Rani Patel In Full Effect Page 18

  We’ve got each other.

  But it seems like we only figured it out that second. I didn’t want the moment to end. It felt like we made peace. Maybe even that I could tell her anything.

  Still I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t about to rock our boat named Fragile Reconciliation by telling her about how far things had gotten with Mark.

  Another lie by omission.

  Later that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about Stan Lee’s mom. I had to do something. I told my mom that I was planning on visiting her in the hospital the next day. Mom suggested I bring an orchid. She said orchids represent strength. Since Stan Lee’s mom had been fighting for her life, my mom thought it was fitting.

  I bought the orchid plant this morning from Moana’s. Pot in hand, I walk to the entrance of MGH. The hallway is empty and quiet. I find Room 14 and knock on the door. A woman’s muffled voice tells me to come in. I push open the door. A beautiful woman is sitting up in the hospital bed. A blanket covers her legs. Her long shiny black hair is pulled to the side under a chin-neck bandage. Her exquisite face belies her age. She looks more like Stan Lee’s sister than his mother.

  Mrs. Lee smiles at me. I smile back. Then I notice Stan sitting on the other side of her bed. Out of respect for his mom, I suppress the frown that begins to form on my face. I hold my breath.

  As soon as he sees me, he leaps up and pushes his folding metal chair back. It tips over and crashes on the floor. He snaps, “What’re you doing here, Rani? Who said you could come visit?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to drop this off for your mom.” Turning to his mom I say, “This is for you, Mrs…”

  “Call me Lee Myeong Hwa,” she says, still smiling.

  “Eomma…” Stan Lee grumbles, taking a step towards her.

  I put the orchid plant on her bedside table. Like the Eye of Sauron, Stan Lee’s evil eye follows me across the room.

  “Thank you. You’re Rani, right?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “The orchids are pretty.”

  Like you, I think, but don’t say. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you.” She turns her head to Stan Lee. He looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. “I didn’t know your friends were so kind,” she says to him. “You’re lucky to have such a good friend.”

  Stan Lee picks up his chair and sits back down, throwing one arm over the backrest as he turns to stare out the window.

  I make eye contact with his mom and say, “I’ll go now. Best wishes on a speedy recovery.” I wave good bye.

  “Thank you, Rani.” She waves back with her fingers.

  Before the door shuts completely, I hear her speaking in Korean to Stan Lee. I don’t understand Korean, but it sounds like a reprimand. I smile to myself.

  Ha ha, Stan Lee. Getting scolded like a tiny baby by your mommy.

  I’m half way down the hospital corridor when Stan Lee’s voice stops me.

  “Rani, hold on,” he calls out.

  I stop and wince. Then I turn around, expecting to get my head chewed off.

  I hoist up my glasses, lean my weight on my back leg and cross my arms. I change my mind and put my hands on my hips. I change my mind again and tuck my arms behind my back. Then I stretch my arms up in the air and clasp them behind my head. I keep fidgeting in place, frustrated at my inability to keep the b-girl stance I’d intended. I drop my arms and stand there. Straight and boring.

  “Rani,” he says, like he’s a boss. My boss.

  “Yeah?” I put my hands in my pockets and trace a line on the linoleum floor with the tip of my camo Converse high tops.

  “Thanks for the orchid. My mom digs it.”

  I’m not sure if his lips even moved when he said that. I nod.

  Not that looks are everything, but Stan Lee’s really handsome when he’s not cutting me down. I give him a run down in my mind and suddenly feel jipped because all I’ve seen before is his ugly attitude. Right now, he’s like a different person. He’s tall compared to other Asian guys on Moloka’i. Maybe five feet eleven. His hair is literally perfect. A little longer on top and combed to the side. Every hair in place. And if he’s my boss then his strong physique presents itself like a year-end bonus under his large tank top, baggy jeans, and dark brown converse high tops. His cologne’s subdued yet intriguing. A refreshing break from the smell drench most guys seem to use. Without a doubt, he’s the most fashionable man I’ve ever seen on Moloka’i.

  “One more thing,” he says. “Stay away from Mark.”

  No way.

