Haole Wood (2 page)

As the weekend weathercaster at the NBC affiliate in San Diego, I had to do some pretty fancy footwork to figure out how I was going to do my job from Hawaii without calling in sick. My parents, the same folks who leave thirty minutes early for a two-minute, one-mile drive to church on Sunday mornings, insisted I leave the very next day, making me miss my weather slots. Since there really is no such thing as polyjuice potion, pity, I needed to create a twenty-five-hundred-mile wide solution, so I could fly off to Maui with a clear conscience and keep my career intact.

As long as I can remember, I have wanted to be on TV. Who knew my nickname would actually morph into my TV name? My fascination with television surely has some psychological roots. Maybe it was part of my fantasy world as a former thumb sucker/bed-wetter/funny-looking kid who grew into an unappetizing teenager with astigmatism, asthma, and acne. Back then, I would have traded being fat for having clear skin in a minute.

It didn’t matter that my teeth were white and straight enough to prop up a smile, there was that one off-kilter eyetooth that always seemed to trap the stray poppy seed or bay leaf. My mom still smacked my hand away from my face whenever I smiled behind my fingers.

I smiled extra wide in that freezing cold studio in San Diego as I pulled off my magic. Any airtime was prime time, and I needed to prove to my news director that I was a key player. Besides, how would it look if I tried to tell him I needed the weekend off, to bail my Halmoni out of jail?

My friend, Barry, the weekend producer, loved intrigue,
Game of Thrones
, and apparently the idea of not having a girlfriend. He seemed delighted to help me out of my pickle.

“Look, Jaswinder,” he told me, “good thing I got in early. I’ll grab someone from production and tell them I want you to pre-tape your weather segments. I’ll just run them during the shows as if they were airing live and you were right here.”

“Great.” That was exactly what I was hoping for. I could do my job, still be present and accounted for, and do my duty by my family. Everyone wins. It was the perfect solution. I had brought in a second set of clothes for the Sunday broadcast. “Thanks so much, Barry,” I told him. “You tell me how much time you want to give me and I’ll have my weather stuff all ready.” I was so relieved I hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“No prob,” Barry said. “Easy peasy. Who will know? The crew won’t mind.”

The homemade bundt cake brownies I brought in with me didn’t hurt, either. Barry sucked the chocolate off of his teeth and licked his fingers. “It won’t take long to shoot your weather,” he told me. “And during the live newscasts, we’ll just roll it and drop it right in.”

I checked all the meteorology reports and everything looked crystal clear. Smooth sailing. It was San Diego, after all. I could do the weather in my sleep.

As I straightened the collar on my lavender suit, I jumped at a quick flash. For just a moment, I thought I saw . . . something. I smiled in case someone important entered the studio. I shook my head, as if I were an actress portraying bewilderment. Unfortunately, the crew had been rolling tape and later ended up using that footage, accompanied by zany cartoon music and the sound of breaking glass.

If only I paid closer attention. Instead, I took a deep breath, pretending that what I had seen was probably just the reflection of the floor director in the teleprompter screen. Teeth don’t fail me now. Never having learned the fine art of flirting with the camera, I tilted my head a fraction to the right, (my best side) sucked in my stomach, widened my eyes, relaxed my shoulders to make my neck look long and graceful, smoothed my hair on both sides in an equal and opposite motion, repeating as needed if one hand was out of sync with the other, and finished by swiping my pinkie through the lipstick in the middle of my top lip for that oh-so-pouty look. Had I been a baseball player I’m sure I would have hit many a home run thanks to my disciplined superstitions. I probably looked more like I was chewing tobacco and adjusting myself as I threw my tease to the camera.

“Will our purple mountain majesties soon be awash in amber waves of rain? We’ll find out, coming up.” I learned early on, San Diego weather forecasts always tease the chance of rain, regardless of the impossibly clear, sunny blue skies. We had to, in order to get people to tune in. It didn’t take long for Barry and I to nail the segments.

“So, I hope you soaked up all the sunshine and had a great time outdoors. Did you make it to the beach? If you didn’t get there today, there’s plenty more sun and fun on the way. Temperatures will be in the mid-seventies, just remember your sunscreen.” I waggled my finger for that extra dab of credibility. I threw in my signature “Enjoy!” with a wave and tossed it over to no one since my co-anchors obviously weren’t there for the taping. “Greg and Janie, back to you.”

