Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

Numbness settles in. My entire future—gone .

If the world really is broken, I’ll never go to prom. I’ll never finish watching Star Trek with Dad. I’ll never pass a driver’s test, go to college, or have a boyfriend. I’ll never backpack in Europe. I’ll never have another ice shave.

I’ll never refill my seizure medication.

Dad cries, “Aha!” I run to see.

He holds a large pistol.

“I’ve never seen you with a gun,” I say in a near whisper. “It … doesn’t look right.”

“I’m from New Mexico, hon. My childhood had plenty of guns.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in violence.”

“I never believed in Armageddon, either, but guess what?”

“It believed in you?” I offer.

Dad laughs, then grows somber. “If God won’t play by the rules, then I don’t have to, either.”

I watch him, incredulous. He cocks the hammer, flips open the chamber, loads the gun, and snaps the chamber back into place. He knows what he’s doing.

“Won’t that … make us less safe?” I say.

His eyes are stern. “My only concern is your safety.”

I stare as if seeing him for the first time. He’s in charge now. I look at the pistol.

“Don’t touch,” he orders. “Not for you.”

I resist the urge to step back. He has nothing to worry about. I see that man’s head explode outward, painting the sail red. Four rapid, hollow pops—nothing like in the movies. A man is erased.

“Why did God break the rules, Dad?”

Dad places the gun on the coffee table. I follow him into the bedroom, where he rummages through the closet, emerging with a holster and a belt. He runs the belt through his trouser loops and the holster and then tightens the belt all the way to the final hole. “I still don’t know how to answer that. But I owe you a response, don’t I?”

We go back to the living room and sit. “There’s a couple easy outs. One is to say ‘There is no God.’ Another is ‘This was always His plan; we’ve always known about Revelation and we were supposed to be prepared.’ But both try to fit a square peg into a round hole, yeah?”

I shake my head, clueless.

Dad rubs his rough chin. “Think of it like a scientist. When I design an experiment, I make guesses based on my best understanding. When what I’m studying does something unexpected, I conclude that my assumptions were wrong. I don’t just give up on science altogether.”

“Dad, I’m lost.”

“The world has changed, right? Our understanding of a loving God is being challenged by new variables. But what are we supposed to do, reject the entire notion of God, just because the new scenario doesn’t match what we anticipated? Or do we decide to keep exploring? Keep asking new questions to understand something we still have a lot to learn about?”

“I think I get it.”

“Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I’m angry. But it’s my very nature as a scientist that keeps me from rushing to convenient conclusions.”

“Well, what about the other thing you said? Meltdown. What if this is the Apocalypse? Judgment Day? And other Christians had it right the whole time? You were just too proud a scientist to take the Bible literally?”

Dad laughs. “Ever thought of being a trial lawyer? Your cross-examinations are tough.”

Yes. But that future is gone .

Dad takes my hands. “I just think that if you rush to that conclusion, you’re guilty of confirmation bias. When you really want an experiment to give certain results, you tend to ignore evidence that might invalidate your conclusion.

“I’ve witnessed nothing to suggest the miraculous. Why should I ignore the possibility that we’re responsible? I’d be missing out on some powerful lessons if I absolved humanity.”

“How are we responsible for this?”

“Easy. Don’t forget, the only thing that has happened here is a power outage. A hundred years ago this thing’s arrival would have resulted in a global hiccup. We became too reliant on an unsustainable resource. Right?”

“Well, why didn’t God stop it from happening, even if it’s not His fault?”

Dad shrugs. “God is acting as He always has, you know? Why didn’t He stop hurricanes from killing people, famine in Africa, the Holocaust? Acts of terrorism? God has always let bad things run their course. His response to this disaster actually reinforces our current understanding. All the more reason not to let this shake your faith.”

“Well, I’m still mad.”

“You should be angry. You have every right to be. I am.”

I let my head sink onto Dad’s shoulder. He pulls me close, says, “In the back of my mind, I always wonder if there’s really a deity out there. God. Gods. Akua. But my faith is a comfort to me, just as your Hawaiian heritage is a comfort to you. It’s a comfort to believe that there’s an afterlife that we’ll go to. That there’s a place my parents are, even though they’re gone from here. If I reject that whole system now, in the very moment when I need comforting the most, what else do I have?”

“We have each other.”

Dad nods. “I hope so. I hope to God you’re right.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s not concerned that I’d ever ditch him. He’s coming to grips with something that I’ve been refusing to consider.

He’s scared that Mom and Kai are gone.

We nap late into the afternoon on opposite sides of a king-sized pillow-top mattress covered in soft linens. We could have our own rooms, but we need to be together.

I dream.

I stand inside a big plant nursery on the outskirts of Hilo. Several hundred different species of orchids are on display along narrow counters, an elaborate garden project turned tourist trap. I wander the aisles, looking for the Emerald Orchid among the potted plants.

Kai darts between the aisles and ducks beneath one of the counters. I chase him, but he’s gone. Mom’s on the far side of a table, an orchid resting above her ear. She’s talking to me, but I can’t hear the words. A tita from school stands in my way, a pistol gripped in her hand. She raises the pistol at me. “Stay away, haole.”

I take a step backward, but freeze. No. I won’t run . I clench my fists and stride toward the girl.

She flees.

Kai and Grandpa are next to Mom. They race toward the gift shop. I chase them, but I can’t reach the end of the orchid aisle. No matter how fast I sprint, the gift shop only grows farther away.

It’s early evening. The dream rests on my chest like a lead X-ray apron. I nudge Dad awake.

“Bad dream.”

“I’m right here, Lei.” He puts his hand on my arm.

Later, Dad ventures outside and finds a drum of rainwater in the backyard. No more toilet tank. I know those tanks have clean water, but still. We drink as much rainwater as we can, and fill our water bottles. I finally brush my hair. We wash up— yes! —and I shave my legs— double yes! We collect the dried contents of our packs from the backyard clothesline. I change into new clothes. A small thing that has a big impact. I even smile when I look in the mirror.

I should just cut my hair; it’ll be way easier . I open drawers, searching for scissors. I find a pair, turn back to the mirror and put them down. I have my mom’s hair. I drape it over my shoulder and run it through my hands. Silky, velvety black hair. It’ll be a rat’s nest before too long, but I can’t cut it.

I braid it tightly. Cornrows would be even better. Mom would have done them well, but I’m not going to bother asking Dad. There’s a new tube of lip gloss in one of the drawers. The color is called “Kiss.” A light pink, almost natural. Perfect. I try it on and smile. I tuck the tube into my pocket.