Sisterchicks Do the Hula Read online

  I didn’t respond to her quirky statement. Of course I didn’t feel sorry for her in the wake of her husband’s success. But I still felt for her. I just wasn’t sure what I should be feeling.

  The sun was about to dip into its evening bath when, from our perch on the eighth floor, Laurie and I heard uproarious laughter coming from the beach below us. We spotted three rather round women, all in long pants and T-shirts, bellowing out the kind of shared laughter that comes from the very bottom of the giggle barrel.

  “They must have just arrived,” Laurie said.

  One of the chortling women went charging into the water, arms first, as if she were going to embrace the entire Pacific with a big kiss. Not to be outdone, the other two women stormed into the salty brine. With supersized squeals followed by supersized splashes, the three of them—clothes and all—were up to their necks in the water.

  “What a bunch of sisterchicks!” Laurie exclaimed.

  “What did you call them?”

  “Sisterchicks. That’s what our Realtor called us yesterday when I told her about this trip. Penny said you sounded like the perfect ‘sisterchick’ to celebrate the big 4-0 with me. She also said she hoped our vacation would be a ‘sisterchick adventure’ we would never forget.”

  “That was nice of her. Although, I suppose if we were true sisterchicks, we would be out there with the bobbing Betties.”

  “But we’re wearing dresses,” Laurie said. “And we already showered.”

  “I know. And we just ate.”

  Silently, from our plush box seats in the balcony, Laurie and I stuffed the last bites of coconut cream pie into our faces and watched the bobbing Betties until the sun disappeared with a faint sizzle. The trio of giddy gals emerged from the water and giggle-hopped their way through the sand, holding up their soggy pant legs. They were such a merry sight.

  “Sisterchicks, huh?” I said. “Well, good for them.”

  “Yes, good for them.”

  Laurie and I weren’t exactly risk takers at the moment. Even the room service pot of coffee we ordered was decaf.

  The outdoor light on our lanai snapped on automatically in the darkness. Laurie kept looking at my legs.

  “What?”

  “It’s the lighting, I think. It gives you a sort of an amber glow.”

  I looked at my arm. An orangy stripe was visible on the inside of my arm where the skin was paler. The stripe ran all the way to my palm and along the outside of my thumb.

  “It’s not turning to a happy, cocoa-bean shade, is it?”

  “It’s more the shade of an unhappy smashed pumpkin,” Laurie said. “But I’m sure it’s the light out here.”

  “I’m going inside to have a look.”

  Laurie went with me, turning on all the lights. I stood in front of the mirror and made my pathetic declaration. “I’m orange!”

  “It’s the shadow from the red wallpaper. Try the bathroom mirror.”

  The bathroom mirror revealed the undeniable truth. I was o-r-a-n-g-e. As o-ran-ge as an orange with a capital O.

  Quickly pulling my dress over my head, I stood in front of the mirror in my full slip and examined my disastrous handiwork.

  “Oh, Hope! I’m so sorry. I should have helped you. Look at your back.”

  Across the top of my shoulders were two smeared handprints, evidence of where my fingers had touched my white skin.

  “What was I thinking?” I moaned.

  “Maybe we can blend it in,” Laurie said.

  “Why? So I can be orange all over? No thanks. I have to figure out how to wash off this stuff. What if I take a long soak in the bathtub?”

  “It’s worth a try.” Laurie lifted the edge of my flippy hairdo to reveal strangely striped skin on my ear and neck, proof of exactly where my hand had trailed the lotion. It looked as if I had purposefully drawn a row of lines down my neck.

  “I look like a Dreamsicle,” I groaned. “You know, those Popsicles with orange on the outside and vanilla ice cream on the inside? That’s what I look like.”

  “I have some facial scrub.” Laurie rummaged in her cosmetic bag. “Why don’t you take a long soak and try using this, especially on your neck.”

