Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

And then I feel something rising up, gripping my skull. No , I think. Lights flash from the backs of my eyes, but I’m in a cafeteria full of strangers, and there’s nothing I can do.

Now, my cheeks are hot. I push the memory away.

Epilepsy can get better as you get older—it can even go away. Mine should, the doctors say.

Hope they’re right.

We arrive at the clinic. Dad collects the intake forms and calls Mom to ask questions as he fills out the paperwork. I shrink into a corner chair, telling myself, Today is the easy part: a bunch of baseline electrographs. No experiments until tomorrow .

An older man in a lab coat walks us into his office. “I’m Dr. Makani. Welcome, Leilani, Dr. Milton.”

“Call me Mike,” Dad says as we sit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“Thank you so much, Leilani,” the doctor says, “for taking part in our study. It’s a long way from the Big Island, but you’re a perfect match.”

We talk about the trial. Control groups, placebos. An adjustment period once I’m back on my regular meds, during which I may continue to have seizures for a while. Dad reveals his plan to scale the Stairway to Heaven, and the doctor says, “Save that for another trip. The Stairway’s asking for trouble. Seizures can be induced by stress. Sorry, Leilani, but you need to avoid any adventures for a couple of weeks.”

“Should have brought my longboard instead,” I mumble.

The doctor’s eyes widen. “You surf?”

“Yes.”

“Not a good idea for the next several weeks. Promise me you’ll give it a break.”

I take a deep breath. Dad squeezes my shoulder and then leans over and signs the permission forms.

We follow Dr. Makani down the hall toward the MRI room. I’m not scared, I realize. It’s shame. I know it’s silly—I didn’t do anything to earn my disorder—but as I approach the machines that will pry into my mind and uncover what I desperately want to keep secret, I feel like a criminal being shuffled into solitary confinement.

“Avoid any adventures for a couple of weeks.”

I play absently with my medical bracelet.

I’m waiting for Dad to say I told you so . But he only takes my hand and squeezes tightly. This brings me more comfort than he can know.

Later, I fall asleep during the EKG. Go figure. A little nap is good for the baseline, I’m told, but they also need me awake to monitor my brain activity. Dad grades exams by my side and casts me soothing smiles. I’m grateful.

A technician is talking to the nurse clipping electrodes on me. He says, “They just shut down the stock exchange—an hour early. Dow was down over two thousand points and still plummeting when they hit the switch.”

Dad stiffens. “Two thousand! Why ?” he asks the tech. The guy shrugs. “Serious heebie-jeebies out there. Now the vice president isn’t around.”

“What?”

“Prime minister of Japan is missing, too.”

The nurse stops clipping wires and escorts the tech out of the room. I hear him mumble, “Hey, these folks are supposed to be relaxed. Talk story later.”

Dad looks like he was just rear-ended in a car accident. “You should go,” I tell him. “Find out what’s going on. I’m fine. I’ll want you here more tomorrow, but this is no big deal.”

He shakes his head. “I’m here for one reason: we do this together.”

The tests end, and we bolt from the clinic. We stop for lunch—I inhale a mahi-mahi plate—and head north toward the Banzai Pipeline. On the radio, talk-show hosts freak out about the stock market.

“A twenty percent drop in one day ? The Canadians halted trading after dropping a tenth . And where’s the Fed? Nobody’s doing anything.”

I look at Dad. He continues turning the dial, shaking his head, and then hits the seek button.

An ad urging listeners to buy gold.

Click .

“What if that wasn’t a meteor strike off Alaska? What if it was a North Korean nuclear attack? There’s a whole series of—”

Click .

A trembling and worn voice. “Then another angel came out of the temple and called in a loud voice to he who was sitting on the cloud, ‘Take your sickle and reap, because the time to reap has come.…’ ”

Click .

“… the Capitol was emptied. All congressional offices closed. Three British banks have already failed. The Euro’s in a tailspin—”

Dad smacks the radio off. “Pure speculation, at best. Don’t pay attention.”

“Dad, come on.”

“You know what?” He suddenly turns into the parking lot of a small strip mall. “You’re going to kill me, but … would you mind if I rented a board?”

“Wait. You want to … surf?”

He grins. “Chuns Reef. Whaddya say? You want to watch me?”

“Dad. What?” Chuns has a more forgiving wave than nearby Banzai Pipeline, but it’s fierce.

“Come on, why not? I may have lost my 401(k). The sky is falling, Lei. Brought to you by an asinine twenty-four-seven news culture that’s finally jumped the shark.”

My breathing is a little heavy. I don’t know much about the stock market. 401(k) . That’s for retirement, I think. But what does some banking problem six time zones away have to do with us?

People are pouring in and out of the shops here. This stuff on the radio doesn’t match up with what I’m seeing. Perfectly normal. Except for Dad. He’s upset and trying to hide it.

He needs to surf.

“Fine. Whatevah.”

“We never would have used your longboard out here, you know that.” He looks at me. “Even without doctor’s orders, you wouldn’t be trying this wave.”

“I said fine.”

“Thank you. It’ll be fun!”

“Yeah. You’ll have a blast.” We jump out of the car.

Dad rents a quad-fin shortboard at the surf shop. “You can handle that?” I ask.

Just you watch me , his eyes tell me.

Oh, I’ll be watching, all right. Taking video.

By the time the sun’s low enough on the horizon to light the clouds on fire, Dad is showering off near the restrooms, and I’m speechless.

Dad was a great surfer until he got so busy with work. He came to Hawai`i for the surfing and met Mom on the beach when she was in grad school. He’s still got it. The swim out to the larger swells looked brutal, but he’s one mean fish. After a few false starts, he nabbed a series of waves with long walls that just kept going and going.

Dad wasn’t the only surfer I had my eyes on out there, either; I watched openmouthed as tanned bodies and sun-bleached heads twisted and spun on the waves with the ease of dolphins. One famous pro bulleted flawlessly through barrel after barrel. He’s on one of the posters in my room! I tried to sneak a pic of him for Tami (for me, too!) with my phone as he walked up the beach afterward, rubbing his hair with a towel, but he caught my eye and grinned at me. I blushed but got the shot.

I finish sending a vid of his best moment to Mom and Kai and Tami—a quirky little two-step on the board just as he crouched into his barrel attempt. When he reaches me, I look up with awe.

“You like that?”

“Where did you …?”

“I taught you how to surf, didn’t I?” he says. “Give your old man some credit.”

“I just did!” I say, pocketing my phone. “The vid’s on my feed now.”

We head for the car, cradling Dad’s board. It feels so natural under my arm. Soon I’ll graduate to this kind of board.

On the way back into Honolulu, we listen to the radio. Now the French president is missing. Dad and I hunt around the dial for clues, but he finally turns off the radio. “We’ll catch some real news back at the room.”