When he’d finally proved himself and was offered the prized position at the medical center, it wasn’t just about getting the job; it was about being recognized for who he was.
* * *
Daniel woke with a start. Confused at first, it took him a moment to remember he was home in Hilo, awakening in his old room, where the relics of his childhood remained. His books and baseball trophies still filled the bookcase above his desk, his well-worn, oil-stained glove and bat lay tucked away in the closet, and his beloved anatomy chart, pinpricked and faded, detailing every artery and organ of the human body, remained tacked to the back of his bedroom door.
It was still dark outside, his room quiet and stuffy with the window closed against the hovering volcanic fog. Nevertheless, the scent of rotten eggs seeped in through the cracks and crevices. Mauna Loa’s eruption last night was just another reminder that the gods would always have the final say. While the Volcano Observatory Center kept a close watch, the locals knew they would simply have to wait for Pele to calm down again.
Daniel’s own birth was forever tied to Pele and Mauna Loa. His mother liked to tell the story of how he was born unexpectedly at home on the night of an eruption. Daniel had arrived two weeks early, while his father was away working at a construction job on Maui, leaving his twenty-year-old wife alone as his son began to push into the world. If Mauna Loa hadn’t erupted, Uncle Koji wouldn’t have come down to check on his mother, finding her in labor. “Mauna Loa erupted in happiness and not in anger the night you were born,” she always said. “Means Pele will always watch over you.”
Is Pele watching now? Daniel wondered. And if she is, is Mauna Loa erupting in happiness or in anger at my return?
* * *
Sleep was fruitless. Daniel heard a rooster crow, a dog barking in the distance. He turned on the light to see that the clock read just past 4:00 a.m. It was midmorning in Chicago, and if he were still there he’d most likely be at the hospital looking at charts, starting his morning rounds. It would be a typical day, just like that early morning the four-year-old was brought in to the hospital with a slight fever and loss of appetite. She’d been lethargic and vomiting, her parents said, all flu-like symptoms. Daniel checked all her vitals, gave her a small dose of aspirin, told the parents to keep her hydrated, and sent her home. The little girl returned two days later, unconscious after suffering a seizure. Daniel’s thoughts turned over and over in his memory. What had he missed on her first visit? Had he been too complacent, too quick to dismiss her symptoms as the flu when he should have been more thorough? He’d been tired, working an extra shift in the emergency room with patients still waiting. Not long after the little girl returned she’d gone into cardiac arrest and stopped breathing. By the time they resuscitated and stabilized her, she had suffered permanent brain damage. What Daniel assumed was a case of the flu had triggered something else, an abnormality sparked by his giving her aspirin. “You couldn’t have known,” his colleagues reassured, unable to look him in the eyes. It could have been any one of them, and the relief that it wasn’t could be seen in their fleeting gaze. There wasn’t much he could do except to make the child as comfortable as possible. Daniel had seen fatalities before—death was a part of his profession—but he couldn’t help but feel his mistake had damaged the little girl’s life in a way crueler than death.
Daniel quit his coveted position at the hospital, refusing to be branded the Oriental doctor who had made the tragic mistake. All that he’d worked so hard for was suddenly gone.
He had nowhere to go but home.
* * *
Daniel got up and rummaged through the hall closet until he found the box he was looking for and carried it to the kitchen. He looked out the window; the stark gray light of dawn had begun to filter its way through the soupy fog and ash that hung in the air. He flicked on the light, made a pot of coffee, and set to work. The box held his entire train collection, divided into smaller oblong boxes. One by one he opened them, the power box, the metal tracks and train station, the Lionel railcar numbers 1 through 13, given to him by Uncle Koji over the years. He added the latest addition, the new railcar Koji had left for him. Daniel remembered all the hours of happiness the train set had given him. He blessedly felt like that boy again snapping the metal tracks together on the kitchen table and lining up each railcar behind his favorite number 5 engine. He connected the wires to the power box, plugged it in, and pressed the switch.
Nothing happened.
He reconnected the wires and made sure the screws were tight. “Please,” Daniel said aloud, stirring the quiet. “Please.”
Suddenly nothing felt more important to Daniel than the train moving forward. He pressed the switch again. The power box buzzed. The light flickered and then remained green as the train began its wobbly start, click-clacking around the table once before picking up speed.
Ghost Voices
MARIKO, 1914
I light the kerosene lantern and set it on the table. The kitchen is suddenly aglow again after we were left in darkness. Outside, the storm rages on with the wind punching and moaning, striking down everything in its way. I only hope the house is strong enough to withstand it. I should feel better with the lamplight, but the shadows grow and seem to be lurking as the wind and thundering rain become deafening. It started out as a typical rainstorm, but it grew in strength as the evening wore on. Earlier in the day, Nori and Samuel asked if I wanted to stay with them. “No need, yeah, it’s just a rainstorm,” I said. “Daniel and I will be fine.” Now it’s too late, the storm has grown into a typhoon, and it’s too dangerous for us to leave the house. I look up to see Daniel standing in the doorway, watching me.
I open my arms to him. “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “It’s just a storm, it blows in and out like breath, yeah, and then it’s gone.”
He nods and comes to me for a hug. He’s tall for seven years old.
There’s a sudden loud crash in the yard and I hurry to the window. It could be Daniel’s bicycle, or a chair left out, or a fallen tree limb. I hope and pray it isn’t the mango tree and already grieve at the thought. I can taste the succulent fruit on the tip of my tongue. I can’t see anything outside in the dark and driving rain. Something suddenly hits the window hard and I jump back awkwardly, as if I’ve been pushed. And just as quickly, Daniel is there, arms around my waist. “It’s just the wind,” I say, thankful the window hasn’t broken.
The wind howls painfully and the rain falls in torrents, as if all the gods are crying at once. Beyond Hilo town I imagine the roar of the ocean waves pounding furiously into Hilo Bay, flooding the roadway and railroad tracks, stealing tethered boats from the wharf, and thrusting them out to sea. As with so many other storms, we’ll wake up to a mess—severed branches like torn limbs, roof shingles, siding, and unrecognizable ocean debris littering the flooded streets and shops and leaving muddy pools everywhere. In the end, I know it doesn’t matter as long as no one is hurt.
I take the lamp and sit down on the sofa with Daniel. He snuggles up to me and I try to read to him, but the storm wins again by drowning out my voice. I stroke Daniel’s hair, rub his back, and feel him finally relaxing in my lap when we’re startled by something just beyond the noise of the storm, a thud, thud, thud that makes Daniel quickly sit up and listen. It takes another moment before we both realize that someone is pounding on the front door.