With that, I plucked off my microphone, thanked the crew, changed my clothes, and ran out to the Cloud 9 Super shuttle waiting to take me to the airport. My plan worked perfectly. (Note to self: For future reference, never, ever think a plan is working perfectly.)

Nobody offers rides to the airport in San Diego, except boyfriends. I felt a quick pang at the time getting into that shuttle van, missing my ex-boyfriend, Jeff, who dumped me a few weeks earlier after I admitted that someday, yes, I wanted to have kids. He thought I was pushing for a commitment and then told me I wasn’t ambitious enough for him. Well, I could have used his ambitious lift to my plane, I thought. At least it made me realize that missing Jeff hurt no more than having to pay for a ride to the airport.

I just hoped I could get things squared away with Halmoni. Then, maybe my family would take me seriously, and I could finally feel like a grown up. An odd shadow flitted through the light in the van as I buckled my seat belt. Great. Probably an overdeveloped guilty conscience blood vessel bursting in my brain. Even though I was queasy about skipping out on work, I didn’t really have a choice. It’s not like I didn’t do my work, I just did it early. Besides, who would notice?

I finally found the Maui police station, but it took forever to get someone to help me with all the paperwork and to let me see my grandmother. As I waited, I tried to think like my sister, Josephine. If she had been there, she would have kicked butt, taken names, and then color-coded them by the size and number of bruises before convincing them to help her.

I learned pretty early on life isn’t fair. There are no such things as fairy godmothers or guardian angels. When my mom called me about this crazy mission, I did my best to throw my sister under the bus.

Not only was my sister born into the wrong family and era, she totally blew the geography by about two thousand miles. From the time she could walk, prance, and pirouette, Josephine was a southern belle, complete with fluttering eyelashes. My parents ate her act up. To this day I have to bust her chops every time she tries to pull out a “honey child” or “darlin’.” Unlike Madonna’s we-know-she’s-really-from-Michigan-and-bet-she-totally-sounds-like-it-when-she’s-yelling-at-her-kids accent, Josephine’s forte was whistling Dixie. She truly thought she was Scarlett O’Hara. The only problem was, she lived in Cleveland.

Josephine was a year older than me, ten times richer, and according to my parents, a hundred times more responsible. Of course, she has also produced grandchildren—after she stole and then married my boyfriend. Unlike Suellen’s beau, it wasn’t like he was in poor health, chewed tobacco and had a long, scraggly beard, but he did own a couple of stores.

In all fairness, he and I weren’t a match made in heaven, but still. Josephine, no one would ever dare call her Josie, was a great mother, a good friend and tried to be a good sister, which made her that much more irritating. She got the best of our parent’s genes. She swung around her dark brown hair with mahogany highlights like it was blond. She had the darker skin of my father and the blue eyes of my mother. She was so organized I told everyone she even bathed herself in alphabetical order: ass, boobs, crack, deltoids, ears, femur . . . I could go all the way to Z. An attorney for underserved women, at age thirty-one, Josephine seemed to have it all.

I never claimed to be Cinderella. My family supported me, the only way they knew how, with backhanded compliments: “I’m sure one day Jaswinder will reach her full potential,” I overheard my sister say, not sounding very sure at all.

Poor Suellen. She really got the short end of the stick, although it was probably better her sister did steal her beau. I always wondered about her side of the story, imagining what kind of woman she was in the shadow of her sister. What had Suellen’s dreams been? Did her sister ever apologize, or accept her for who she was?

I don’t think it’s fair that Suellen was judged so harshly. I sure didn’t want to be judged on the basis of how I got along with my sister.

Sitting there in the Maui police station for nearly three sweltering hours gave me a lot of time to think. I like to think I used it wisely.

Finally, I got to see my grandmother.

“Halmoni! I can’t believe it!” I screeched at the tiny old woman sitting in the small jail cell. I even got tears in my eyes. Granted, I get weepy during the “Star-Spangled Banner” at Padres’ games, at dogs-helping-other-dogs on YouTube, and just about anything they run on Lifetime Television. “Halmoni.” I said again, trying to scrunch back the lump in my throat. My voice cracked and I burst into tears. I surprised myself at how truly glad I was to see her. “They said they arrested you for possession of marijuana.”

