Sisterchicks Do the Hula Page 13

  I nodded, touching my tummy. “I’d like you to make a name sign for Emilee, when you’ve finished with the ones for Laurie’s girls.”

  Undeterred from his previous question, in spite of a new order, he asked again, “Did she come near to you? Did she breathe on you?”

  “Yes. When she hugged me and said aloha, it was like she was breathing over me.”

  He nodded the sort of slow head bob that comes when a person is contemplating a deep truth before speaking.

  We waited to hear what he had to say.

  Do you know the meaning of the word aloha?” the artist asked Laurie and me. The trade winds rippled across the blue tarp that covered his humble art studio.

  “Doesn’t it mean, ‘hello,’ ‘good-bye,’ or ‘love’?” Laurie asked.

  He nodded. “But do you know where the word comes from?”

  “No.”

  I was curious but at the same time slightly on guard for clever, flea-market tactics. I was prepared to turn down anything he tried to sell us beyond the few pieces we had ordered. But he seemed more bent on imparting knowledge to us than making another buck.

  “Alo means ‘presence’ or literally, ‘in the face.’ Ha means ‘breath’ or ‘spirit.’ So, aloha means ‘to breathe into the face or share spirit with another.’ ”

  “Hope, that’s what you’ve been saying it feels like when the island breezes come rushing at us—like the wind is breathing over us.”

  “People who share aloha are those who draw close to another,” the artist said. “They come close enough to trust another with the essence of who they are, close enough to breathe in your face. That’s why I asked if Kapuna Kalala breathed on you.” A slow grin elevated the wrinkles in his face. “She gave you her aloha.”

  “That’s quite a bit more than hello, good-bye, or I love you,” Laurie said quietly.

  “Although, in some ways, it seems to include all of that at once,” I said.

  The artist tapped his forehead. “The ancient Hawaiians used to go forehead to forehead when they greeted each other. Some of my Hawaiian friends who live on Molokai greet me that way when I see them.”

  Laurie and I looked at each other hesitantly. I hoped she didn’t feel the compunction to try out this technique, because it had been a long time since I’d brushed my teeth that morning.

  She suppressed a chuckle. “You would have to be pretty comfortable with a person before you could go forehead to forehead when you greeted them.”

  “That’s right,” he said, returning to his craft. “I have read that King Kamehameha the Great, on his deathbed, went forehead to forehead with George Vancouver and breathed his aloha on him.”

  “Who was Vancouver?” Laurie asked.

  “An explorer who originally sailed with Captain Cook when they stumbled on these islands in the late 1700s. Cook was killed on the Big Island, you know. Vancouver returned three times. Not all the Caucasians who came here were haoles.”

  “Haole,” I repeated. “No breath.”

  He looked up, surprised. “That’s right. With aloha, you can trust your spirit or breath to another. With a haole, there is no breath.”

  I started to cry. I could say it was hormones that pushed the big, globby tears to the surface, but I think it was something else. Something deeper and truer.

  Laurie patted my arm tenderly. “You okay?”

  I nodded and stepped away from the booth, sopping up the tears with the edge of my beach towel.

  When I returned, I asked Laurie, “Doesn’t it seem like you’ve heard this before? Like the faint memory of a story or a dream?”

  “Which part?” she asked.

  “The breathing on someone part. The aloha. It’s such a beautiful image, but I can’t quite figure out why it seems so familiar.”

  As I tried to put my memories and tear ducts back in working order, Laurie paid for the art, praising the artist warmly. I bought Emilee’s name in calligraphy, and Laurie bought two of the premade framed pictures of the word aloha calligraphied in shades of deep ocean blue.

  “Our souvenirs,” she said. “So we can remember this.”

  I didn’t think I’d need calligraphy to remind me of anything about this trip. Especially the word aloha. But I appreciated Laurie’s kindness and told her so.

  As we strolled through the park, many of the vendors were taking down their stalls and calling it a day.

