Diamond Head (34 page)

I went immediately to buy a dress. My mom asked to come and she said she would pay, which I knew was an offering; she would not ask to make it. I spotted the dress right away, on a mannequin in the Liberty House window. Short and black, the straps as thin as the stroke of a pen, it was closer to a negligée than something fit for spring. But I wanted something I could look sexy in, experienced, and my mom didn’t seem to mind. She paid for it without complaint. She hadn’t gotten my grades yet.

The night of the dance, Roy picked me up in a Cadillac Series 62 and I almost fainted. He was exactly who I wanted to take me to the dance—exactly who I’d been dreaming of as my mind wandered in class. Roy was slim and muscular, his black hair thick and wavy. His teeth were perfectly white, his skin golden. I swear to God his eyes sparkled. He met Maku and my mom, shaking their hands and thanking them for letting him take their daughter to the dance. He spoke to them with authority, a head taller than them both; he made Maku laugh, asked him if he could pull some strings and get him into Punahou. My mom smiled approvingly—told him how handsome he was.

Roy opened the car door for me and I slid in, instantly encased in soft black leather. The underside of my thighs sank luxuriously into the seat and I felt suddenly sexy, intoxicatingly glamorous. Maku had a station wagon, a Chevy Corvair in olive green, the most practical car in the most practical color.

“So you like the car, huh?” Roy asked, raising an eyebrow, starting the ignition.

“Is it that obvious?” I giggled, nodding my head, my smile entirely out of control. I was so far gone, clinging to a single thought, hell-bent in my determination. I would not screw this up, I warned myself. I would be everything he hoped I would be, every bit as dazzling as my family’s name, as sensational as the prom queen he was promised. At the very least, the bare minimum, Roy would feel the same desire I felt for him.

Roy drove fast, the muscles in his wrist contracting as he shifted gears, revving his engine at each new green light. He cast sideways glances at me, his muscular neck, his square jawline protruding from the collar of his shirt, crisp and white. It was simple, getting him to want me. In that dress, my mouth painted a scarlet red, my eyes emboldened by dark, smoky liner—I was a flawless version of myself, I saw it in his stare. He looked at me in a way that no man had before, like I was a perfect, delicious object, his glassy eyes penetrating me, causing me to look away. My smile turned to pride, to vanity, to shameless delight. I remember thinking how easy it was, how powerful I felt, as if being beautiful that night could mitigate my grades, my self-esteem, my hardening reality.

When we arrived at the dance, once again, Roy walked around the car and opened my door, whistling as I stepped out into the parking lot.

“Let me look at you,” he said, and I relished in his stare. He took my hand and spun me around in my heels. I couldn’t get enough. My entire body felt lit up, rapt with excitement, filled with expectation. He put his hand against the small of my back and led me into the
ballroom, his fingers pressing through the silk, the heat of his touch reaching to my skin.

Everyone—I mean
everyone
was at this dance. I recognized so many faces of pretty girls I’d seen around campus and they were all looking at me—or rightfully, at my date. He was gorgeous, that was obvious, but these girls seemed to
know
him.

“Hi, Roy,” they’d whisper as they passed him, completely ignoring me. “What’s it like in California?”

“A lot of blondes,” he would reply, “I like it much better here.” Then he would wrap his arm tightly around my waist and smile. The girls would throw out a phony laugh and walk away. I could have died happily right there, could have drowned in the glow of my spotlight.

I asked for a drink, which Roy gladly retrieved for me. The more jealous stares I received, the more I drank, the happier I became, the closer I let myself get to Roy, the more convinced I became that this would be the greatest night of my life. I was not used to drinking and the vodka hit me hard. My head blurred and suddenly, all I could do was follow Roy around and smile, clink my glass against his and move to the music when he wanted to dance. When the last song had played, Roy took my hand and led me from the ballroom and through the parking lot. He opened his car door and I got in. It felt so good to sit down. I remember taking off my shoes, rubbing my feet together where they felt sore. I was sure he was going to drive me home. He headed in the direction of my house, toward the marina, but he stopped short, pulling into the small lot that overlooked the inlet. He turned off the engine.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, letting my body sink into the seat. I had seen this view a million times, but that night it was spectacular. The water was still, all the boats tied up to their docks, their tops covered as if tucked in for the night. Light from a handful of houses, those still awake, reflected faintly against the perfect calm. In the distance, Koko Head rose beyond the water, its rugged silhouette a shade darker than the midnight sky.

