It takes an enormous effort to lift open my eyelids. The room is bright. So bright. I have a pounding headache, and my mouth is dry.
“Hi there, Teacup,” a voice says.
Slowly, my eyes adjust, and the blurry figure sitting on my bed becomes clear. Curly brown hair, round cheeks, warm eyes filled with tears.
“Mom!” My voice sounds raspy and soft. “Mama!” My heart leaps. It seems like I haven’t seen her in years, like I thought I’d never see her again. I reach toward her, and she gently wraps her arms around me, and even though I pride myself on not being a Girl Who Cries, the tears flow down my cheeks. She smells like lavender shampoo and home. Mom.
“Hey, sweetie,” a deep voice says.
Mom pulls back, and I look behind her. Dad. I can’t believe he and my mom are here in the same room. Dad’s brow is creased in concern, and his smile is tentative, unsure. “How you feeling, my girl?”
“Good. I’m good. I’m so happy to see you guys.”
Dad sits down in the chair next to my bed. He reaches over and holds my hand.
“What’s going on?” I ask. My throat is raw. “What am I doing here?”
My parents exchange a look, but not of anger or frustration or annoyance. It’s something different. Like they’re together on the same team.
“You were in an accident, sweetheart,” my mom says softly. “But everything is okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Dad explains that we’ve had this conversation a few times already. I woke up for the first time in the early hours of the morning, but I keep falling back asleep and waking up again, and I don’t remember the previous conversations. The doctors say this is completely normal, similar to patients coming out of anesthesia.
“Like my wisdom teeth?” I ask.
“Yes, like that.” Dad smiles. After I got my wisdom teeth removed, Dad was with me in the recovery room, and I kept waking up and asking him if my jaw was supposed to hurt.
“Can I get some water? My throat is on fire,” I say.
Mom brings me ice chips and explains that I had a breathing tube. The nurses just recently took it out. My voice is raspy, and my throat aches.
Later, after the doctors come in and run a bunch of tests, and after my parents make some phone calls to relatives, and after the doctors explain a little bit about what happened and ask me questions about what I remember, and I do my best to answer although my memory of the past few weeks is pretty hazy—after all of these things, everyone leaves the room except for Mom and Dad.
“Are you hungry?” Mom asks. “Thirsty?”
“Thirsty,” I say. Dad refills my paper cup with ice chips. Mom pulls some granola bars out of her purse and hands one to Dad.
“Thanks, Marie,” he says. “You’re always so prepared.”
Did my dad just give my mom a genuine compliment? What world is this?
We sit there together, the three of us, a family. My parents stare at me, wonder shining in their eyes, like I’m a newborn baby and they can’t believe I’m theirs. I suck on my ice chips. The coolness soothes my throat. My parents chew their granola bars. I remember that restaurant in Hawaii where the stranger paid for our dinner. A really nice family, enjoying a meal together. That’s what we are.
A small slip of ice falls from my fingers and melts against my neck. I reach up—I can feel something smooth against my skin, underneath my hospital gown. It’s …
“My puka shell necklace! But I lost it! Where did you—how—”
Dad smiles. “Your mom found it.”
“I was packing a suitcase to bring for you here,” Mom explains. “Your necklace was in the pocket of your jeans.”
“My jeans? Which ones?”
“Your jean shorts. The new ones. They were already inside your suitcase, actually—with that cute red sundress. When did you buy that?”
“A while ago.” Back before my fight with Kai. Back when I was planning to go to Hawaii this summer.
Kai. I’m hit with a sharp pang of missing him. Does he know about the accident? Does he know where I am?
I touch the smooth shell. “Thank you. I’m so glad you found it.”
Dad squeezes my hand. Mom kisses my forehead. “We’re so glad you found your way back to us,” Mom says.
“Now, why don’t you get some rest, sweetheart,” Dad suggests. “We’ll be right here if you need us.”
We’re. We’ll. I forgot how much I missed my parents as a “we.”
They both stand up, like one solid unit, and move to the chairs by the window. I drift off to the sound of them murmuring gently to each other. They sound like … friends.