She stood and came to the bars, smiling, her hand reaching to touch my pouffy hair, which in the Hawaiian humidity made my head look like a dandelion that some kid was going to run up on and make a wish.

“What were you thinking? Do you actually smoke marijuana?” I asked, knowing my grandmother probably didn’t understand a word I said but could probably figure it out.

My grandmother spoke in a mixture of Hawaiian and Korean and shook her head and gestured with her small hands. “Da-di-da, da-di-da, da-di-da.”

I heard the rhythm, but all I could make out was, “Not that.”

The sheriff came in and jingled the keys. “Okay. The paperwork is all done. Your fees have been processed. Your grandmother is free to go.” He opened the cell door and motioned my grandmother through. “No more
pakalolo
. You hear?”

Halmoni nodded and looked at me. I just stood there and then moved in for a hug that I felt she was waiting for. My five feet three inches towered over her. “Are you okay?” I asked her.

Halmoni smiled.

“Let’s get you home.”

I helped my grandmother climb into the passenger side of her own jeep, before I returned to the driver’s side. “I had a heck of a time finding this place,” I jabbered. “Then, I was so worried they weren’t going to let you out. They said if they would have caught you with any more weed, you would have to go to trial.” I shook my head and hoped I got through to her.

“When we get back to your house, I’m going to have to call my parents. I need to tell my dad you’re fine and then tell them what you’ve been up to.” My grandmother just smiled and looked very satisfied with herself.

I drove us inland a few miles back to the house. Before I could help her, my grandmother jumped out of the jeep and hurried up the steps. I followed her into the small, messy kitchen where she started to steam a pot of rice. I watched her measure the water by using the knuckle of her index finger. I always thought that was pretty cool.

“Can I help, Halmoni?” I said, trying to stretch my mouth wider while I spoke as if that would help her understand me better.

Halmoni flicked her fingers in the air and pushed me into a chair before bringing me a cup of tea.

I curled my hair back over my ears and blew into my cup. “Whew. Thanks. I need this. I’ve been so worried. I didn’t know what happened to you, and then I had to leave my job and it was a long flight over. Oh brother.” I took a slurp to help cool the brew over my tongue as my grandmother watched me. It was quite weird. I don’t think I have ever been alone with her before without my mom or dad there to help translate and take on the burden of chit-chat.

I don’t think society appreciates the importance of buffers—those special people who can make being in the presence of others, palatable. I envy those gifted raconteurs, charming souls who can pretend fascination at the most inane conversations. Sitting there in Maui, I could have used a little hand-holding and help figuring out what to talk about. It was so quiet at my grandmother’s little house. I could hear the lid start to teeter on the simmering rice pot. Time to say something else to Halmoni. I took another sip of tea, swallowed, and tried to smile.
Holy crap, granny, what the hell kind of tea is this?
“Mmm,” I said instead.

Halmoni nodded her head up and down.

Dirt tea, my favorite. How did you know?

My grandmother wiped her hands on her Hawaiian print housedress. I wondered what she thought of me. Just then, she lunged and reached over my head, arcing her arm high in the air, brandishing what looked like an Ali Baba machete.

“Halmoni, No!” I screamed. Scooting my chair back I reached up to wrestle the blade from my grandmother. She was a complete stranger to me, she could be a total whacko. Maybe she was on drugs! She could be mentally deranged. No wonder I felt so uneasy. Always trust your instincts. I can’t believe I let my guard down. I ferociously twisted my body and tried to win control of the blade. I did not want to end up on one of those prime time TV murder mystery shows. (Which I was addicted to.) I could almost hear the disgust in the correspondent’s voice as he did his stand-up atop a scenic mountain, his cadence jaded by the heartbreaking lines he had to read and read and read. “Forensic evidence suggests the pretty young granddaughter fought back, but what happened next would rock this island paradise like a tsunami.”

Not on my watch. “Halmoni!” I panted. My grandmother was strong, stronger than I thought. I struggled, holding onto her arm for dear life. I did not want to die. Especially like this. “Give me that,” I said, gnashing my teeth, proper enunciation and understanding be damned.