  It was a good idea. But the results were less than encouraging. The longer I soaked, the murkier the water became. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have drained the water several times rather than sitting in it and letting the diluted color continue to permeate my skin.

  But then, if I had been thinking clearly, I wouldn’t have bought the bargain brand. Or more specifically, I wouldn’t have bought any brand of fake tan. I would have been content with my skin color.

  “It’s a lesson in vanity,” I said with a self-pitying sniff, as I crawled into bed. I hid my legs under the covers because they clashed with the bedspread. “You said the beauty years are over at forty, right? I guess I’m going out with a bang then. A big, tangerine starburst sort of bang.”

  “Do you need some Oreos?” Laurie asked sympathetically. “I could buy some. And some Reese’s Pieces, too, if it would help.”

  “No, I’m too full. Besides, we’re both in bed already.”

  “Maybe in the morning you can take another shower and—”

  “And what? Scrape off the top layer of my epidermis with my fingernails?”

  “Not with your fingernails. We could get you one of those loofah sponges. The color only tints the top of your skin, right?”

  “One would hope.”

  “I feel so bad for talking you into this.”

  “Hey, I went along with it wholeheartedly, Laurie, so don’t blame yourself. I’m the one who tried to get a bargain and bought the cheaper brand.”

  “The more expensive brand might have had a worse effect. Who knows? You have delicate skin. We should have thought of that.”

  “And I’m pregnant. Don’t forget how the hormone factor taints everything.”

  “Maybe there’s such a thing as skin bleach.”

  “Laurie, I know you mean well, but I think I’m done talking about this. I’ll live. We’ll laugh about it really hard sometime. But not right now. My body is still on East Coast time, and I’m fried. I’m going to sleep.”

  I closed my eyes, half expecting to dream about being a runaway Popsicle that gallivanted into the ocean and floated around on a big, blue bubble-belly. However, I have no idea if that’s what I dreamed about because I was too dead asleep to remember.

  Laurie and I woke to the sound of rain. Not gentle, pitter-patter rain, but buckets and buckets of the wet stuff that dashed against the sliding door to the lanai. We couldn’t believe we were looking out on the same landscape that had lulled us with its soothing beauty the day before.

  “No pohuehue today.” I stood barefoot by the window and wished I had brought my big, fuzzy slippers with me.

  Laurie didn’t hear me. She was pulling on her clothes.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the gift shop. Do you want anything?”

  “No, thanks. Would you like me to order some breakfast? I was thinking we could split an omelette.”

  “Good idea. Nothing with bell peppers or onions, though.”

  “Right, I remember you don’t like those.” As soon as Laurie was out the door, I called room service and ordered a three-cheese omelette, fruit salad, and a Danish instead of the toast.

  Slipping back under the covers, I stared out the window, wistfully recalling the glory of yesterday’s walk on the beach. This morning the only bright, golden glow seemed to be the one coming from my skin.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and had a good look. I was still orange. Still streaked. So sad.

  I looked at all of Laurie’s cosmetics lined up on the right side of the bathroom counter. She still used the same brand of contact lens solution she had in college. Her toothpaste tube was folded neatly at the bottom and rolled up with the cap securely in place.

  I can’t explain the sweet comfort I felt as I surveyed the lineup. The cos
metics represented a logical, Laurie-order in a world in which a grown woman could declare she was comfortable in her own skin at lunchtime and yet turn herself orange a few hours later.

  For one insane moment, I thought of trying her nail polish remover—not on my face, just on the insides of my arms.

  Blessedly, Laurie returned at that insane moment. “I bought a few things for you.” She pulled some lemon juice, a bottle of bath oil, and a pastel pink scrubber from her bag.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I did. I think the lemon juice will be a good natural bleach. Another long soak with this softening oil might make that top layer easier to rub off. Did you order breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “I picked up a coffee at the espresso cart in the lobby. I didn’t buy you anything because I wasn’t sure what you’re drinking these days. I could go back and get you chai or a steamer.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks anyway. I’ll make some tea.”

