Spirits of Ash and Foam (2 page)

She pulled her backpack out of the closet and her battered notebook off a shelf. It was jammed with notes from her various seventh-grade classes. Without a moment's hesitation, she clicked open the binding and dumped every single sheet of used paper into the trash. Then she refilled it with a fresh, clean stack pulled from the plastic bag of school supplies she had purchased yesterday morning—a lifetime ago.

Also in the shopping bag were a couple of new pencils, a couple new pens, a fluorescent yellow highlighter, a two-pocket folder for handouts and assignments, and a very old framed photograph of ten World War II airmen in front of their B-17 bomber, the
Island Belle
. She studied the photo for a moment or two. They were all dead now, except Old Joe Charone. There he was, decades ago, as an injured young tail gunner. And there was Sebastian Bohique as a dashing young bomber pilot: not the old, warm, gray Papa 'Bastian she had known, worshipped and loved—but a Dark Man with a very dangerous smile. Beside 'Bastian and Joe, their crew: the Eight. All gone now. Released, at last, to their final rest, thanks to 'Bastian, Charlie and herself. She carefully propped the picture up on her dresser and finished packing for school.

She exited her room, carefully locking the door behind her and double-checking to make sure. She didn't want any more unwelcome visitors lifting her stuff as Callahan had done. Then, with backpack slung over one shoulder, she descended the front staircase of the only home she had ever known: the Nitaino Inn.

Her father, Alonso Cacique, was at the front desk, checking out the DeLancys and the Chungs. It was the standard routine: asking how their stay was, suggesting they recommend the Nitaino to their friends, etc. Rain was about to continue on through the dining room to the kitchen to help her mom serve the breakfast portion of the Inn's “Bed & Breakfast” promise, when the front door opened and a crowd of bodies noisily poured in.

She recognized Timo Craw, who led the way, hefting two very large rolling suitcases over the lip of the threshold. Timo was one of San Próspero's half-dozen full-time cabdrivers, and, of course, Rain knew every local on the island. He was followed by an Asian woman in her midthirties, who—in addition to Sherpa-ing multiple airplane carry-ons—was trying to shepherd three very sleepy kids, ranging in age from eight to four. This brood was followed by their disheveled father, an Asian man about the same age as his wife. He also had two large rolling bags, which he had carried up the four cobblestone steps in front of the Inn, but which he had put down just short of the door frame. Now he was struggling to roll them over that last small speed bump with little luck or joy.

With a wiry grace, Alonso instantly slid out from behind the desk, dodging his slim but muscular six-foot form around a DeLancy here, a Chung there, until he had reached the side of this newest paterfamilias and effortlessly taken charge of his bags. (
All those years working the charter boat had to be good for something
, Rain thought.) Alonso introduced himself as one of the Nitaino's proprietors, and the exhausted, somewhat befuddled, but certainly grateful dad shook his hand and said, “I'm Fred Kim. This is my wife, Esther Kim. We're the Kims.”

Alonso nodded to Rain, who knew the drill. While her dad did the heavy lifting, she crossed behind the desk and turned the register to face their new guests. “Hi, I'm Rain. I can check you in.”

Esther Kim eyed the thirteen-year-old. “You work here?”

“Kinda have to. My folks run the place.”

Mrs. Kim nodded and started to sign the guest book. Meanwhile, Timo had sized up the situation. The lobby of the Nitaino was generally considered large and warm and welcoming. However, with four guests checking out, five checking in, plus a ton of luggage, two Caciques, a cabdriver and a postcard rack, things had become decidedly cramped. To Timo Craw, that meant opportunity: “You folks need a ride to the airport? I got room fo' four.”

John DeLancy and Terry Chung glanced at each other uncomfortably. John stammered, “Uh, w-we're n-not—”

“—Together,” Terry finished.

Timo shrugged. “Sharing cab be cheaper, Captains. But it good with Timo either way. I take one couple now. Come back and take the other couple … sooooon as I can.” Rain smiled at Timo'scheek. A second taxi could be there in five minutes easy—but the gamble paid off.

“Well, if it's cheaper,” DeLancy said.

