Kaui Hart Hemmings - The Descendants

Contents

For Andy

THE SUN IS shining, mynah birds are chattering, palm trees are swaying, so what. Im in the hospital and Im healthy. My heart is beating as it should. My brain is firing off messages that are loud and clear. My wife is on the upright hospital bed, positioned the way people sleep on airplanes, her body stiff, head cocked to the side. Her hands are on her lap.

Cant we lay her flat? I ask.

Wait, my daughter Scottie says. She takes a picture of her mother, a Polaroid. She fans herself with the photo, and I press the button on the side of the bed to lower my wifes upper body. I release the button when she is almost flat on her back.

Joanie has been in a coma for twenty-three days, and in the next few days Ill have to make some decisions based on our doctors final verdict. Actually, Ill just have to find out what the doctor has to say about Joanies condition. I dont have any decisions to make, since Joanie has a living will. She, as always, makes her own decisions.

Today is Monday. Dr. Johnston said well talk on Tuesday, and this appointment is making me nervous, as though its a romantic date. I dont know how to act, what to say, what to wear. I rehearse answers and reactions, but Ive nailed only the lines that respond to favorable scenarios. I havent rehearsed Plan B.

There, Scottie says. Her real name is Scottie. Joanie thought it would be cool to name her after Joanies father, Scott. I have to disagree.

I look at the photo, which looks like those joke snapshots everyone takes of someone sleeping. I dont know why we think theyre so funny. Theres a lot that can be done to you while youre sleeping. This seems to be the message. Look how vulnerable you are, the things you arent aware of. Yet in this picture you know she isnt just sleeping. Joanie has an IV and something called an endotracheal tube running out of her mouth to a ventilator that helps her breathe. She is fed through a tube and is administered enough medication to sustain a Fijian village. Scottie is documenting our life for her social studies class. Heres Joanie at Queens Hospital, her fourth week in a coma, a coma that has scored a 10 on the Glasgow scale and a III on the Rancho Los Amigos scale. She was in a race and was launched from an offshore powerboat going eighty miles an hour, but I think she will be okay.

She reacts nonpurposefully to stimuli in a nonspecific manner, but occasionally, her responses are specific though inconsistent. This is what Ive been told by her neurologist, a young woman with a slight tremor in her left eye and a fast way of talking that makes it hard to ask questions. Her reflexes are limited and often the same, regardless of stimuli presented, she says. None of this sounds good to me, but Im assured Joanies still holding on. I feel shell be okay and one day able to function normally. Im generally right about things.

What was she racing for? the neurologist asked.

The question confused me. To win, I guess. To get to the end first.

SHUT THIS OFF, I tell Scottie. She finishes pasting the picture into her book then turns off the television with the remote.

No, I mean this. I point to the stuff in the windowthe sun and trees, the birds on the grass hopping from crumb to crumb thrown by tourists and crazy ladies. Turn this off. Its horrible. The tropics make it difficult to mope. I bet in big cities you can walk down the street scowling and no one will ask you whats wrong or encourage you to smile, but everyone here has the attitude that were lucky to live in Hawaii; paradise reigns supreme. I think paradise can go fuck itself.

Disgusting, Scottie says. She slides the stiff curtain across the window, shutting all of it out.

I hope she cant tell that Im appraising her and that Im completely worried by what I see. Shes excitable and strange. Shes ten. What do people do during the day when theyre ten? She runs her fingers along the window and mumbles, This could give me bird flu, and then she forms a circle around her mouth with her hand and makes trumpet noises. Shes nuts. Who knows whats going on in that head of hers, and speaking of her head, she most definitely could use a haircut or a brushing. There are small tumbleweeds of hair resting on the top of her head. Where does she get haircuts? I wonder. Has she ever had one before? She scratches her scalp, then looks at her nails. She wears a shirt that says IM NOT THAT KIND OF GIRL. BUT I CAN BE! Im grateful that she isnt too pretty, but I realize this could change.

I look at my watch. Joanie gave it to me.

The hands glow and the face is mother-of-pearl, she said.

How much did it cost? I asked.

How did I know that would be the very first thing you said about it?

I could see she was hurt, that she put a lot of work into selecting the gift. She loves giving gifts, paying attention to people so she can give them a gift that says she took the time to know and listen to them. At least it seems like thats what she does. I shouldnt have asked about the price. She just wanted to show that she knew me.

What time is it? Scottie asks.

Ten-thirty.

Its still early.

I know, I say. I dont know what to do. Were here not only because were visiting and hoping Joanie has made some progress during the night, reacting to light and sound and painful jabs, but also because we have nowhere else to go. Scotties in school all day and then Esther picks her up, but this week I felt she should spend more time here and with me, so I took her out of school.

What do you want to do now? I ask.

She opens her scrapbook, a project that seems to occupy all of her time. I dont know. Eat.

What would you usually do now?

Be in school.

What if it were Saturday? What would you do then?

Beach.

I try to think of the last time she was completely in my care and what we did together. I think it was when she was around one, one and a half. Joanie had to fly to Maui for a shoot and couldnt find a babysitter, and her parents couldnt do it, for some reason. I was in the middle of a trial and stayed home but absolutely had to get some work done, so I put Scottie in the bathtub with a bar of soap. I watched to see what happened. She splashed and tried to drink the bathwater, and then she found the soap and reached to grab it. It eluded her grasp and she tried again, a look of wonder on her small face, and I slipped out into the hall, where I had set up a workstation and a baby monitor. I could hear her laughing, so I knew she wasnt drowning. I wonder if this would still work: putting her in a tub with a slippery bar of Irish Spring.

We can go to the beach, I say. Would Mom take you to the club?

Well, duh. Where else would we go?

Then its a plan. After you talk and we see a nurse, well check in at home, then go.

Scottie takes a picture out of her album, crushes it in her hand, and throws it away. I wonder what the picture was, if it was the one of her mother on the bed, probably not the best family relic. I wish, Scottie says. What do I wish?

Its one of our games. Every now and then she names a place she wishes we were besides this place, this time in our lives.