  Laurie looked out at the wet world beyond our lanai. “Tropical rainstorms are kind of spooky, don’t you think? It reminds me of Key Largo, being caught on this little island and not being able to get off it because of the weather, but you’re not cold. Everything is still open to the air and balmy, but it’s wet everywhere.”

  “I didn’t know you had been to Key Largo.”

  “I haven’t. I’m talking about the movie. With Humphrey Bogart. You remember how the hurricane came through and ransacked the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “How did you go through childhood without seeing all the great oldies?”

  “Unlike you, I didn’t have an uncle who ran the only movie theater in town.”

  “Oh, right. I had an advantage there, didn’t I? By the way, I noticed an activities list in the elevator. The hotel offers a lei-making class today.”

  A knock on our door was followed by the welcome words, “Room service.” I hid in the bathroom while Laurie answered. We ate on our beds like a couple of little girls kept home from school due to sniffles on a rainy day.

  Once I slipped into the bathtub, I doused myself in lemon juice, soaking long and scrubbing hard. It actually worked.

  At least that’s what Laurie concurred, when she examined my legs and arms with me in the filtered daylight that came through our closed sliding glass door. She said I had gone from an acorn squash shade of orange to something closer to a cantaloupe tone. I decided it was an improvement and I shouldn’t think about it anymore.

  “We should start a list of possible indoor activities for today,” Laurie said. “I need to buy some new sandals or at least some flip-flops. I checked the gift shop downstairs, but they don’t have what I need.”

  “Maybe we could find somewhere to go for tea this afternoon,” I said.

  “Sure. And what about the lei-making class?”

  “Good idea.” I put on a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved cotton shirt and felt like I’d covered up enough of the orange skin so as not to shock anyone once we got out in public. The faded lines along my neck were still a bit exotic, though.

  “What if I tried wearing a bandana around my neck, the way the girl on the catamaran did yesterday?”

  “You could try it,” Laurie said cautiously.

  “I know; it wouldn’t quite have the same effect, would it?”

  “Probably not.”

  Laurie threw a few items in her straw beach bag, and we headed down to the hotel lobby in search of the lei class. We noticed an older woman in a mu’umu’u, seated at a table in an outdoor shaded alcove. The table was spread with a variety of colorful flowers. She looked up as Laurie and I approached and said, “Aloha. E como mai. Welcome.”

  I knew that voice immediately. It was the gentle woman from the beach. She had welcomed my first morning on the island with a song, and now she was welcoming us to her table.

  “Good morning,” I greeted her bashfully.

  The woman smiled at me. She remembered me.

  I smiled back. Our gaze into each other’s eyes remained fixed.

  “May we join you?” Laurie flashed a broad grin in my direction. I knew she had figured out the special connection I had with this woman.

  “Yes, please. Sit. I am Kapuna Kalala.”

  We introduced ourselves and pulled out the folding chairs, sitting at the table covered with a floral feast.

  “These are beautiful flowers,” Laurie said. “I love the purple orchids. They’re so intricate.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “The vanda orchids are sewn into the lei faceup to show their beauty.”

  Handing each of us a needle that was nearly a foot long and threaded with smooth, white string, Kapuna Kalala showed us how to select the strongest flowers and where to pierce them with the needle so they would receive the least amount of damage.

  Her weathered, brown hands passed over the delicate flowers, reaching for the purest white tuberose blooms and holding them out to me. “Ona, ona,” she chanted. “That means to breathe in and smell the sweetness.”

  I bent closer to the tiny tuberose. They looked like little firecrackers that had exploded, leaving one end frayed. With the explosion came the most intoxicating fragrance I had ever smelled. “Oh, that’s amazing.”

  She explained how all the white flowers, such as gardenias, tuberose, and plumeria, bruise easily and turn brown, but the smaller pink plumeria last longer.

