By the way all of them shift their eyes from side to side, Pele sees they are all thinking things they dare not say.
Pele is finding it hard to focus.
Before the Hsus, during the nameless time, some kind hand floated Pele on her back, at night, in warm, protected waters, where she could watch the stars. Ala Moana, perhaps.
They know she was born in Honolulu, but there is a gap from that time until she was, literally, captured in an alley by social workers, restrained, drugged, confined, despaired over, until one day she found herself at the top of a mountain.
Petr squints, working his device. After a moment, he looks up.
“I’ve closed all of our outside communications with an emergency override, but they’ll break through quickly. Let’s talk.”
She didn’t know it was the top of a mountain; she did not use words, but the pictures were new, bright, powerful. There was distant blue, stretching forever, far below. Gigantic white big-porched house. Children of all sizes, staring at her.
Walter Hsu, an astrophysicist, and Sunny Hsu, a renowned child therapist, had quite a collection of children—five foster-children and three of their own—at the end of the road on Aiea Heights, along with transient young nannies sparkling with laughter, refugee chefs of all nationalities, visiting international experts on every imaginable subject, screenwriters and crackpots, and a crowd of helpers, all part of the tribe.
Behind the house, tropical forest, a park, to the peak of the mountain. On the other side, miles away, a steep drop to the Kona side of Oahu. Huge mango tree dropping fruit the kids had to shovel into the gully once a week. Their neighbor’s manicured Japanese garden at the far side of their house site, complete with a grumpy old Japanese gardener shaking his fist when they trespassed. A treehouse. The crumbling remnants of a sacred Hawaiian stone platform, a heiau, far down in the forest, the older children’s secret.
But for now, there are just Pele’s snapshots. Blue. Green. Wind on her skin. Faces, faces, faces. Teeth and eyes.
“Give her room, kids,” says Sunny.
Briskly, Theresa, silent till now, sets forth a plan for containing and jettisoning the children back to Earth, a split-second manipulation of partitions, robots, and gas.
Here are two stories. Pele does not remember them. Yet, within her, they fight.
This is the first story:
Pele makes a dash for the trees, but the man grabs her by the waist. His face, when he hunkers down, is big and smiling. “My name is Walter. He takes her hand. “Let’s take a look around.” For some reason, she walks with him.
No one else can touch her.
She won’t let them comb her hair. She shrieks and runs away.
Walter cuts it off swiftly; gently. She feels her head in wonder. Stares at them. Darts into the forest.
Weeks later, perhaps. Months. How would she know? Pele screams, flings a chair across the room, laughs. Kicks over a tall vase, which shatters.
“Whoops,” says Sunny, rushing into the living room, carrying an empty black garbage bag. “Should have put that up.” She grabs Pele and drops into a chair, holding Pele tightly in her lap.
Pele is a storm of sharp elbows, wriggling on the crinkly, slippery bag. She straightens, bends, twists, fights with all her might, grunting and crying in rage. She has to escape! She will! She is stronger and faster than everyone! She always gets away!
“That’s okay,” says Sunny from behind her. “You can fight me.” Sunny’s long, black hair brushes the side of Pele’s face. Pele tries to grab it, but Sunny deftly uses her left arm to hold down both of Pele’s arms, her right hand to push back her hair.
As she writhes, Pele feels Sunny’s strong, skinny arms around her. She bounces on Sunny’s hard, bony thighs. When she kicks with her heels, Sunny leans down, pins her legs. “That’s okay. I won’t let you hurt me. You can fight with me.”
The other children gather round, watching from a safe distance. Sunny yells, “Get away, you kids! This is our time. Pele’s and mine.” They scatter.
Pele turns her head to bite; a firm, flat hand presses her chin, keeps it forward. “I can’t let you hurt me.”
Pele spits; drool runs down her face. She shrieks. “Faugh!”
Sunny says, insistently, her voice low and firm, “What do you want?”
Pele bears down and pees. Surely this woman will let her go!
“I have a plastic bag on my lap, Pele. Pee all you want.”
Pele erupts into a frenzy, but is gently, firmly, held.
“What do you want?” Sunny says. “Tell me. Tell me!”
It bursts from her. “Let me go!”
“Ah! All right!” The arms release. She springs free!
Pele faces Sunny, scowling. Sunny smiles at her, gently. “You see? Talking does things. I am listening.”
She opens her arms. Crying, Pele rushes into them, and nestles in a warm embrace. “Let go,” she demands.
Sunny’s arms open.
She still doesn’t talk. But she knows she can, if necessary. And that someone is listening.
This is the second story:
The whole family is at Oahu’s Pali overlook, behind a low stone wall. The parking lot is full; people mill around, exclaiming, buffeted by the wind.
The drop below is steep; breathtaking.
Pele likes it up here. She likes it a lot. She shrieks like the wind. “Whoooo. Eeeeeeaaaah!” She runs to the side, spies a faint trail, leaps over the stone wall. Runs faster. Get away!
Get away!
The side goes down, straight down. The wind pushes at her. She trips on a root, starts to fall.
A strong arm grabs her. “Pele!”
Walter leans against a tree behind them, holding her so tightly that it hurts. He is shaking. He is crying.
“Please, Pele. Please. Don’t ever do that again.”
Pele listens to Theresa’s plan.
Selena interrupts. “This has a fifty percent chance of succeeding. Actually … I’m tuned into their chatter … closer to forty, though it does fluctuate.” She closes her eyes in that dreamy way of hers, a slight smile on her face. “No … now sixty-two point five three seven …”
Pele says,