Everything is dark. The air is cold. I’m sitting on a boat in the middle of the limitless ocean. The sky is full of stars. My skin is damp, my hair wet. I’m enfolded snuggly in a soft towel. A warm body sits beside me. Kai. He wraps an arm around me. I snuggle closer and lean my head against his shoulder. I feel effortlessly, completely safe.
I open my eyes. A hospital room. I blink for a few moments, and then I remember: I was in an accident. But I’m going to be okay.
The monitors beep steadily. The edges of my pain are sharp, but mostly my body aches in a diluted, blurry way. My room is empty. Mom’s book sits on the chair beside my bed, facedown to save her place. Maybe Mom and Dad slipped out to grab food. How long was I asleep?
My attention is snagged by something hanging in the window. The blinds are open, and the light catches its smooth surface, casting diamond-shaped shadows onto the bedcovers.
It’s a snowflake ornament, paper-thin and intricately carved. It tilts slightly, this way and that, as if waving hello. My throat tightens, and a surge of joy floods my chest. I’m not even sure why, but I’m thinking of Kai.
And then, like I’ve magically summoned him, I sense a presence in the doorway. I glance over.
His smile spreads slowly across his whole face, lighting him up.
My heart quickens. The heart monitor beep, beep, beeps.
Am I dreaming? Is this real?
Reality is a matter of perception. You perceive this to be real, so yes, it is real. The words flit across my mind. I don’t know where they come from.
“Hey,” he says softly. He approaches my bed tentatively. “You’re awake.”
“Hi,” I say, reaching out for him. My best friend. My person. He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed, taking my hand in his. His fingers are warm, and it is so natural, so right, to be holding his hand like this.
“I missed you,” I say. “You’re really here?”
“I had to come. I needed to see you.”
My head is fuzzy. I know we had a fight, but I can’t remember the details. Which doesn’t even matter. I’m just relieved he isn’t mad at me anymore.
It seems like I’ve been away for a long time, on a long journey. How long has it been since Kai and I last spoke?
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Okay. Sore. A little fuzzy-headed.” I look at our hands, holding each other. I notice something on my wrist—a thin red line, a scratch. I turn my hand over. The scratch encircles my wrist like a bracelet. Must be from the accident. I imagine this red scratch healing into a threadlike scar. A sense of calm washes over me. I’m going to be okay.
I lean back against the pillows. My mind is still reeling that Kai is actually in my hospital room. “I can’t believe you came all the way here.”
“You better believe it. And I’m not going anywhere.” His smile is contagious.
He tells me about a really tall waterfall in Hawaii, about how there are these little fish that literally climb up the waterfall using these suction fins on their bellies, or maybe their mouths, he isn’t really sure—but the point is that they climb all the way to the top of the waterfall, back to where they were born. Back to where they began.
“I think that’s why I kept asking you to visit me in Hawaii,” Kai says. “I wanted to return to where we began. I thought if I could bring you back to the place we first met, then maybe you would feel the magic too. The magic I’ve always felt with you.”
I squeeze his hand. “I feel it. I’ve always felt it. I was just … I was scared.”
Kai looks down at the bedcovers. Around us, the monitors beep. Footsteps patter down the hall. Here, now, Kai and I are wading into uncharted territory. Uncharted, raw honesty. This is the topic we never broach: him and me. Us.
And yet, somehow, it seems like we’ve already had this whole conversation before.
“Why did you come here?” I ask. “I mean, I’m happy you’re here. So happy. But what made you decide to come all this way?”
“You’re gonna think I’m weird.”
“Kai, I’m your best friend. I already know how weird you are.”
He grins. “Touché.”
I nudge him with my foot. “Tell me.”
“Well,” he begins, “the past week or so, I’ve been having these super vivid dreams about you, T. About us, in Hawaii, doing things together. A couple nights ago, I had a dream about hiking to Akaka Falls with you.”
Akaka Falls. I can picture it—like a photograph flashing through my mind. A tall, thin stream of water flows down vibrant green cliffs. In the foreground, a couple is kissing. The guy is dipping the girl like something out of a movie, her hair a dark curtain, his arms wrapped solidly around her waist.