  Automatically I’m in a b-girl stance. I’m irritated by his command. I want to say, “Don’t tell me what to do. Mark’s mine.” But I can’t get myself to be direct. So I say, “Whoa, Stan Lee, what are you talking about?”

  He doesn’t answer. He turns around and walks back to his mom’s room. I’m mad at myself for not saying what I wanted to say. I try again, but all I manage to yell out is, “Hey Stan Lee, it ain’t all fair in love and war!”

  He keeps walking, raising his right arm and giving me the finger without looking back.

  I thought I’d feel like all that and a bag of chips after visiting Stan Lee’s mom. But Stan Lee’s little visit has got me feeling more like a bit of that and a sack of poop.

  I drag my pathetic self across the parking lot. I happen to glance up at the small satellite building on the other side of MGH, The Moloka’i Women’s Health Center. What I see makes me duck my head. I open the driver’s side door of my 4runner and jump in. I slide down in the seat. Coming out the front door of the MWHC are my dad and Wendy. They’re holding hands. I raise my head and sneak a peek. Dad’s got his arm around her shoulder. I slink back down in the seat and scratch my head. What’s Dad doing here?

  He never went with Mom to any of her doctor’s appointments. This one time last summer she had massive back pain and I had to take her to the ER because he “needed” to go out. Turns out she had a kidney stone. The ER doc gave her a bottle of strong pain medicine to help her until the stone passed. I remember she and I drove to the store and restaurant right after they released her from the ER. We worked until closing. If Mom had cancer or something, would Dad still have bailed?

  Duh.

  But there he is now. By Wendy’s side.

  Now I feel like none of that and a truck load of dung.

  IT AIN’T PAKALOLO

  Today is Pono’s birthday party. I brew up some extra strong masala chai and pace the kitchen. I sip and contemplate the perfect music selections for his gift—an 80’s hip hop tape.

  I end up with a caffeine buzz and a solid list of tracks I know he’ll love. Mom hands me a small plate of penda. She stayed home later than usual this Saturday morning to perform an extended service ritual for Thakorji. She’s been more dedicated to Him recently. For me that’s like winning the lottery. The lottery of prasad, that is. Because more service time for her means more sumptuous Indian treats for Thakorji. And me. I bite into the penda. “Umm.” I chew the milky-sweet-cardamomy-nutmegy goodness slowly. I give Mom a quick look. Her face is serene as she washes a pot. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Ha, betta,” she says as she rinses.

  Mom and I are way better. Right now’s a perfect example. Yes, technically she’s made all this prasad for Thakorji. Yet she’s only made my favorites. I mean she could have made ladoo or kheer. She didn’t. She made keri no rus, penda, gulab jambu, and rose-essence kulfi. My four all-time favorites. And I figure that’s real love. A kind that’s unselfish. A kind that Dad didn’t understand. Gratitude spills out of my mouth. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too,” she says, balancing the pot on the dish rack. She’s trying to talk to me. And I’m trying to appreciate her acts of love. Our relationship is like a kid learning to ride a bike. We’ve got communication training wheels for now. But we’re practicing. Little by little we’ll ditch the training wheels and be fully in sync
.

  I shovel the last penda into my mouth. “Need some help?”

  “No, it’s ok. I know you still have to work on the tape. Jah betta. Tape banava.”

  We exchange smiles and I head to my room.

  Two hours later I step back from my desk and behold the finished product. Lying there against the teak wood, the tape seems to emit beams of sacred light. It’s an 80’s hip hop cassette tape miracle.

  Side A

  Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five: The Message

  Queen Latifah: Ladies First

  Afrika Bambaataa: Renegades of Funk

  Rob Base & DJ EZ Rock: It Takes Two

  Kurtis Blow: The Breaks

  MC Lyte: Paper Thin

  De La Soul: Buddy

  Run DMC: Kings of Rock

  JJ Fad: Supersonic

  Side B

  Roxanne Shante: Roxanne’s Revenge

  Eric B & Rakim: Paid in Full

  Boogie Down Productions: Poetry

  Public Enemy: Don’t Believe the Hype

  L’Trimm: Cars with the Boom

  Run DMC: My Adidas

  Beastie Boys: No Sleep Til Brooklyn

  Salt-N-Pepa: Push It

  LL Cool J: I’m Bad

  After a quick shower, I throw on my bikini, shorts, tank top, and glasses. I check my hair in the mirror, smoothing it a bit. It’s grown. Two-tone now, with black roots and blonde tips. I grab my beach bag, the tape, and scamper down the steps to the truck. I pull onto the main road and head west. The ocean on the left is flat and shimmery turquoise. The sky ahead is cloudless and rich blue. Queen Latifah and Monie Love rap about Ladies First. I grin, anticipating good things to come for this lady.