“Don't want to miss our flight,” said Chung.

So, despite the dirty looks from Elizabeth Ellis-Chung and Ellen DeLancy, Timo was soon clearing some space in the lobby as he escorted the two couples and their luggage out the door—though not before Ms. Ellis-Chung had slipped an envelope into Rain's hand: her tip for serving breakfast, cleaning bathrooms and making beds. Rain smiled and thanked her and watched her go.

The click of the door shutting behind them seemed to act as some kind of
ON
switch for the three Kim kids: the whining started instantly.

“I'm so tired…”

“What are we gonna do here anyway?”

“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”

Mrs. Kim handed Rain her credit card and then turned to crouch before her kids. “I'm right here. I'm right here. I'm right here.”

Rain ran the card immediately to secure the Kims' deposit
before
they could be told the inevitable bad news: Check-in time wasn't until 1:00
P.M.
, and the two connecting rooms the Kims had reserved had only just been vacated by Timo's latest fares and weren't yet ready for occupation. Rain glanced down at the guest register and read the following names upside down:

Rebecca Sawyer, Hannibal, MO

Mr. & Mrs. John DeLancy, San Francisco

Terry Chung and Elizabeth Ellis-Chung, Cambridge, Mass.

Callahan

Judith Vendaval, New York.

Fred, Esther, Wendy, John & Michael Kim, Seattle

Wow,
Rain thought,
they came all the way from Seattle! They must have been flying all night.
The inevitable bad news was going to be
really
bad news. She looked at the other names. Mrs. Sawyer and Ms. Vendaval were still staying at the Inn, but Callahan,
thank God,
was long gone.

At her first opportunity, Rain returned the credit card to Mrs. Kim and disappeared into the dining room—just as Alonso was saying, “You're going to have to give us a little time…”

Tourists.
They were Rain's life—in fact, practically the sum total of her life until this past weekend. She lived with her parents in the Inn, which was almost never completely empty of guests. Among other chores, she served them breakfast, cleaned their rooms on weekends, and, every couple of weeks or so, helped crew her dad's charter boat for them. Now all that had changed. Tourists had become a side venture. Her life now was with the
zemi,
and she wanted to shout it to the world.

Although maybe not to Rebecca Sawyer. The old woman was sitting alone in the dining room, reading a Lew Archer mystery novel and sipping black coffee. A half-eaten fresh-baked scone sat on her bread plate. She glanced up over the top of her paperback and smiled. “Hello, Rain.”

“Hi, Rebecca.” The first morning after she had checked in, Mrs. Sawyer had insisted Rain call her Rebecca or Becky. Rain had settled on the more formal of the two options. “I'll have your breakfast in just a minute. Mom took your order?”

Mrs. Sawyer confirmed as much, and Rain passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Instantly, she was hit by the wonderful smells of her mother's cooking. Iris Cacique had three skillets going on the burners. In one, she was sautéing onions, mushrooms and tomatoes in salted butter, while flipping a half-cooked omelet in a second and frying a few links of La Géante sausage in the third. There was a large bowl of mixed berries on the big wooden table where the family ate their own meals, alongside carafes of fresh orange and pineapple juice chilling in the ice bucket.

A cheerful Rain hung her backpack on the hook by the back door. “Morning!”

“Morning, baby,” her mother said tenderly, glancing briefly at Rain, who could instantly tell Iris had been crying—and
not
because of the onions. For a second or two Rain searched her brain for an explanation, and then it hit her:
'Bastian!
Her mother was still mourning her own father, who had only died three days ago. The funeral and the wake had followed rapidly, a Ghost Keys tradition, as it's not wise to let a body linger on a tropical island. Now life was supposed to go back to normal,
but what was the new normal?
Most days when Rain came down for breakfast, Papa 'Bastian was already sitting at the table, reading the paper and eating his Lucky Charms. Not today, and not ever again. Of course, Rain knew that tonight—at sunset—'Bastian would emerge from the
zemi,
a bit pale, transparent and ethereal but otherwise none the worse for being dead. Iris, however, didn't know that and grieved still. Rain felt an irresistible longing to ease her mother's pain by telling her everything, the whole adventure—even the parts she knew would get her grounded for life. It was all so exciting, and she wanted to share it.
But how can I? She'll only think I'm nuts—or worse, on drugs or something.