I don’t know where the image comes from. I don’t know how I know this. But the guy is Kai. And the girl is me. I feel it, as if the scene were real. I feel it, even though that’s impossible.
“And you were so honest with me,” Kai continues. “In the dream, just like you are in real life. You didn’t buy any of my crap. You didn’t take any of my excuses. You kept telling me that I needed to trust in myself. That you believed in me and would never give up on me. When I woke up, I was filled with this overwhelming desire to take action. I needed to see you. I listened to that voice in my head that was insisting, Go to her, go to her. I trusted that voice. So here I am.”
He gives a sheepish half shrug, looking so much like his little-boy self that, for a moment, I’m eight years old again. I’m ready to grab his hand and yank him along behind me—out of this bed, out of this hospital room, two kids trolling the hallways for lollipops. Time is a needle skipping between the grooves of a record.
“My dream self sounds like a badass,” I say.
Kai laughs. “She is. Just like your real self.” He leans in and smooths a strand of hair away from my forehead. His eyes lock onto mine. “Tegan Rossi,” he murmurs. “You dazzle me, you know that?”
I laugh, looking past Kai’s shoulder at the wooden snowflake spinning gently in the afternoon sunlight. I don’t think I have ever dazzled anyone. Right now, in this scratchy hospital gown, in this bruised and swollen body, I feel the furthest thing from dazzling.
“I’m a mess.” I sigh.
The machines beep and whirr. Everything seems fragile. I think of my heart, expanding and constricting in my chest, and my tender bones, healing. I think of the faraway ocean waves in Hawaii, sweeping their graceful rhythm onto the sand, right at this very moment, and the next moment, and the next.
“I’m serious,” Kai says. The room narrows around us. Everything fades away but his face. “You are a blaze of light. I’m so glad you held on. You didn’t leave.”
There is a question in his eyes. I ache to answer it. Because I finally, wholeheartedly, know my response. Yes, yes. Bring on the cliff. I’m ready to leap.
I reach up and pull him down toward me, meeting his lips with my own. His mouth is warm and tender, and he tastes like sweet mint gum, and I have the strongest sense of déjà vu. Like, somehow, this isn’t our first first kiss. Maybe because Kai is my best friend. Kissing him is both new and familiar. Both a dream and reality. The past and the present and the future, all wrapped up in this one moment.
When we pull apart, we simply sit there for a few seconds, grinning goofily at each other.
“Whoa,” Kai says.
“Whoa,” I say.
Later—after my mom comes in with smoothies and a fresh change of clothes, then hugs Kai hello and retreats with a knowing smile; after we FaceTime with Kai’s family so I can say hi to his mom and dad and brothers (who look so much like him, it’s adorable); after I promise them, and Kai, that I’ll come visit Hawaii soon; after Kai tells me that he’s going to CalArts in the fall, and we calculate the time difference between California and DC (only three hours!); after he carefully climbs into the hospital bed next to me, and we both doze off, and I wake up to his hand in mine, the clouds glowing pink through the window—later, after an afternoon that feels so full, it’s like an entire week has passed, a nurse comes in and says that visiting hours are almost over. Five minutes.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Kai says. “Rest up. Get a good sleep.”
“I will. Let’s hang out more tonight, okay? In our dreams.”
He smiles. “I’d like that. I’ll meet you at our hideout.”
“The lava tubes. Good plan.”
Gingerly, he sits up and scoots off the bed. “You’re really coming to Hawaii?” he asks. “Promise?”
“Promise. You’re really going to CalArts?”
“Yep. As long as you come visit.”
“It’s a deal.” We shake on it. And then we kiss on it, too, for good measure.
“I can’t wait to show you around Kona,” Kai says. “There’s so much I want to do with you.” He rattles off a list of activities—snorkeling, shave ice, hiking Akaka Falls, dinner at The Blue Oasis. I have the strangest sense that I’ve done these things with him recently.
“It’s gonna be awesome,” Kai says. His smile is his grown-up self and his little-kid self, melded together.
“Yeah,” I agree. My heart swells with excitement for the big wide-open future, for all the mysteries and magic waiting in store. “It’s gonna be The Best.”