Pono laughed as he took the jar. Haleola made sure he took one of the doctor’s tablets with a glass of water, as Oliver disinfected his hands with a splash of carbolic acid from his medical bag; then she walked out onto the porch with the doctor and asked, “What kind of ‘infection’?”
Oliver shrugged on his overcoat, his cheery tone turning grim. “I’m not sure. But I’ve seen this before with leprosy—malaise, fever, blood in the urine, discomfort in the loins—the disease weakens the body’s defenses, makes one more susceptible to other infections.”
Haleola nodded. This idea that sickness was the result of tiny, nearly invisible creatures swarming in the blood would have seemed ridiculous but for the fact that Dr. Mouritz had once shown her, under a microscope, the pink, tube-shaped “bacteria” discovered to be the cause of leprosy by the Norwegian scientist Gerhard Hansen. There were, Mouritz believed, three forms of the disease: one which attacked primarily the skin, and which spread rapidly and horribly throughout the body; one which attacked the nerves, progressing more slowly and with less deformity; and certain borderline cases, a mix of the two. Haleola had the neural form; Pono, unfortunately, the former.
Dr. Oliver said, “I have seen this sort of kidney infection spontaneously remit—clear up on its own.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
He frowned. “Complete renal failure is not uncommon either. See to it he rests, and takes plenty of water.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said, “in such miserable weather. Will you be able to get back to Kalaupapa?”
“No, I’ll just wait out the rain. Plenty to keep me busy in the hospital here.”
“How is Napahili?” Dr. Oliver and his wife Ho'opi'i had a young son, Richard Napahili Oliver. She expected the mention of him to lighten Oliver’s grim expression, but it only seemed to darken it.
“He’s fine, I suppose. I hope.” He gazed into the gray heart of the downpour and said quietly, “I pray to God I made the right decision, bringing him here.” Haleola didn’t know for certain what had brought the doctor to Moloka'i, but she’d heard rumors that he was enormously in debt from a failed plantation on the Big Island, and the position of settlement physician did pay $250 a month.
“We do our best to isolate him from any possible contagion,” Oliver said fretfully, “but there’s still so much we don’t know about this disease. Is it transmitted by touch? By breath? By sexual congress? Who’s to say the air, or the very soil beneath our feet, isn’t a source of contagion?”
Oliver forced the guilt and apprehension from his voice and smiled tightly. “Well. You know where to find me. Call for me if there’s any change.” He tipped his hat to her and dashed through muddy streets to the Kalawao hospital.
Not trusting herself yet to present the best face to Pono, Haleola stood outside listening to the drumming of the rain on the roofs of the aged buildings around her. When the time came to move to Kalaupapa, she would miss Kalawao. There was a stark splendor to this craggy coastline, enormous waves crashing white against black rock, sprays of foam exploding in the air like fireworks. Even the pali was often in motion here, boulders dislodged by rain or wind tumbling down its face. In Kalawao only two things were truly stationary: two small islands, 'kala and Mkopu, standing offshore. M;kopu was long and humped; 'kala was pointed, like the tip of a spear thrust up out of the ocean. Both were covered with a green mantle of fan palms. Centuries ago, for sport, Hawaiian men would braid together those palm fronds and leap from the islands’ summits, the leaves slowing their descent into the water as they glided down like birds. No one lived on the islands; they didn’t evoke the friendly reassurance of neighbor isles like Maui or O'ahu, but they had weathered the storms and seas of centuries, and they were a comforting link to a time when men flew like birds, a time before leprosy.
She went inside to find Pono fast asleep. Haleola pulled his blanket up to his chin and put a hand to his forehead: he was still feverish. In his sleep he muttered Margaret’s name. Haleola kissed his brow, sat down by his bedside, and re-read a letter which had arrived yesterday but which she had yet to show him.