  I decide to make a pit stop in town to get another small gift for Pono. Downtown is busy on this Saturday morning. Most of the parking stalls on either side of the street are filled. Some of my classmates are cruising the sidewalks. It’s especially packed in front of Friendly Market and Misaki’s. People are busy loading grocery bags into their trucks. Luckily I find a spot in front of Moloka’i Fish & Dive. I park and head in.

  After an exhaustive search through all the shirt racks, I strike gold. A dark green tank top with a killer design on the back—the words “Moloka’i Style” and an image of a surfer shredding on an overhead wave. Tank top in hand I walk over to the register. To my surprise Stan Lee’s there, paying for some bait and tackle. I stand behind him quietly hoping he’ll pay and leave. Without noticing me.

  No such luck.

  He turns around and sees me. He raises one eyebrow and smirks. “Whatever,” I mumble under my breath and step up to the counter.

  Stan Lee walks out the door. I finish paying. My mind’s on Pono’s party. So when I head outside, I almost bump into Stan Lee. He’s right next to the front door, leaning his left shoulder against the wall. His arms are crossed high and tight on his chest.

  “Rani.”

  “What?”

  “I gotta tell you something. I was gonna call you later, but since you’re here…” There’s a weathered bench under the store’s large windows and he sits down. I’m not sure what to expect but something tells me to give him a chance. I sit next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first. We people-watch.

  After a while I speak up. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s good. She got discharged this morning. The doctor said she should be back to one hundred percent in a couple of weeks,” he replies, his voice monotone.

  “That’s great.”

  “Yep.” Stan Lee leans his elbows on his knees and rubs the back of his head with his hands. Then he blurts, “You need to be careful, Rani.”

  “About what?”

  “About Mark.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I hide my irritation. I’m tired of everyone’s Mark-bashing. Ever since the Kaluakoi dinner, Mark’s been giving me much respect. Full on Aretha Franklin.

  Stan Lee sits up and pivots slightly towards me. On his face I see an emotion I haven’t seen before—worry.

  “Mark’s using again.”

  “I know he drinks.”

  “No. He’s using drugs again.”

  I shift uncomfortably on the bench.

  “Earlier this month he started acting funny at work. Then he didn’t show up a bunch of days. I had to cover for him with the bosses. I got busy the last couple of weeks with taking care of my mom and Mark went to Maui last week. So I let it go,” Stan Lee says. “I know he got back last night. I went over to catch up and see if everything was ok.” He stops and lowers his head.

  I’ve wanted Stan Lee to talk to me in a meaningful way for so long. But now that he’s doing it, I don’t like what he’s saying.

  Just get to it already.

  “What happened?” I ask, my annoyance breaking through.

  “I knocked on his door. He didn’t answer. It was unlocked so I went in.” Stan Lee looks up at me. I see the whites of his eyes all the way around his brown irises. The rest of the story gushes out. “He was lying on the couch totally strung out. On the coffee table there was a small bag of clear, chunky crystals, batu by the looks of it, a glass pipe, and a lighter. I couldn’t wake him up for a long time.”

  “Shit.” I cover my mouth with my hands, remembering the pipe I’d seen at his place.

  “When I got him up he went straight for the pipe and the crystal. Shocked the hell outta me. All I could do was stand there. He smoked right in front of me.” Stan Lee opens and closes his Fish & Dive bag. “Finally got my head out of my ass and tried to stop him, but he attacked me.”

  Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. I try to wrap my head around the situation. I sweep my fingers across my palms. They’re sweaty. My head’s spinning.

  I know what’s happening.

