But inside, he and Charles were somehow the same as they were: still healthy, still there, still magically themselves. They were two people in love, and they were making themselves something to eat, and there was plenty of food, and as long as they stayed indoors, together, no harm would come to them. And to their right, at the far end of the kitchen, was a door, and if they opened that door and walked through it, they would find themselves in a replica of this house, except in that house would be Peter, alive and sarcastic and intimidating, and in the house to the right of his would be John and Timothy and Percy, and in the house to the right of theirs, Eden and Teddy, and on and on and on, an unbroken chain of houses, the people they loved resurrected and restored, an eternity of meals and conversations and arguments and forgivenesses. Together they’d walk through these houses, opening doors, greeting friends, closing doors behind them, until, at last, they’d come to what they somehow knew was the final door. And here they’d pause a moment, squeezing each other’s hands, before turning the knob and entering a kitchen just like their own, the same jade-green walls, the same gilt-edged china in the cupboards, the same framed etchings on the walls, the same soft linen dish towels hung on the same ash-carved pegs, but in which a mango tree was growing, its leaves brushing the ceiling.
And here, sitting on a chair and patiently waiting, would be his father, and when he saw David, he would spring to his feet, his face alight, crying with joy. “My Kawika,” he’d say, “you’ve come for me! You’ve finally come for me!” He wouldn’t hesitate, but would run toward him, while behind him, Charles stood and beamed, watching this final reunion, a father and son finding each other at last.
PART II
My son, my Kawika—what are you doing today? I know where you are, because Mama told me: New York. But where in New York, I wonder? And what are you doing there? She said you were working in a law firm, though not a lawyer, but you mustn’t think I’m any less proud of you for that. I visited New York once, did you know that? Yes, it’s true—your papa has some secrets of his own.
I think about you often. When I’m awake, but also when I’m asleep. All of my dreams are about you in one way or another. Sometimes I dream about the time before we went to Lipo-wao-nahele, when we were together in your grandmother’s house, and we used to take our midnight walks. Do you remember those? I would wake you up, and we’d sneak outside. Up O‘ahu Avenue to East Manoa Road we’d go, and then up Mohala Way, because one of the houses there had a trumpet bush in its front yard that fascinated you, do you remember this? It had pale-yellow flowers, the color of ivory, that grew upside down and looked like the bell of a cornet. At least that’s what people said. You didn’t agree, however. “The upside-down tulip tree,” you used to call it, and I could never see it any other way after that. Then down Lipioma Way we’d go, and over to Beckwith, and then down Manoa Road, and then home. It’s funny—of all the things I was scared of, I was never scared of the dark. In the dark, everyone was helpless, and, knowing that, that I was just like everyone else, no less, made me feel braver.
I loved those walks of ours. I think you did, too. We had to stop them after you told your teacher about them—you were falling asleep in class, and your teacher asked why, and you told her it was because of our nighttime walks, and your teacher called me in to see her and I got in trouble. “He’s growing, Mr. Bingham,” she said, “he needs his sleep. You can’t be waking him up in the middle of the night to go on walks.” I felt foolish, but she was kind to me. She could have told your grandmother, but she didn’t. “I just want to spend more time with him,” I told the teacher, and she looked at me in the way that people often did, that made me realize I’d said something wrong, something queer, but finally she had nodded. “You love your son, Mr. Bingham,” she said, “and that’s a wonderful thing. But if you really love him, you’ll let him sleep.” I was embarrassed then, because of course she was right: You were just a child. I had no right to wake you and take you from your bed. The first time I did so, you were confused, but then you grew to expect it, and you would rub your eyes and yawn, but you never complained—you would put on your slippers and take my hand and follow me down the path. I never had to tell you not to tell your grandmother; you already knew not to. Later, I told Edward that I had gotten in trouble with the teacher, and why. “You dumbass,” he said, but in a way so that I knew he wasn’t mad, just frustrated. “They could’ve called Child Services and taken Kawika away for that.” “Could they have?” I asked. It was the worst thing I could imagine. “？’Course they could’ve,” he said. “But don’t worry. When we go to Lipo-wao-nahele, you can raise Kawika however you want, and no one can say anything about it.”
What else do you remember? All I can do is remember. I can see, a little, but just light and darkness. Do you remember how we used to go to the Chinese cemetery and sit near the monkeypod tree at the top of the hill? We’d lie right on the grass, with our faces turned up to the sun. “Keep your eyes shut,” I’d tell you, but even though we did, we could still see a field of orange, little blobs of black flickering across it like flies. After I told you how vision worked, you asked me if you were seeing the back of your eye, and I told you that maybe you were. Anyway, it’s like that—I can see color and those blobs, but not much else. When they take me outdoors, though, they put sunglasses on me first. This is because, according to one of the doctors here, I should still be able to see—there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, as such, and so they need to be protected. Until recently, your grandmother used to bring pictures of you, which she’d hold in front of me, so close that the paper tickled against my nose. “Look at him, Wika,” she’d say. “Look at him. Stop this nonsense. Don’t you want to see pictures of your son?” Of course I did, and I tried, I tried hard. But I could never see more than the outline of the square of paper, maybe the dark of your hair. Or maybe it wasn’t a picture of you at all that she was showing me. Maybe it was a picture of a cat, or a mushroom. I couldn’t tell the difference. The point is that I never see everything new; everything I see I’ve seen before.
But although I can’t see, I can hear. Most of it doesn’t make much sense to me, not because I can’t understand it, exactly, but because I’m so often asleep that it’s difficult for me to keep track of what I’m actually hearing and what I’m imagining. And sometimes when I’m trying to figure it out, I fall asleep again, and then, when I wake next, I’m more confused—assuming I can recall what I was trying to sort out before I fell asleep, I by then don’t know whether I really heard what I thought I heard, or whether I had been hallucinating. Your being in New York, for example: I woke with the strong feeling you were there. But were you, really? Had someone told me that, or had I invented it? I thought and thought, so hard that I could hear myself begin to whimper with frustration and confusion, and then someone came into my room, and then there was blankness. When I woke again, I remembered only that I had been upset, and it wasn’t until later that I remembered why. I had no way to ask whether you were in New York or not, of course, and so I just had to wait until someone—your grandmother—came to visit me again, and hope that she would mention you. And eventually, she did come, and said that she’d gotten a letter from you, and that the weather in New York was hot, hot and rainy, and that you wanted me to get better. Now I suppose you’re wondering how I knew that this was actually happening, that I wasn’t dreaming it, and the answer is because that day I could smell the flowers your grandmother was wearing. Do you remember how, when the pakalana vine was in bloom, she’d send you to the side of the house to pick a few clusters, and then she’d put them in that little silver brooch she had, the one shaped like a vase that could actually hold a few blossoms? That was how I knew it was real, and also that it was summer, because pakalana only blooms in summer. It’s also why, whenever I think of you, and New York, I smell pakalana.