  “Did I ever tell you that my mom came here in the fifties?” Laurie asked. “Her parents brought the family here for vacation soon after Hawai’i became a state. She said it was a pity because you and I wouldn’t find any of the ‘old’ Hawai’i left. I think she’s wrong. I think it’s extraordinary the way we’ve been exposed to such a blending of the old and the new.”

  “I know. I wonder if most tourists have similar experiences, or if God is doing something for the two of us.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. But the whole ‘unforced rhythm of grace’ concept with the hula and the kapuna with the leis, and now the meaning of aloha …”

  “I think all of it is to prepare you to be a graceful, loving mama this second time around.”

  I was surprised that Laurie thought all the lessons applied to me. “I was thinking it was all about you doing something with your art. I mean, think of that man back there with his calligraphy. What a unique talent. Yet he’s using it. And I’m glad he is.”

  Laurie stopped in front of a tie-dyed T-shirt booth and wagged her finger at me. “No, you don’t. Stop right there. It’s one thing for you to talk me into getting up on a surfboard, but I’m not ready to start selling my art at a flea market.”

  “Who said anything about flea markets?”

  “You did.”

  “I was only trying to say that … never mind.” I had the same feeling inside that I get when I’m at church and the pastor is preaching an especially convicting sermon. I tend to look around and think of how the other people in the pews really should be paying attention to his words.

  “Go ahead. What were you trying to say?” Laurie’s expression softened.

  “I shouldn’t be projecting all this on you. All I’m saying is that your photos are wonderful. You should do something with them.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “And so I’ll probably keep on saying, so prepare yourself.”

  Laurie linked her arm in mine, and as we started walking, she said, “Thanks for the warning.”

  I was more determined than ever to snatch the rolls of film from Laurie’s bag and find a place that would develop them quickly. If we could look at them together, she would see the difference between the photos I took and the ones she took. She would see that she needed to pursue this talent.

  I eyed her bag, swinging over her other shoulder. While she was in the shower, I’d remove the film and put it in my purse. Then first chance I had, I would find a place to have them developed.

  Meanwhile, we amiably settled into a relaxing afternoon and evening that included simultaneous cell phone conversations with our husbands while we strolled along the beach walkway on Kalakaua Avenue. Then we took in two fun movies on the hotel television and an entire box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.

  I forgot about the photos until we were about to go to bed. Laurie was on the phone, reserving a rental car for us and pulled out the film pouch while digging for her wallet. I hoped she would leave the pouch on the desk, but she was too organized. With Laurie, everything had a place, and the pouch went back into its designated corner of the straw bag.

  Tomorrow. In the morning. While she’s in the bathroom.

  But again, I forgot. Instead, we concentrated on packing up everything we thought we would need for a full day away from the hotel. We had arranged to have the rental car delivered to us at the hotel so we could go directly to the morning service at the coral-block Kawaiaha’o Church, across the street from the Mission Houses Museum.

  The elevator had just deposited us in the lo
bby when Laurie said, “Did you grab the tour book?”

  I checked my bulging bag. “No, it must still be on the desk.”

  “I’ll get it.” Laurie fumbled for her room key.

  “Leave all your stuff here,” I suggested.

  She left with only the room key, and I suddenly realized I had all the film. This was my chance, and I had to take it quickly.

  “Excuse me,” I asked the concierge, lugging our gear over to the desk. “Can you tell me how I can get some film developed quickly?”

  “The corner market has a one-hour developing service. Would you like us to take it there for you?”

  I remembered how selective Laurie was about where she took her film at home.

  “Do you know of any professional film services on the island that could develop it in a day or two?”

  “Yes, we have several we work with regularly. We can help you with that.”

  “Good. Then let me leave this film with you. I need to get it back by Tuesday, and the price doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you take it to the company that will do the best job.”

  I handed over the rolls of film and felt like a terrible sneak as I filled out the paperwork for the concierge.