“I love this spot,” he replied, turning the radio on, adjusting it until he settled on a song. “Sometimes I come here and think. It really clears your head.” It was Skeeter Davis, I remember thinking. “The End of the World.”

I remember hearing the song, wishing that my head were clear. I wanted to enjoy the moment, there with Roy, but I was having trouble holding on to any single thought, my eyelids heavy with liquor and exhaustion. Skeeter Davis’s voice, its sweet nasal pitch, I felt it in my veins. I knew I had drunk too much and this might just be the end of it and then, all of a sudden, Roy leaned over the divide and kissed me.

All I could feel were sensations of hot and cold. His lips against mine were warm, breathing hot air into my mouth as they parted and closed. His hands on my bare thighs were cold, slowly warming as they moved up and down. He raised my arms and my dress came off; cold, so cold until his entire body came over the divide to warm me up; hot. He pulled my underwear down. I let him. He kissed my neck. The leather under me was becoming so hot under the weight of two bodies. I wanted more cold. And then I felt him, the pain of my first time subdued by the vodka tumbling in my body. I lay there frozen, trying to relax myself so I could try to enjoy what I knew was happening. My hands clutched the soft leather of the underside of the seat. He breathed into my ear. He was panting, harder and harder until I heard him release. I barely registered that it was over. The weight of his body collapsed on me, his skin sticky with sweat.

I fell asleep. He re-dressed me and drove me home, kissing me on the forehead when we reached my driveway.

“You fell asleep, princess. You’re home. Do you want me to get you some water?”

I looked up at him and barely recognized the face that was looking back at me. I needed to leave; I needed to be alone.

“No, no,” I replied. “I’ll be okay. Good night,” I said, stepping out of the car, feeling empty, disgusting.

“I’ll call you,” he said as he pulled out of the driveway. I didn’t reply.

I unlocked the front door and walked straight to my bathroom, clutching at the walls of the hallway. I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze, leaned in closer to study myself, to make sure it was real. Black eyeliner spread beneath my eyes like oil spills, dragging them down, making their redness so much more shocking. My lipstick, my perfect mouth, was gone except for a chapped ring that clung to the outline. I touched my hair, the strands that had come undone matted to my temples, when I felt him drip from between my legs. I collapsed on the toilet. And I cried. I took a shower and scrubbed my body raw. I hated him. I hated myself.

Roy called a couple of times over the next few weeks but I ignored his messages. My mom couldn’t understand why I would reject such a handsome boy with such good manners. I couldn’t explain it to her. I told her he was an idiot.

I spent three weeks locked in my house trying to forgive myself for what I had done, for my own stupidity. I had trouble sleeping; every time I closed my eyes, I felt the weight of his body on mine and I couldn’t breathe. I stopped seeing my college friends, all of them wanting to know how it turned out with Roy. I hated Roy—I couldn’t believe that there were men out there who would do that. I couldn’t forgive him. I couldn’t forgive myself. I needed to wash him from my life and my mind, which is exactly what I set out to do.

But five weeks passed and my period never came. On Tuesday of week six, I ran to the bathroom and threw my head over the toilet, panicking as I clutched my nauseated stomach. I choked into the water. It wasn’t possible, I told myself; I was
nineteen
, only nineteen. These things, they just didn’t happen on the first time. It took years for people to have a baby, a hundred tries without a single pregnancy. I raised my head and breathed, the acidity of my own vomit burning at my throat. My fingers, clamped down on the edge of the bowl,
began to shake as the tears came. There was no way, I fought myself, no god that would allow this.

There was a knock on the door, followed by my mom’s voice.

“Theresa, my God. Are you all right?”

I looked at her as she walked into the bathroom. I saw her concern, her obliviousness, and I closed my eyes, returned my head to the toilet and breathed. I counted to five and then to three.