R. W. MEYER, ESQ.
KALAE, MOLOKAI
Mr. Kapono Kalama
Leper Settlement, Kalawao, Molokai
February 1, 1894
Dear Mr. Kalama:
The Board of Health has forwarded your letter of 29 December 1893 to me, as their agent here on Molokai and as Superintendent for the Leper Settlement.
Additionally, I am in receipt of a letter from Mr. Henry Kalama on the same subject.
While I appreciate and commend your feelings for your niece Rachel, I trust implicitly Mother Marianne’s judgment in all matters relating to the welfare of minors at the settlement. She has only the best interests of the poor afflicted children at heart, and you can take comfort in the knowledge that it is your niece’s health and safety that is uppermost in the minds of the Board of Health and its agents. What you may miss in the way of day-to-day contact with your niece will be rewarded a hundredfold with the preservation of her physical and moral well-being.
I am communicating these sentiments to your brother in Honolulu as well.
Yours Sincerely,
R. W. Meyer
T
hat evening, after Rachel’s rebuff, Catherine retreated again to her room and to her private, troubled devotions. For the hundredth time she asked forgiveness for striking Rachel, but her prayers continued to be anxious and uncertain. When, after half an hour, there was a knock at her door, she was relieved to answer it.
Sister Victor stood in the hallway, her hands buried in her robe. “I hear you’ve been having a bad day.”
Catherine started. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, the usual convent chatter. A person craves a little quiet in the privacy of their own room and everyone gets to talking.”
“Talking?” Catherine was mortified to think her sisters were gossiping about her, but Victor just smiled: “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Let’s take a walk.”
On their way out Catherine imagined that everyone they passed was staring at them, thinking them crazy malcontents. She barely noticed that her friend was leading her off the convent grounds and toward the beach.
“I like walking by the ocean,” Victor said, obviously in better spirits. The light of a crescent moon leaked out from between storm clouds. “Especially after a rain.”
“What are they saying about me?” Catherine asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“They think you’re excitable. You were seen running out of the chapel.”
“Excitable or unstable?”
“I’m unstable. You’re merely excitable.” Sister Victor sat down in the lee of a large sand dune that blocked their view of the convent—and the convent’s view of them. Catherine sat beside her.
Sister Victor reached into the pocket of her robe, and to Catherine’s surprise pulled out a small bottle with a long fluted neck—and two water glasses! She handed a glass to a puzzled Catherine, who asked, “What’s that?”
“Mr. Kiyoji calls it ume sake,” Sister Victor said, planting her glass in the sand as she uncorked the bottle. “Plum wine. Relatives send it to him from Japan.”
As Sister Victor started to pour, Catherine demurred: “Sister, our vows—”
“We took vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Which one of those precludes a sip of wine?” She added confidentially, “Father Wendelin has cases of zinfandel shipped in from California, and I assure you it’s not all for sacramental purposes.”
After a moment Catherine said, “Well . . . just a sip.” Victor poured a splash of golden liquid into the glass. Catherine took a sip and found that it was deliciously sweet, almost like fruit juice.
“Why, this is quite light and refreshing, isn’t it?” She took another sip. “And I don’t taste much alcohol.”
“Um,” said Sister Victor, topping off Catherine’s glass, then fi
lling her own. “So. What did happen today?”
Catherine blushed. “I . . . lost my temper with one of the girls. That’s all.” She didn’t elaborate and Sister Victor didn’t inquire further. Catherine took another taste of wine. “You know, this is really good,” she said.
She gazed out at the waves breaking close to shore, their foaming crests luminescent in the moonlight. She thought of Rachel and the other girls swimming out there and felt a warm glow in her stomach at the memory.
After a moment she said, “Sister?”
Sister Victor was in mid-swallow. “Hm?”
“Why do you suppose . . .” Catherine hesitated, took another sip of wine, then asked, “Why does God give children leprosy?”
Sister Victor thought a moment and replied, “Why did He visit troubles upon Job?”
“To test his faith, of course. But these are children! Why do they need to be tested? And even if they did . . .” She was feeling emboldened. “What kind of God would inflict such a horrible death—a horrible life—on children, just to test their faith in Him?”