  Laurie returned with the guidebook, and we took off in our rental car, rolling along at a nice, respectful pace through town. I wondered how long she would be able to drive so sedately. You see, she had rented a convertible. A red Mustang convertible.

  The darling was just screaming to be let loose.

  However, the streets of Waikiki didn’t provide such an opportunity. And the streets of neighboring Honolulu around the Kawaiaha’o Church didn’t offer a lot of parking.

  “I can let you out here,” Laurie suggested. We were stopped behind another car on a narrow road that divided the Mission Houses Museum and the back side of the church. “I’ll find a parking spot and then meet you inside.”

  “Okay.” I started to climb out of the car, but my lei got caught on the headrest. It wasn’t the lei Laurie had made for me but rather the purple orchid birthday lei she had bought me the first night at the gift shop. The flowers had stayed fresh in our room refrigerator, and I wanted to wear the lei to church this morning. Laurie had hung hers over a lamp shade in our room because she wanted to dry it out before taking it home.

  Untangling my lei from the headrest, I gave Laurie a wave and stepped into the beautiful garden area behind the large church. To my left was a wrought iron gate that opened to a cemetery. Two aged plumeria trees towered on either side of the gate. I stopped to look at the trees. They held no fragrant white blossoms on this January morning, yet I still had to stare at their beauty.

  Obviously they had been planted here long ago. Every one of their many slender, curved branches seemed to reach heavenward with an air of graceful elegance. I tried to imagine the magnificent canopy these trees made when they were in full bloom. I stood amazed at how two simple trees could perform such an act of silent praise by just being.

  Since we were early for the service, I wandered into the small graveyard. My eye caught on a short, block-shaped gravestone a few feet away. Across the top, in raised letters, was the word MOTHER. Taking a few steps closer to the gravestone, I ran my fingers across the raised letters carved into the thick, white marble block. It reminded me of last week when I had my hormone meltdown and how I told Darren I was a Mother with a capital M. Whoever was buried in this grave was apparently a mother with all capital letters.

  I bent to read the name on the front of the simple grave marker.

  JULIETTE M. COOKE

  MAR. 12, 1812

  AUG. 11, 1896

  Precious in the sight of the Lord

  Is the death of His saints.

  “Juliette,” I whispered. “My little missionary woman!”

  I stepped back and started to cry. I’d never cried at a cemetery. Especially not in front of a grave of someone I’d never met.

  But then, I felt as if I had met Juliette. I’d visited her house. I’d stood in her kitchen and heard about how she used forty eggs to make nice tea cakes for the Hawaiian kings. I’d turned into a bobbing Bettie in the same ocean into which she had “sallied forth” more than a 150 years earlier.

  And here she was, marked for all time as a mother with capital M-O-T-H-E-R.

  The tall grave marker to the left of Juliette’s was that of her husband, Amos, who had passed away twenty-five years before her. That meant Juliette spent a quarter of a century as a widow. Instead of returning to New England, she had stayed here on Oahu.

  This really was your home, wasn’t it? These were your people. You lived your life, all the blissful parts and all the painful parts, on this island.

  Gathering my composure, I touched the word MOTHER again, and then, with one gliding motion, I lifted the purple orchid lei from around my neck and placed it lovingly across the marble grave marker.

  “A garland of hosannas,” I whispered. “Wear it well, dear Juliette. I give it to you with my aloha.”

  Remembering the description of aloha that the artist at the flea market had explained, I smiled and thought, I can’t exactly go forehead to forehead and breathe out my aloha on you now, Juliette. Maybe in heaven. Watch for me, okay? I don’t suppose there will be any tea parties I can help you prepare, but maybe you and I can sally forth to the shore along the river of life. You bring your little Clarence, and I’ll bring my Emilee Rose.

  I realized I was conjuring up a dream that was outside my short life. I was dreaming about eternity. If anyone had heard me, they would surely have thought I was crazy to be standing here, making plans with a dead woman.

