December 6, 1941 Hilo
It was a strange and wondrous thing to approach Hilo from the air. The large crescent bay spanned out before them, as did the massive breakwater, Coconut Island, and the harbor full of colorful sampans and boats of all shapes and sizes. And over land, large swaths of cane as far as the eye could see, rows and rows of two-story buildings, and patches of rain coming down in big gray bursts.
Stepping off the plane was like walking into a wall of moisture. The kind that leaves a permanent sheen on your face and frizz in your hair. For a half second Lana thought about kneeling down and kissing the ground but decided to wait until later, when no one was watching. And, oh, that familiar scent of fish and burning sugarcane. She felt as though she was plopped right back to the moment she had left. Then, she’d traveled not by plane but by steamer. And not just to Honolulu but all the way across the cold Pacific to a strange and foreign land called California. She had known this trip would dredge up memories but was wholly unprepared for the jumbled mess of emotions she felt at that moment.
Images of her father suddenly came to light. Letting her stick her whole fist into a jar of honey they’d just harvested. His goofy grin when he’d come out of the water with a lobster in each hand and chased her around the beach while she screamed half in terror, half in delight. The way his voice lulled her to sleep reading The Lilac Fairy Book while he patiently answered endless questions. And then the look on his face when she’d told him the news. Daddy, I have something to tell you. They had been sitting on the porch listening to the roar of rain on the tin roof, but the cozy afternoon turned disastrous in five seconds flat.
So much love, spiked with anguish and one big wrong turn.
Baron was kind enough to arrange a ride for her to Hilo Memorial, and she slipped him a big tip as they parted ways.
“Keep yourself safe and happy,” she said.
His eyes got wide when he saw the extra green. “Say, I usually come in around lunchtime Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, if you want to hitch a ride back.”
“I’ll look for you next week, then.”
Hilo was nowhere the size of Honolulu, but it was the second-largest city in the territory and had grown since she’d left. There were more cars on the road now, and far fewer horses. Lawns were so lush and green they almost hurt your eyes to look at, a byproduct of the frequent rain.
The hospital was a one-story wooden building with elegant white stairs and a welcoming facade. Nevertheless, as she approached, Lana felt a squeezing in her chest. She had first agreed to see her father five years ago, when he had traveled to Honolulu for an engineering convention. He had asked if she would meet him for lunch. She’d reluctantly accepted his offer, but the lunch turned out stiff and awkward and painful. And when they parted, she promised she would try to visit. But whenever he called, she always had an excuse, sometimes real, sometimes manufactured. They still met up when he came to Honolulu, but it never felt right.
“Avoidance is the easy way out, Lana. Remember that,” he had finally said, sounding ready to give up.
Over the years those words had bored into her psyche, keeping her up at night. Because, on some level, she knew he was right.
Inside the hospital there was no one at the front desk.
“Hello?” Lana said into the hallway.
Moments later a nurse came out of the nearest room. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see my father, Jack Spalding.”
The woman stared at Lana a little too long, then said, “Hang on. Let me get Dr. Woodell.”
A feeling of dread arose. Lana sat. Fiddled with her hair. Watched a spotted gecko on the screen.
You’re too late.
He’s gone.
Stop.
He’ll be fine.
Heavy footsteps announced Dr. Woodell, an impeccably dressed bald man with a mustache large enough to house several birds. His hands were clasped and his face unreadable.
“Would you come with me, Mrs....”
“Hitchcock. But call me Lana,” she said.
He walked her into a small office lined with framed degrees and shut the door quietly behind her. “Is my father okay?” she said, antsy and suddenly out of breath.
“Have a seat.”
Again, she sat. He sat across from her and took her hand. His palms were warm and clammy. Or maybe hers were the clammy ones.
His watery eyes said it all. “I’m sorry, dear, but your father did not make it. He succumbed several hours ago to the meningitis.”
The words refused to register, hanging halfway between her and Dr. Woodell. Suspended midair. She fought them off. Her stomach felt an awful turning.
“Wait, no. But I just spoke with him last night,” she protested.
“It’s been touch and go for several days. Problem was he came in too late. We gave him the serum, but the swelling had already taken hold.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry.”
She wondered about his last moments. Had he known? “How did he die?”
“He went into a coma early this morning. And once that happened, it was a matter of hours,” he said, squeezing her hand and covering it with his other one.