  I take belly breaths and try to stop the bad Mark thoughts. I focus my thoughts on Pono’s birthday party. I visualize Papohaku beach and the ocean.

  “You ok, Rani?” He sounds muffled and distant.

  I can’t say anything at first. I just nod my head. Then, going against what I expected, my body slows down and the panic dissipates.

  Stan Lee asks again. “You ok, Rani?”

  “I’m ok.”

  We sit quietly for a few more minutes watching cars and trucks drive by. Eventually, Stan Lee says, “Be careful, ok? My mom’s alive, but it was a close call. Mark got violent with me and I’m his good friend. You’re…” He stops himself. “Just be careful.”

  “Ok.”

  Stan Lee stands up and stretches. “I gotta get going. My uncle’s waiting for me at the wharf. Going trolling today.”

  I look up and smile. “Good luck. Hope you catch some big ones.”

  “See ya, Rani,” he says with a straight face. He turns and walks towards his truck.

  “Hey, Stan Lee,” I call out. “Thanks.”

  Without turning around or stopping, he throws me a shaka.

  Mark and I are supposed to hang out tonight. I vow to myself to confront him then. This time: no excuses.

  No. Wait a minute. This is a big deal. Huge. It’s freakin’ batu. Not pakalolo. Stan Lee’s mom almost died because of it. That’s it. I’m going to do it now. I get up and charge to a payphone, determined to call and confront Mark. I pick up the handset and bring it to my ear, quarter in hand. Then I hang it up. I’m torn. I want to do it now, but it might get heated. And I don’t want to be late for Pono’s party.

  I end up filing Stan Lee’s warning into my mental “to do” folder for tonight. Jumping into my truck, I drive to the west end.

  THE DARK SIDE

  I don’t pass a single car for the first fifteen miles. I turn right onto Kaluakoi Road for the remaining five-mile drive to Papohaku Beach Park. About three miles down, I spot a car. Whoever’s driving must be going really slow because in no time we’re almost bumper to bumper.

  Oh no.

  It’s our Cressida and Dad’s driving. There’s a woman in the passenger seat. From the back, her straight shor
t black hair tells me it’s not Mom. My mind goes blank. I follow them on autopilot. They park at Kaluakoi Resort and step out of the car. Naturally the woman is Wendy. I watch them stroll towards the Resort. Dad’s got his arm around her waist.

  Clutching the steering wheel, I hesitate. I see Dad rub her back and that small gesture of affection helps me make up my mind. Pissed, I march after them.

  They head into the restaurant. I stop outside its wide entrance. I weigh my options as I walk back and forth near the adjacent gift shop. I try to convince myself to leave and go to Pono’s party. But I can’t resist the impulse to spy on them. I push logic aside and proceed in. I scan the dining area.

  Gotcha.

  They’re sitting at the corner table. The same one Mark and I sat at. They’re holding hands. Wendy’s throwing her head back in laughter. Dad’s chuckling. They’re having a freakin’ ball.

  You never did this with Mom.

  I stomp over to their table. I hear Dad say, “Our baby’s going to get my good looks and your brains.” More laughter.

  Baby? She’s pregnant?

  It hits me. That’s why they were walking out of The Moloka’i Women’s Health Center yesterday.

  I’m frozen at the edge of their table. Dad eyes me for a second, then turns his attention back to Wendy. I keep standing there, mute. Dad looks at me again. “Yes, Rani? What do you want?”

  Here’s my chance to tell him off. To tell him what I really think about everything he’s done and how it’s been for Mom and me.

  But I choke.

  Dad shifts back to his discussion with Wendy. They continue talking. Like I’m not even there. My brain does a Dad download.

  Hadn’t I cut the cord?

  He wasn’t supposed to be able to hurt me again.

  What’s going on?

  A baby?

  Are they going to get married?

  A half-sibling and a step-mom?

  How will Mom feel?

  He used us.

  He left us.

  He used me.

  He left me.

  I don’t know how long I stand there. Unexpectedly, Wendy turns her head to me and says, “Rani, we could all be one happy family. Pradip, me, the baby, you and your mom. It’s up to you.” Her expression is as serious as liver failure.