  “Such as this pikake.” She twirled a dainty blossom of jasmine between her gnarled fingers. “We use this flower for leis when the occasion is special. Especially for brides. I do not have the maile leaf to show you. The maile leaf is used for a lei that is worn like a long sash around the neck.”

  “Are we supposed to string these in a specific order?” Laurie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What order?”

  “That depends.” Kapuna Kalala tilted her head. “What is your story?”

  My story?” Laurie asked.

  “Every lei is an expression. It reveals much about the one who made it. What do you want to say with your creation? What do you want to say to the person who will receive it? When you know that, you will know how to string your lei.”

  Laurie didn’t require any further art direction. All her creative juices flowed into her work with a passion.

  I thought about art and passion and creation. Did God string together the events of our lives based on what He wanted to reveal about Himself? Or do we get halfway through life like this and start to notice that a story exists that He has wanted to tell through the order of events?

  The thought was too cumbersome for such a moment as this. I put my needle aside and rummaged for Laurie’s camera so I could capture this moment. I wanted Laurie to go home with proof that, when given an opportunity to create, she was passionate.

  Our knowledgeable instructor continued to talk while I took pictures of the two of them and the assortment of gorgeous flowers.

  “To the ancient Hawaiians, the adornment of the body was an important way to display their artistic expression,” she said. “They used feathers, ivory, beads, shells, flowers, leaves …”

  Kapuna Kalala dropped her sentence as she concentrated on the lei in her hands and picked up a new thought. “Do you see how I am finishing this off? This is the kipu’u of lei making—the knotting. You are doing the ku’l—the stringing. The more complicated leis involve wili, hili, and humupapa.”

  She chuckled at the rhyming sound of her own words. “Those are the winding, braiding, and sewing. But I am starting you off easy with your first one. The ones with more winding and braiding are more complicated, but they are also more beautiful.”

  For a moment I had to remind myself she was talking about leis, not about complicated lives. Although the truth seemed to apply to both.

  I was so enjoying listening to Kapuna Kalala’s lulling voice and taking pictures of Laurie as she let loose with all her creative energies that I didn’t jump into my lei making. I was having mor
e fun watching, so I tucked a pink plumeria behind my ear and took a few more photos.

  “Can you say pua?”

  Laurie and I both tried.

  “This is our word for ‘flower.’ Sometimes children are affectionately called pua because they are fragile and sweet and small. They stay with us for such a short time. Think of this the next time a child links his arms around your neck and you wear his embrace like a lei.”

  I sat spellbound by the wisdom in her words.

  Laurie sat hunched over, finishing her creation. She had carefully strung one tender pink rosebud after every four tuberose all the way around her lei. At the beginning and at the end she had fastened a stunning purple orchid. Both of the orchids were fastened properly, with their faces forward. When Kapuna Kalala showed Laurie how to knot them together, the vanda orchids looked like twins growing out of the same stem.

  Turning to me with a radiant expression, Laurie said, “Hope, I made this for you. This is your story. Do you see? Between the firecrackers I tucked a little pink Emilee Rose, and I anchored the circle with two rare beauties facing forward. That’s us. You know who the four firecrackers are.”

  I could barely move. It was so beautiful. This work of art was my story.

  “Laurie …”

  No other words followed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She slipped the lei over my bowed head.

  “Aloha,” Kapuna Kalala said. “Aloha nui loa. With much love.” Coming from her deep voice, the words sounded as if they were rising like an ocean swell.

  Laurie picked up the camera and took a picture of me, sitting there, speechless, with my story adorning my neck like a garland of hosannas.

  Now that Laurie had the camera, she redirected her passion. Kapuna Kalala continued her lesson for us, appearing unaffected by Laurie’s picture taking.

  “Hawaiians love to talk story. We love to give story. Every lei holds a story, and everyone who wears a lei holds on to that story.”