“I could hear you from the kitchen,” she said. “What’s the matter? I didn’t know you were sick.”

She kneeled and put her hand on my back. Almost immediately, I gave in to her touch. I crumbled into her lap and let my tears fall down her legs. I couldn’t stop crying. I needed to tell someone, but not her. I couldn’t tell her.

“Did you eat something bad?” She ran her hand down my back, stroking my heaving body, trying to relax me. “It’s okay. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. If not my mom, then who would I tell? Maku? The idea of telling Maku I was pregnant—I couldn’t finish the thought. I reached up for the toilet and puked again.

“
Theresa
, tell me,” she begged, her hand still stroking my back.

I took a deep breath and raised my body up to meet her gaze. I wiped my mouth with my palm.

“Mom,” I whispered. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Hate you, why would I—”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

My mom’s hand stopped. Her body stiffened as she pushed back to sturdy herself against the bathroom wall.

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” she stammered. “How could you possibly be pregnant? You don’t have a boyfriend, you haven’t been out of the house in we—” And then she paused, as if the answer had hit her right at that very moment, mid-sentence. “Ohmygod,” she whispered.

“Mom.” I whimpered, moving toward her. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I reached out my hand but she pressed her back firmly against the wall, eyes narrowed. She looked as pale as I felt.

“You’re
sorry
?” she said, her voice turning icy. She began to laugh, tears falling from her eyes. She reached her hands behind her and grabbed the wall, lifting her body from the floor, her arms shaking softly.

“Oh, Theresa.” She laughed again, high-pitched, frantic. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to describe what you’re going to feel. Sorry is for children who can correct their mistakes, but
this. This
you will live with for the rest of your life! You’ll understand that sorry has nothing to do with it!
Damn it
, Theresa, I tried. I really did. I gave you everything I could—absolutely everything! And look what you’ve done.”

She shook her head and left the room, shutting the door behind her, leaving me alone on the bathroom floor. I sat there in desperate silence; my tears refused to fall. I curled up on the bathroom rug and closed my eyes. I prayed, really prayed for the first time in my entire life. Let it be a mistake, I begged.

That was seven months ago.

My mom told Maku three days later, after a visit to the hospital confirmed it was true. For three days, we kept the secret from him, hoping that we would be wrong.

After she told him, they called me out to the living room, and the enormity of heartbreak on Maku’s face, the way he looked at me, his eyes deeply burdened, the curve of his lips weighed down in defeat, it regularly keeps me from sleep.

He didn’t say anything when I sat down, but I could feel his teeth clamped together, could feel the horrible tension in his jaw.

My mom was the only one who spoke.

“You’ve disappointed us both,” she said. “You’ve disrespected us both.”

I nodded. I thought,
and myself.

“You must know by now that your decision carries serious consequences.”

“I do,” I said, and I thought I knew what she meant.

She paused to look at me, to really look at me. She shook her head, staring me straight on, as if to express her seriousness, her severity. As if to say,
I won’t clean up after you, Theresa; not this time
. Seven months ago. That was the first time I saw this face.

“You want to be an adult, Theresa? You want to make adult decisions? Fine.”

Fine?
I thought. It was the last word I would use to describe what was happening. Fine was the opposite of what I saw on my parents’ faces.

“You’ll marry him,” she said decisively, her eyes still held mine. “I’ve spoken to his mother and she agrees.”

“What?” I exclaimed, rising in my chair.

“What?” my mom shot back. “You think you can raise this child without a father? Or did you think your father and I would raise it for you? Is that it? There are consequences, Theresa! You made the choice to do this—you made this choice!”

My mom’s face was stricken, flushed with effort and anger. She meant what she said; the way she said it, it terrified me.

“Maku?” I pleaded, turning to him for the first time. “Maku, please, you can’t think this is right. He’s horrible—he forced himself on me, he forced me!”

“Enough!” he called out, raising his hand in the air. “Enough.”

I went silent. There was so much discomfort obstructing our conversation, so many words that we weren’t saying, words we had never said to each other before. We wouldn’t say them, I knew we wouldn’t. We weren’t that kind of family. In our house, we spoke of math, we spoke of food.