  But if all God’s promises were true, and I wholeheartedly believed they were, then there was nothing crazy about dreaming of heaven. I had every reason to believe that, just as God had written my name in His Book of Life, He would take me into His home when I left this earth. And what endless possibilities awaited His children in His house. The stories have not yet been told. The leis have not yet been strung.

  Filled, filled, filled with tingles of wonder, I stepped softly across the green tufts of thick tropical grass and closed the gate, leaving the sacred graveyard. Now I knew why the two plumeria trees guarding the gate couldn’t help but lift their slender branches upward, toward the heavens.

  Taking the coral steps up to the front of the church, I watched for Laurie but didn’t see her. Inside the large sanctuary were dozens of long, straight-backed pews made of a rich, shiny, dark wood. I guessed it was the same koa wood used in the small mirror I’d bought at the Mission Houses gift shop. The contrast of the nearly black wood against the simple, whitewashed coral-block walls was striking, especially with the arched, deep-set glass windows. This was a hallowed meeting place filled with much love.

  Aloha nui loa. Isn’t that what the kapuna said? Much love.

  It struck me that the aloha, the breath, was literal here, in that the cool air flowed freely through the slatted windows and prepared the sanctuary for worship by bringing the first fruit of fragrance to the altar.

  I was invited to take a seat and made my way halfway to the front and sat on the left side, in about the same area our family sat in our church at home. Settling in quietly and feeling the breeze across my neck, I kept watching for Laurie and wondered where Juliette used to sit when she came to services here. Did her family have a select row, the way many New England churches had plaques embedded in their pews for the established families in the community?

  I noticed the mix of parishioners seated around me. It seemed as if nearly every ethnic group was represented. Most of the older women were dressed in flowing mu’umu’us. They greeted each other warmly with kisses on the cheek.

  The service began with a prayer in Hawaiian. My head was bowed, but my ears were standing at full attention so as not to miss a single syllable.

  I checked again for Laurie and rose with the rest of the congregation to sing the first hymn. I was thrilled to see that the words were in
Hawaiian. Even though I’m not much of a singer, I opened my mouth wide, as if I could somehow catch the words and music flowing around me and persuade them to go inside.

  Laurie quietly slipped in beside me on the last stanza and held the hymnbook with me. We were seated while the announcements were made and the offering collected. Laurie had been flipping through the hymnal and tapped me, pointing to a small paragraph printed at the bottom of page159:

  I remember one public examination of the Young Chiefs’ School held in Kawaiaha’o Church, crowded with interested spectators and friends, which was of superior excellence. The singing was led by Mrs. Cooke [Juliette Montague], who had no instrument and raised the pitch by her tuning fork. She had a voice of singular power and clearness that soared above all others in our assemblages.

  —Martha A. Chamberlain

  “Isn’t this Juliette the one you’ve been talking about?”

  I nodded.

  The congregation stood again for the next hymn, Beethoven’s “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” I sang my little heart out, half listening for Juliette’s voice of “singular power and clearness” to soar above all the others.

  When we reached the third verse with the words, “Flowery meadow, flashing sea, chanting bird and flowing fountain, call us to rejoice in Thee,” everything within me yearned to raise my lanky limbs like the plumeria trees and offer my meager praise all the way up to heaven.

  However, once again, my conservative upbringing and New England nurturing held fast. I stood staunch, barely moving, despite the holiness of the moment. I felt caught in a struggle over wanting to be one who moved with grace—with aloha—and yet finding myself stuck in a self-conscious bog. Haole. No breath. I have much to learn about living the unforced rhythm of grace.

  When the service ended, Laurie said, “What happened to your lei?”

  I told Laurie about the graveyard and how I found Juliette’s grave marker and left my lei there.

  “I brought my camera with me,” Laurie said. “We could take some pictures, if that doesn’t sound too strange.”