But I made it through, in the end. All of it.
Now it’s winter break. Dean’s back in Spokane, he doesn’t know for how long. We didn’t have the money for me to fly home in the meantime. I mean we didn’t have the money but we did have the money, because I could have floated another flight on my credit cards. But I’d about maxed that out with climbing trips and stupid school things, and flights to Hawai‘i in winter are murder, even from San Diego. So it’s a shit winter break and I start it with a few begged shifts at Romanesque again, which is lucky for me: the first day I go in there, the day before I’m about to get kicked out of the dorms, I meet a waitress named Christie. Her other job is at a hostel front desk. The hostel helps Cali-fever Euro gap-year kids see America, it’s not supposed to be for broke college kids who normally live up the street. But Christie lets me rent a bed for the rest of the break at a higher rate, vouching that I’m just passing through if the hostel owner asks. Most days I catch the bus down to the beach in the middle of the workday. Shiver in the kiss of the chilly sun once the fog burns off the sand, or stay put and bum caustic liquor off the generous Euro kids at the hostel, who are overwhelmingly blond and stupid happy for America. I eat saimin and cheap knockoff cereal and Dollar Menu specials that I double up on and refrigerate. I have one of the bussers at Romanesque saving scraps for me. Look at me, Mom and Dad, I learned how to hustle through osmosis, all those years at home with both of you on the edge of economic cliffs.
On Christmas I call again to talk. It’s gotten harder with my family now. Each of us with our own language of death and grieving and no avenue for translation. There’s this weird thing where I don’t get to talk to Dad as much as I used to—whenever I call, Mom has some reason he can’t come to the phone. It’s weird, okay? Our phone calls turn into a board game where no one knows the way to win but everyone knows the way to lose: talk about Noa. So we talk about the weirdest stuff instead. The price of milk. The new route Mom has been driving with her bus-driver job and what the traffic patterns are like. What sort of shoes make my knees not feel like they’re filled with cement by the end of a shift waiting tables at Romanesque. I explain what a hostel is.
It goes like that, but I keep calling. Christmas is no different.
“Downtown Pizza, how can I help you?” a voice says.
“Hey, Dad.”
“We don’t have Dad, but we do still have some turkey pizza. Special today, for Christmas.”
“I thought this was Hawai‘i,” I say. “Can you put some pineapple on there?”
“Pineapple!” Dad says. “Shit should be against the law.”
“So should bad Dad jokes,” I say. But I smile anyway.
There’s this pause after I say that, and then Dad’s voice is lower than a whisper, almost. Moving swishy and fast and I can’t understand what he’s saying.
“Dad, what?”
His voice is still calling. The air in the call between us shifted. I can feel it, like ears popping when you come down from altitude. He’s not on the other end.
“Dad—”
“Hey, honey.” Mom’s voice now.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
“Nothing.”
“I mean with Dad.”
“Your dad’s, uh, there’s someone at our door he had to go talk to.”
There’s this squeamish fist that clenches in me. I know she’s lying. “Mom,” I say.
“How’s the break?” she asks. “Are you doing okay up there?”
She’s done this before and today’s not the day to make it something more, right? I let it pass. “Sure,” I say. “I guess. Glad I made it through another shift without spitting into anyone’s food.”
She laughs. “Trust me, I know how that feels,” she says. “But you have to go away from yourself. You go to work, imagine it’s Kaui you’re hanging up in the closet, not just your backpack, your change of clothes. That’s you, locked away until the end of your shift.”
“I know how to survive,” I say.
“Good,” Mom says. “It took me a long time. A long time.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, “it’s only like this for a few more weeks, then school starts back up.”
“Lucky you,” she says.
And Oh Christ is what I’m thinking. Here we go again.
“Can we not do this on Christmas?” I say. “I’m—there’s no one here, Mom. It’s just me.”
“You’re right,” she says. “It never gets any easier, Kaui.”
“I know,” I say.
There’s this pause. I realize our cadence now would be that she’d ask about Noa. Every time before this that’s what it would be, but there’s nothing to ask. We both know everything there is to know about him now.
The call ends. Soon enough everything in my head grinds apart under another stack of days in San Diego. Hostel, Romanesque double shift. Hostel. Shitty foggy mornings and waiting tables. Hostel. All of my time is chunked up into surviving each place: surviving the shifts and surviving the chasm of quiet and solo that comes after.
The mainland Christmas–post-Christmas bullshit comes in one big tide of gimme gimme gimme and all of a sudden it’s New Year’s. I’m on the last call at Romanesque and catch the final bus home, right? We’re passing people in the street: rumpled black cocktail dresses and flapping loose ties. All of them chasing last call up the boulevard. Horny or hilarious or ecstatic. Colored lights and fireworks and Top 100 Moments on the hostel’s television when I return. I wonder: What am I doing? Is it Van or Noa that did this to me, or did I do it to myself? It wasn’t so long ago I felt I’d cracked open the shell of life and found a bright core of happiness in the middle. But so quickly it seems like it’s crumbled.
God, please let me forget this winter. Please let me forget this winter. Please let me forget this winter. And time goes. Good, okay. The new semester arrives. Van comes back.
The first night we’re both back in the dorm it’s quiet, me and Van with our headphones on, staring at our laptop screens. It’s a replay of the end of last year, right? We’re sitting back-to-back at our desks by the dorm window, each trying to pretend the other person isn’t there. Smell of one of her candles burning, tarry and spicy. Suddenly I feel her hand, cupped and patting my shoulder, trying to get my attention. I wonder what this is, if I should hope. It feels like there’s something softening between us while my heart goes Okay, okay, okay. Then I slip my headphones down and turn.
She locks her gaze on me; her eyelashes are long and easy. Seems like she’s been getting more sleep, all the creases gone from her face. Fuck, she’s already killing me. I turn completely sideways in my chair.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Is he dead?” she asks.
I surprise myself with how fast I answer. “Yes,” I say. “He is.”
The words just float there.
“Okay,” she says. Then she gun-points her finger at her headphones, down around her neck. There’s something hummingbirds-in-syrup in the sound coming from them. “Ever heard this song? I bet you’ll love it.” I shake my head no and she slips the headphones off her neck. Places them over my ears.