding up. Mothers are wired to save their children, so she’s gone through an ordeal much greater than mine. But Ralph Akina never stopped blaming himself for Roxie’s death, and I’d be in his shoes if I’d failed to save Sage.
Lolana resumes doctor mode. She tells me to leave the bandage in place for twenty-four hours, use the icepack to reduce the swelling, and report any headaches. Then Derek turns his back while I perform a mini-makeover with the borrowed shirt.
When I’m done I say, “Tell me about the rock fall, DD.” His eyes widen as if he believes I’ve intuited it. “I overheard the guys talking about it.”
He blows out the breath he was holding. “On the Olomana Trail. The OSAR team had passed the spot a few minutes earlier. Out of the blue, a boulder leapt off the slope above the track and took a whole lot of other rocks into the ravine. Olomana’s revenge on intruders? Anyone on the trail at that point would have gone over the edge. The team was pretty shaken by what might have been.” I stare at him until he adds, “Yeah, it was about the time I would have been catching up to them, if you’d let me go. So you saved my life too. That’s two of us in as many hours. It’s why I need you to stick around a bit longer, OK?”
Overwhelm is threatening. I focus on the plate of sandwiches.
When I’m fed and ready to go, with the ili ili from the selkie-slither safely stowed in my tote bag, we both farewell Lolana. Our hugs say our shared ordeal has brought us closer. Derek leads me towards his car. He moved it into the driveway while I was asleep and it’s surrounded by a small crush of waiting press, held back by several police officers.
“Ms Moon doesn’t want to take questions,” Derek says, “but she’s going to make a statement.”
Facing the hand-held microphones and cameras, I say what we’ve just rehearsed. “A lot of people helped to rescue little Sage today. I told her a fairy tale to keep her calm. As part of the story, we played some music and she crawled out to safety, with just a graze on her arm. I got a small cut on the head that looks more dramatic than it is. The doctor says I’m fine to go home. Thank you.”
As Derek ushers me to his passenger door, a journalist calls out, “Can you confirm this property is where five-year-old Rosemary Davis drowned in 1961? There’s a rumour that she’s haunting this house and Sage is channelling her.”
What? Where did that come from?
Another asks, “Did Rosemary’s vengeful spirit lure Sage under the building just as it was about to collapse?”
“No comment,” Derek says.
He bundles me into the front seat and shuts the door. I lock it. After jumping in behind the wheel, he backs out, while the police help to part the crowd and cameras flash through the car window.
“Shit, DD. That sideswiped me. Thanks for the ‘no comment’.”
“I’ll bet that gets into the online rag-sheets. Luckily there’s nothing on my website to fertilise the grapevine.”
As he turns onto the road, I glimpse a woman standing in the shade of some trees not far from the house. Even under her wide-brimmed hat, I recognise her.
“Did you see that woman from the Historic Homes Trust, DD? Marisa Torres. She was hanging back behind the journalists. What’s she up to?”
“Probably showing interest in the house we asked her about. The disappearance of Sage is all over the news so she came up to do some rubbernecking.”
“She looked like she was trying not to be seen.”
As we head back to Honolulu, her presence bothers me. After the dramas of the day, I should be thinking about a hot shower and an early night. Instead I pull out my phone and ring the Trust, knowing Marisa won’t be there to answer.
“Hello, I’m researching the history of a property that’s listed on your website. The details are pretty scant. Do you keep extra files on each property, accessible to bona-fide researchers?”
“We can’t deal with research enquiries, I’m afraid,” the man says. “We’re staffed by volunteers and we don’t have the space to store files. Unless we’re still in the process of updating the online listing, what you see is all we have. Can I ask which property?”
“Thanks. I have the information I need.” I hang up. “That newspaper cutting wasn’t in the secret file because they don’t have one.”
“What made you ask that?”
“I wondered if Marisa’s interest might be more personal than professional.”
“Now that I think about it,” Derek says, “she jumped at the chance to meet up for that cocktail. I thought it was the lure of a free drink.”
“Did you tell her you were from the Surreal Deal?”
He thinks back. “I can’t remember. I said we were looking for information about why the Turners upped and left.”
“What if she already knew about Rosemary’s drowning? And she gave us that clipping about Ralph Akina to point us in that direction without revealing a personal interest.”
“Why not just tell us what we were asking for?”
“She’s hiding something.”
That’s when the day catches up with me. I sink into the seat and let Derek drive me home. He called Wanda from Waipunalani so, like the mother I never had, she’s waiting to wrap me in a bear hug.
“It’s a pretty big story, Selkie. It didn’t take you long to get knee-deep in a local drama, did it? They’re saying you saved her life.”
“I don’t know how it happened. I’m trying to lie low.”