Rain settled for kissing her mom on the cheek and then setting up plates and spooning berries into a bowl, as Iris Cacique finished preparing Mrs. Sawyer's order.

“Anyone else out there?” Iris asked.

“Just Rebecca.”

“That's a relief. I thought the Chungs or the DeLancys might want something before hitting the road.”

“They might've. But Timo rushed 'em out the door before they could think. Oh, but the Kims checked in early.”

Iris growled under her breath. Rain smiled. That growl was very normal.

Two pieces of whole-wheat toast popped into view. A well-oiled machine, the Cacique women were on the job. Rain used two fingers to pluck the hot toast from the Inn's industrial toaster, dropping both pieces on the breadboard. She sliced them in half diagonally and arranged the two sets of triangles on a plate. Iris wheeled about with her saucepans, and soon the toast was joined by an onion-mushroom-tomato-and-jack omelet and sausage links. Rain was quickly through the swinging doors with the meal, serving Rebecca Sawyer with a smile. Seconds later, back in the kitchen, Rain was being asked what she wanted for breakfast.

“Actually, that looked really good.”

Her mother's eyebrows raised a good half inch in surprise. Iris Cacique's only child wasn't generally one for a big breakfast. But Rain was still flush with all the changes in her life.
A new day. A new way.
Besides, she had burned a
lot
of calories the night before, you know, fighting for her life and everything.

Iris started cooking again, and Rain poured herself half a glass of orange juice, topping it off with the same amount of pineapple. Iris asked, “You looking forward to eighth grade?”

Rain groaned, not so much because she dreaded school but mostly because it seemed expected. Not that she
was
looking forward to it. Eighth grade would just get in the way of her new quest. After all, she was the Searcher and the Healer.
I should totally be exempt!
Suddenly, she remembered the form. She hopped up from the table and removed it from under the magnet on the fridge. “Mom, you still have to sign this.”

Iris glanced back over her shoulder at Rain's Eighth Period Exemption Form. “I'll sign it if you want. But wouldn't you like to take an elective this semester? Photography, maybe?”

“Noooo. We talked about this. Work. Homework. It's enough. I need some free time—at least until volleyball starts.”

“Right, because we wouldn't want you all
stressed out
from taking pictures of seashells and breakers, now, would we?”

“Mommmm.”

“I said I'll sign it.” She did too, after serving Rain's breakfast. Rain ate quickly, despite multiple pleas to slow down.

Iris cleared Rain's dishes while Rain cleared Rebecca's—just as Alonso escorted the five Kims into the dining room. “Why don't you sit here, relax, have some breakfast—on the house—and we'll have your rooms ready by the time you're done eating.”

Fred Kim grunted his acquiescence as Esther Kim attempted to pour her seemingly liquid children into three chairs at one of the larger tables.

“I'm not even hungry.”

“I want cereal.”

“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”

With a sigh of relief, Alonso followed Rain into the kitchen, only to be greeted by his wife's glare. “Tell me I did not hear the words ‘on the house.'”

Rain watched her father stick his tongue into his cheek and take a deep breath to maintain his cool. “I've just spent twenty-plus minutes arguing with Mr. Kim about his rooms not being ready. Hell, I could've
gotten
'em ready in that time. I had to do something.”

“Offering them breakfast, I understand. But they weren't supposed to check in until this afternoon. Breakfast is only served until ten.”

“I know that.”

“So why are they getting it for free? How are we supposed to earn a living if you keep giving away free food? Especially when I'm the one who has to do the cooking.”

Scooping up her form, Rain glided back from the tête-à-tête and quietly lifted her backpack off its hook—but not before her father shot a look her way. “Hold it, young lady. I need you to go strip the beds in Rooms Four and Five before you leave.”

“Gee, Dad. I'd love to. But you took away my master key.”

And with that, she slipped out the back door before her exasperated father could formulate a reply.