Her cheeks felt hot; in fact, she was perspiring.
Sister Victor refilled her friend’s glass and said quietly, “Have some more wine, Sister.”
But Catherine was feeling unbearably hot. She took another swallow of the cool drink but it didn’t seem to help. Nothing would, she suspected, except . . .
Catherine got to her feet.
She felt dizzy; the world swayed as if it were a top spinning on a table of night. Surprising even herself, she threw off her veil and felt the cool night air on her head.
Sister Victor blinked like a bird. “Sister? What—”
Catherine began removing her habit, the heavy robe and long skirt heaping around her ankles, and now stood on the beach clad only in her underclothes, much to Victor’s dismay: “Here, now—what are you doing? Put that—”
Catherine ran down the beach, the sand wet and cool beneath her feet, the water lapping at her ankles. A wave crashed into her, cold and hard like a rebuke, but she kept on running and after a few moments the chill seemed merely bracing. She was chest-high in the ocean, now, and with a sense of exhilaration felt the rocky bottom slip away beneath her; all at once she was floating, suspended in space. She laughed as a wave rolled over her, soaking her short brown hair, the salt stinging her eyes. Giddily she lay back on the pillow of a wave, stretched her arms out on either side of her, and let the cradling surf take her wherever it wished. The sweet cleansing water washed over her, soaking through her cotton underclothes, making them billow in the water like the wings of a jellyfish. It felt just as wonderful as she imagined it would from shore.
She waved at Sister Victor, beckoning her to come in too, but the older woman remained resolutely on dry land.
“Sister Catherine!” She sounded more than a little panicky. “Please, come back!” Catherine ignored her. She stared up at the sky and smiled. Haleola was right: for a while, at least, the ocean washed everything away.
It took Sister Victor half an hour to lure Catherine out of the water, during which time she disposed of the wine bottle by tossing it far out to sea. When Catherine finally stumbled out of the surf—pleasantly exhausted and still thoroughly besotted—Victor coaxed her back into her habit and veil. They sneaked into St. Elizabeth’s via a back door, only a trail of droplets betraying their passage. The water would dry up, but if anyone saw them—
Catherine started to giggle.
Sister Victor clapped a hand over her friend’s mouth and propelled her down the corridor and into her room. Once prone, Catherine collapsed into a dead sleep. Victor undressed her, tucked her in, and with the relief of one who had managed to stuff the genie back into the bottle, quietly closed the door behind her.
Catherine slept well, but woke badly.
She opened her eyes shortly after dawn, sunlight stabbing through the window curtains. She sat up. Her head throbbed as if it had been used as a croquet ball.
Oh my Lord, she thought as dim memories of the night before came floating back to her. She now realized with dismay that the only thing less decorous than a vomiting nun was a drunken nun.
For a time it seemed she might well be both, but somehow she managed to quell her nausea. It took half an hour for her to approximate her normal demeanor, and she was ten minutes late to Mass. In chapel Sister Victor scrupulously avoided her gaze; as Catherine knelt, she silently offered a prayer of contrition to the Lord. But as ashamed as she was of her inebriation, she couldn’t quite bring herself to repent the dip in the ocean.
Later, at breakfast, a slightly more composed Catherine noticed that Sister Leopoldina was missing her usual smile and good cheer today. “Something wrong, Sister?” Catherine asked as she poured herself a cup of black coffee.
Leopoldina nodded gravely. “One of the girls ran away last night.”
“Wilma? Hazel?”
“No. Younger. You know Rachel Kalama?”
Catherine felt the blood drain from her face, and without a word of explanation to Leopoldina she threw down her breakfast and ran from the dining room, to be sick.