“Really? It’s not working.”
We sit on our beds and I update her on things that won’t be in the news.
“You think Sage has found the dead girl’s bracelet? It explains how she knows her nickname. Not psychic, like some of the stories are pushing.”
“Yeah. It’s a relief if she isn’t. No channelling.” I yawn. My eyes won’t stay open. “Sorry, Wanda, I can’t talk anymore. I’m too exhausted.”
“Can I run you a bath?”
“A shower would be awesome. But I must keep the wound dry.”
“Let’s see if I can magic up some hot water.”
She insists I drink a mug of mamaki tea, while she produces clean towels and a shower cap with a palm leaf pattern. The shower eases the aches in my body and in no time I’ve crashed into my own bed where I sleep for twelve hours.
*
On Thursday, I keep Derek’s hours. After borrowing a sunhat from Doris to hide my bandage, I go incognito behind dark glasses on a late bus to the office. None of the passengers gives me a second look.
Flashes from yesterday’s rescue invade my solitude. I wrap my fingers around the two ili ili in my tote bag and remember what Gretel said about the universe clapping. What if I am in the right place? What if my presence here was fated? It’s a fanciful thought, but my connection with Sage produced the magic that drew her to safety. How would they have rescued her if I wasn’t here?
Before I can deal with these momentous questions, an email from Patrick pings on my phone. He’s done an offline draft of my website to review, a reminder that beyond magic is my real job and all the work ahead.
But Waipunalani is still holding secrets. Only after Sage was trapped did we discover Rhett’s own connection to the pool house where Turner supposedly brought his teenage conquests. Rhett was there back in the eighties, quoting on a restoration when the developer bought the place. And what about Marisa Torres? She must have a personal interest, but she looks too young to have been more than a baby in 1961.
When he comes into the office not long after me, Derek notices the two pebbles I’ve put on my window sill.
“The universe is clapping,” I say. “Something my sister said about my new life.”
He smiles. “Does prescience run in the family?” Then he holds up his phone. “Here’s another take on yesterday.” He reads, “RESCUE HERO TIGHT-LIPPED ABOUT HAUNTING.”
“Eek! What should I do?”
“Ignore it. No-one will recognise you from this photo. Bandages have their uses. Plus they spelled your name wrong ... Selfie.”
I laugh. “Saved by auto-correct!”
He grins and moves on. “The Coopers have asked us to a barbecue tomorrow afternoon after work. They want to thank you in person and they don’t have your number. Plus there’s something they want to tell us.”
“I wonder if they’ve found the pearl bracelet. It should prove that Sage hasn’t been channelling Roxie. Just reading her name on a tarnished silver tag.”
Assuming she can read.
“I hope it’s that simple,” he says. “And we’ll find out tomorrow. They said if we get there at four o’clock, they’ll make sure Sage is taking an afternoon nap. When she wakes up she can join us. It’s more time out of your working day.”
“Friday afternoon is perfect.” As if I’d miss their big disclosure. “I’ll catch up on my workload over the weekend.”
“There’s more news,” he says. “Marisa Torres has gone to ground. My only number for her is the Historic Homes Trust. When I rang this morning to see if she’s up for another cocktail, they said she’s withdrawn from the roster.”
I start pacing my tiny floorspace. “Marisa knows I saw her at the house. What’s her connection to this saga? Its tentacles have got me in a headlock.”
“Good image. I know what you mean. Let’s check that photocopy she gave us.” He goes into his office, navigating the stack of treasure from the dumpster, and brings back the Ralph Akina press clipping. When he turns it over, he grins. “I thought I’d seen it. Her cell phone number.”
“She wanted you to contact her. She hasn’t left the Trust to avoid us.”
“But she’s been exposed as unprofessional, using the Trust to lie about the clipping. It strengthens your feeling that it’s personal.”
He dials her number and puts her on speaker.
“I know your friend with the Celtic name saw me yesterday. I hope she’s OK. I saw they called in Rhett Akina, Ralph’s brother. Did you find him from my press clipping?”
“No. You could have saved us a lot of time by telling us about Rosemary Davis. Rhett’s a local expert on structural engineering. He offered to help the rescue team when he heard where Sage was hiding and that the pool house might collapse.”
“But you’ve talked to Rhett? What did he tell you about the pool house?”
“Only some gossip about Turner,” Derek says.
“If it involves how Everett Turner was using the pool house in 1961, it’s the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“Can we meet in a noisy place where I can’t be overheard or recorded?”
“Sure,” Derek says. “Let’s go back to the Lava Flow. But why didn’t you tell us about this last time?”
“It’s a long sad story that’s ruined a few lives. Bring your tissues.”