This had been the one thing she had not counted on to happen. Her father had been a young and active fifty-two. In fact she always knew he’d be a young eighty, when the time came. Or even a young one hundred. In some small corner of her mind, there had been the rock-solid belief that when she was ready to patch things up, he would be there.
How selfish and stupid and naive.
Small, choking sobs wanted to come out but lodged in her windpipe instead. Lana buried her face in her hands. This was not supposed to happen. She’d come to be with him. She was a lifetime too late. Tears turned on and flooded her cheeks. Someone must have made a mistake.
“Are you sure he’s dead and not still in a coma?” she found herself asking.
Dr. Woodell, bless his heart, pulled her in and gave her a hug, and not the fake kind where someone just pats your back and says there, there. Her head rested on his shoulder and she inhaled starch and something sharply medicinal. “You can see him, if that would help,” he said.
That made her sit straight up. “He’s still here?”
“Downstairs. They are readying him for the mortuary. From his file, you’re his only next of kin,” he said.
“He has a sister in California.”
“Well, you were the only one he talked about. From what I gathered, you are quite a gifted artist. You were at the top of your class, and you had big dreams of being a volcanologist,” he said.
Lana had to laugh at that. “I do enjoy drawing, and those dreams of being a volcanologist were quite far-fetched. As a girl I was enamored with Thomas Jaggar and his wife, Isabel. I met them only a couple of times, but they left a lasting impression, especially Isabel. That was a long time ago, though, and you know how it goes with dreams.”
His eyes sparkled. “Dreams are what hold our world together.”
“In my experience, dreams don’t usually pan out.” She realized she sounded harsh, but this was not the time to talk about old dreams and missed opportunities. Outside, a mynah bird screeched. “Please take me to see my father and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
He led her down the hallway, and she focused on his scuffed cowboy boots. They didn’t match the starched coat and polished man. This is Hilo, she reminded herself. The minute they reached the back door, a downpour started. Dr. Woodell stopped on the small porch, and Lana held out her hand to catch the drops, which felt warm and reassuring on her palm.
The doctor pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “I guess I’ll give you this now. It’s from your father. He actually had one of the nurses write it out, but these are his words.”
She slipped the letter into her pocket, unsure of when she would have the courage to open it. Right now she wanted to get this horrible thing over with and get to his house. Their house. Her house, now. And then catch the next flight back to Honolulu. Hilo without her father was unthinkable. But who would make arrangements for his funeral? The thought made her dizzy. Take a breath, one step at a time.
The rain let up a few minutes later, as it usually did here, and they went into the basement. The room was cool and dimly lit. Her nose picked up a sour and waxy smell, mostly masked by a strong chemical odor. On one side there was a large steel table with a sheet draped over what could only be a body.
Dr. Woodell stood next to it and fingered his stethoscope. “Are you sure about this? The choice is all yours, but I do know that sometimes it helps with closure. And I can leave you alone, too.”
The truth of the matter was Lana had never seen a dead person, and she was terrified. “I need to do this,” she said.
When the sheet came off, she saw a pale and much too thin version of her father. He was wearing an orange aloha shirt and his hands were crossed over his midsection, as if he had just lain down for a nap. Would it be strange if she climbed on the table with him and rested her head on his chest and told him that, despite it all, she loved him? She was so caught up in persuading herself that he was dead that she forgot to breathe.
“I’ll step out for a minute,” Dr. Woodell said, leaving her alone with the body.
The body.
Lana moved closer and bent down, placing her hand over his heart. She half expected to feel a beat. “Daddy,” she whispered.
No answer.
Outrage threatened to split her down the middle, coupled with a bone-weary sadness. Her whole body trembled. “Daddy.” There were so many things to say, and instead, huge gasping sobs overcame her. Before she knew it, her ear was flattened against his chest and she listened to the silence of a still heart. This life was done. Her father, gone on to heaven or one of those strange other worlds he used to talk about. Strings of her snot dampened his shirt. She had no idea how long she stayed like that. Her neck ached but she didn’t care.
Eventually Dr. Woodell came back in, placing his hand on her back. “Dear, your father will always be with you. It’s time to go,” he said.
Outside, the air was still buzzing, which Lana found curious, since the tragedy had already happened.