Chapter 8
S
he had to see Uncle Pono. Something was wrong and no one would tell her what, so she’d just have to go see for herself, that’s all. And if nothing was wrong, well, the sisters would come for her and she would be punished—but she would still have seen Uncle Pono. It was only three miles from Kalawao to Kalaupapa; it couldn’t take more than an hour to get there on foot. Why, she’d walked farther back when she and her brothers would go to Waikiki to play!
True, the nuns peeked in with annoying regularity every hour, but that still gave her an hour’s head start, assuming they even noticed her absence before dawn. Rachel waited until midnight—when Sister Albina poked her head inside, satisfied herself that all was well, and withdrew—then sprang out of bed, dressing as quickly and quietly as she could. She stuffed her dolls under the bed covers; the lump they made under the blanket wouldn’t pass close inspection, but it was better than nothing. She opened the nearest window, careful not to awaken her roommates, and climbed up onto the window sill. She swung her legs over; pushed herself off; and dropped to the ground.
She was out.
It was as exciting as if she were stowing away on a boat to Hong Kong. Quietly she closed the window behind her, thrilled with her own daring.
But as she turned away from the window, she was startled by the profound darkness in which she now found herself. The sky was clouded, starless—as though an earthen bowl had been lowered over the peninsula—land, sea, and sky congealing into one great inky mass. She couldn’t even tell in which direction she was looking!
She fought off a surge of panic, remembering that the window looked down on the convent’s back lawn. And as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she began to make out a few flickering lights—oil lamps burning in nearby houses. Using them as faint stars to guide her, she hurried across the lawn—it was sodden and muddy, as her sandals rapidly became as well—and onto what the sisters referred to as “the Damien Road,” the road to Kalawao.
She was excited again; the darkness, broken by an occasional light on either side, was now a friend and conspirator. After a few minutes she looked back and saw only a faint glow from the convent behind her—and, thankfully, no sign of Sister Albina taking up the chase.
But the road was even muddier than the lawn, and the farther she went, the deeper her feet sank into it. The mud oozed between the sandal and the heel of her foot, weighing down the shoe as she tried to take another step; after five minutes she decided she’d make better time barefoot, so she slipped off her sandals and carried them.
Soon the last lights of Kalaupapa were behind her. On either side of the road she could make out faint impressions of tumbled rocks and spiky lantana scrub, but that was all. She had never been afraid of the dark, but then she had never known a dark like this before. It seemed as if the only thing in the world she could truly see wa
s the wet, shifting ground beneath her feet.
And it was cold—as cold as mud could get without actually freezing. She saw now how a wagon wheel might become hopelessly mired in this, and wondered if Sister Leopoldina had been right—maybe this was why Haleola and Pono hadn’t come. Maybe she should turn around right now, hide her muddy clothes, and sneak back into bed; with luck no one would know she had even been gone.
She turned to look back, but now there was only a black void behind her; even the small length of road she had just traveled had been swallowed up by the darkness.
She told herself that if she went back somebody was likely to see her, or at least find her dirty clothes. She would be punished, and have nothing to show for it. If she kept going, she’d eventually get to Kalawao and at least have the comfort of a few hours with her uncle.
She felt the sting of Sister Catherine’s hand across her face, then turned and continued down the road.
After ten more minutes the mud was ankle-deep. Her feet were growing numb with cold and the wind was picking up, gusting like a blade through her light dress. She had “chicken skin”—goosebumps—and not the good kind you got from a ghost story. Each step took more and more effort; she was tiring already and hadn’t even covered that much ground. She picked up her pace. . . .
She slipped, pitched forward, and fell face down into the road.
She wasn’t hurt, but got a nice mouthful of mud. It tasted even worse than it smelled. She lay there coughing and spitting it out, then slowly got to her feet. Her entire body was plastered with mud; it covered her like a cold, heavy, foul-smelling suit of clothes.
She sank back down into the mud and started to cry. She wanted to go home. She wanted Papa to come pick her up out of the mud, she wanted Mama to yell at her for getting her clothes dirty. She wanted Uncle Pono! It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t the nuns just let her live with him, why did she have to do this in the first place?