She wants to wait till pau hana so there’s plenty of background noise.
After she hangs up, I say, “What’s the big mystery after all these years? Could anything be worse than the drowning of Roxie?”
Sitting in our respective offices, we gaze at our screens and pretend to work. Until a phone call. From Rhett. Derek calls me into his office.
“I was pretty angry when you two contacted me,” he says, “then lied to get access to my son. But I have to admit it’s turned out for the best. I was pleased to be part of the rescue yesterday. Seeing Sage come out of it with only a scratch, well ... it’s laid a few ghosts to rest. I also took the opportunity to tell Hudson about Rosemary’s drowning. He was shocked to know the sad history of the house, but it felt good to get that off my chest. And I heard Selkie’s OK, so it’s a good outcome all round.”
“Yeah, she’s back at work today,” Derek says. “And I haven’t thanked you for sharing what happened in 1961. That must have been hard. You didn’t say where Ralph ended up. We’ll keep it to ourselves.”
“It was a secret for a long time, but not now. The Coopers have invited me to the barbecue tomorrow so I’ll save it till everyone can hear it.”
When he hangs up, I wonder if Marisa should be at the barbecue too. I have a strange feeling that a whole lot of intersecting secrets might need to be launched like fire crackers into the sky.
*
The Lava Flow is filling up and Marisa is already seated in front of a cocktail. Her first? Her grooming is more subdued than last time – a forgettable beige shirt dress to match her mood.
Derek orders more drinks and we join her. To get the conversation going, he fills Marisa in on how we discovered a little more about Ralph Akina in the old newspapers and online, then found what was left of a Shoreline Constructions sign at Waipunalani.
She apologises for not helping us more. “It seemed like the best way. The drowning of Rosemary Davis isn’t my story to tell.”
“But why direct us at all?”
She takes a sip of her drink. “Something else happened that day – while Rosemary went into the pool. Something just as tragic in its own way, but hidden. A secret that only one family knows about. And Everett Turner, may he rot in hell.”
Derek is good at collecting personal accounts from people. He applies the skill of silence.
“Everett Turner wasn’t coaching tennis in Kailua that Saturday. The tennis courts had been resurfaced that week and they needed the weekend to harden. Unknown to Audrey Davis and Ralph Akina, who thought they were alone at the property with little Rosemary, Turner was in the pool house,” – she takes another sip of her cocktail and swallows hard – “with a fifteen-year-old tennis hopeful, one of his coaching students. He was giving her what he called ... special attention.”
She pauses for so long, I say, “Rhett told us about Everett’s reputation. Ralph was there that day to tell Audrey about it. She got so upset, they didn’t see Rosemary go into the pool.”
The lines around her mouth tighten. “Reputation. It’s a word that hides the human cost of Turner’s victims. Each one of his conquests was a teenager on the verge of womanhood with her life ahead of her. This was the early sixties and the world was opening up to young women in ways never dreamed of even a decade earlier. Turner was thirty-five, fit and too good looking. He had a knack of making each girl feel that she was special, the one who had his heart. One after the other, he destroyed them.”
As Andrew’s conquest of me at sixteen invades my headspace, I force my full attention on Marisa.
“The fifteen-year-old tennis hopeful in the pool house that day was Sofia Maria Torres. She was destined to be a star player but she never picked up a racquet again. Soon she was too busy hiding her pregnancy from her Catholic parents, after Turner made it clear it wasn’t his problem. When she finally told them, her mother whisked her away from their conservative community to the Big Island, to stay with an aunt who could be trusted. A year later they came back, saying Sofia had a new baby sister, a bundle of joy her mother had never expected at her age.
“The child was brought up by her grandparents as their own, so Sofia was saved from being an outcast, except for the gossip. She never married. A husband would have known she wasn’t ... pure.”
“She lost so much, Marisa. Where is she now?” I pause. “And what happened to her daughter?” Everett Turner’s daughter.
“I sure you’ve already guessed. It wasn’t until I was a teenager myself that they told me the truth – after I found a bundle of newspaper cuttings about the drowning and hassled them about it. This is the first time I’ve shared it so forgive me for rambling. Sofia is my mother but she’ll always be known as my big sister.”
We sit in silence with the other tragedy. Unspoken and hidden. A relationship that couldn’t be named.
“My grandmother was only forty and she did her best for me. She’s gone now and Sofia is only sixteen years older than me. A few years ago she moved to the Big Island to look after the aunt who protected her. Even now that the world has changed and we’re both mature women, her shame is still too much.” Marisa’s voice finally cracks. “She’s lived my whole life without ever calling me ... daughter.”
I’m not going to think about my own lost mother. Marisa’s heartbreak is enough for both of us.